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Illinois in midsummer was a scenic green hazy oven, and we droned through the broiled air like a worried bee. We wandered north on the Illinois River for days, finding no profit. And then one afternoon a city flowed in from the horizon. Monmouth, Illinois. Population 10,000. Airport north.
Stu looked back at me as we circled the city and I shrugged. It was a sod field, anyway, we could say that much for it. The question was whether a city this size would be interested in barnstormers.
We’d find out, I thought. We’d work it just as if it was a little town. We landed, taxied to the gas pump and stopped the engine.
There was a row of nine airplanes parked, and a large brick hangar with an antique steam locomotive inside.
The man who drove out to unlock the pump was an old-timer who had worked at Monmouth Airport for thirty years. “I seen it when there was six, eight instructors here,” he said. “Thirty people here at one time, a whole big line of airplanes. Had another runway, then, too, out into where that cornfield is now. This is the oldest continuous-used airport in Illinois, you know. Since 1921.”
By the time he unloaded us at the restaurant, a half-mile from the airport, we had learned something about the way things were in Monmouth aviation. A glory that was past; once the stopping-place for the glittering names of flight, now the quiet resort of a few weekend pilots.
In the frosted air of the restaurant, the name “Beth” began our list of Monmouth Knowns. She was interested in the airplane, but she brought us little hope with our hamburgers.
“Summer’s the wrong time for you. All the kids from the college are gone home.” There was a long silence, and she smiled sadly for us and left us alone.
“So,” said Stu, tired. “No kiddies. Where do we go from here?”
I named some places, none of which were much more promising than Monmouth. “… and as a very last resort, we could try Muscatine.”
“Sounds too much like Mosquito.” That spiked Muscatine.
“Well, heck. Let’s just work Monmouth and see what happens. Give it a chance, you know. Might do a jump, maybe, see if we can g
et the people out.”
The jump was first priority. By the time we had the airplane unpacked and ready to work, it was five o’clock, the best time for crowd-attracting.
Stu jumped from 3500 feet, down into horizoriless haze, moving at meteor-speed toward the runway grass. His canopy snapped open in a great poof of white, the last of the King’s Ransom packed into the folded nylon, and now he drifted downward like a small tired cumulus cloud.
While we dived to circle him, I saw a few cars gathering, but not nearly so many as I expected from a town that size. We flew some mild aerobatics over the cornfields and landed. Stu had logged another good jump, and I taxied to find him working the cars, saying over and again how cool was the air at 3500 feet.
The people didn’t want to fly. “That thing state-inspected?” I heard one man ask, looking at the biplane.
We’re a long way from small-town flying, I thought. It sounds as if city people live in the present day, as if they live at modern speeds and expect modern guarantees for their safety. We carried two passengers by sundown.
The local pilots were very kind, and promised bigger crowds the next day. “We had a parachute meet here a month ago, and there were cars backed all the way up to the main highway,” they said. “Just takes a little while for the word to get around.”
By the time we walked into the restaurant for supper, I was having doubts all over again about Monmouth.
“Stu, what do you think about pressing on, tomorrow? This place feel right to you?”
“Two rides. That’s normal first-day, you know.”
“Yeah, but the place just doesn’t seem with it, you know? In the little towns, we’re a big thing, and people at least come out to look. Here we’re just another airplane. Nobody cares.” We ordered from Beth, who gave us a happy smile and said that she was glad to see us back.
“Might as well give the place a try,” Stu said. “We hunted a long time, remember. Some other places looked bad, too, at first.”
“OK. We’ll stay.” Another day, at least, would confirm my fears about big-city barnstorming. It just did not feel comfortable; we were out of our element, out of our time.
Stu and I slept in the airport office that night. There were no mosquitoes.
It plagued me all through the next day. We carried passengers well, until by seven o’clock we had flown eighteen rides, but the spirit of barnstorming was gone. We were just a couple of crazy guys selling airplane rides.
At seven, a man came to us as we sat under the wing.
“Hey, fellas, I wonder if you could do something a little special for me.”
“Speak special speak,” I said in archaic Air Force slang. Stu and I had been talking about Air Force life.
