Above and Beyond: Cornwell’s Folly

  • By Lewis A. Bartlett
  • Air & Space magazine, June 2010
 
A half-baked excuse for an airplane cobbled together in 1948 spent its entire life eroding in a Colorado desert. A half-baked excuse for an airplane, cobbled together in 1948, spent its entire life eroding in a Colorado desert.

Norm Hill

The wind kicked gravel against the pitted windows in the town post office, where I had gone to find out if I’d gotten in to graduate school at the University of Colorado. I didn’t think the letter had arrived, but with time on my hands I was looking for something—anything—to do, so I drove into town to check.

When I first went away to college, I used to come back home to Deer Trail, Colorado, frequently, plus I worked summers on the farm, so I kept up with who was there and what everyone was doing. But I had been away too long. I didn’t have much to talk about with the people who remained. After a couple of weeks sitting around, with nobody to see and nothing to do, I was bored stupid.

“Whatcha doin’ here, Squee?” It was John, a local cowboy.

“Oh, nothing, John,” I said, “just looking for some mail.”

“So whatcha been up to?”

“Not a hell of a lot of anything,” I replied. “I’m a fish out of water, John.”

“Let’s go for a ride.”

We stopped at a liquor store, where John picked up a case of beer, and drove eastward, in the general direction of Kansas. After nearly an hour, I was beginning to get an inkling of what the plan was. When we passed through the boundary of federal land referred to as The Breaks, I knew the destination. In another 15 minutes, sure enough, I saw that the wreck was still there.

Torn, weathered, Army-surplus canvas flapped from the starboard wing. The landing gear—converted Model A spoke wheels—sat rusting in the Colorado desert. Sun-baked tires, long flat, clung to the rims, submerged in drifted sand. The cockpit windows were broken, probably shot out by some youthful hunter, or shattered by hail. The fuselage and tail section were in good condition, but years of prairie winds had left both warped and twisted.

While under construction, this aircraft was the laughingstock of the county. Only Ed Cornwell thought it would fly.

John and I had enjoyed a few quiet moments sipping our beer and appraising the discarded vehicle, framed in buffalo grass, with the Rocky Mountains as backdrop. As I watched, the old relic seemed to come alive. In fact, John and I were there together when Ed’s big day had come around.

“Ready for another beer?” John asked.

“Sure.”

John reached in the back seat of his Chevy convertible, and my thoughts drifted back to a September morning in 1948. This might take more than one more beer, I figured.

I happened into Ralph Lessy’s welding shop one afternoon. Ralph was designing something for a huge engine that sat on the concrete floor. Ralph, a laconic grouch to those who didn’t know him, was actually funny, clever, and somewhat acerbic. He was an expert and creative welder, and if he liked you, he would make anything for you, even if he considered it a waste of his time. He tolerated Ed Cornwell and knew that what he was putting together for Ed didn’t make much sense.

“What are you building?” I asked.

The wind kicked gravel against the pitted windows in the town post office, where I had gone to find out if I’d gotten in to graduate school at the University of Colorado. I didn’t think the letter had arrived, but with time on my hands I was looking for something—anything—to do, so I drove into town to check.

When I first went away to college, I used to come back home to Deer Trail, Colorado, frequently, plus I worked summers on the farm, so I kept up with who was there and what everyone was doing. But I had been away too long. I didn’t have much to talk about with the people who remained. After a couple of weeks sitting around, with nobody to see and nothing to do, I was bored stupid.

“Whatcha doin’ here, Squee?” It was John, a local cowboy.

“Oh, nothing, John,” I said, “just looking for some mail.”

“So whatcha been up to?”

“Not a hell of a lot of anything,” I replied. “I’m a fish out of water, John.”

“Let’s go for a ride.”

We stopped at a liquor store, where John picked up a case of beer, and drove eastward, in the general direction of Kansas. After nearly an hour, I was beginning to get an inkling of what the plan was. When we passed through the boundary of federal land referred to as The Breaks, I knew the destination. In another 15 minutes, sure enough, I saw that the wreck was still there.

Torn, weathered, Army-surplus canvas flapped from the starboard wing. The landing gear—converted Model A spoke wheels—sat rusting in the Colorado desert. Sun-baked tires, long flat, clung to the rims, submerged in drifted sand. The cockpit windows were broken, probably shot out by some youthful hunter, or shattered by hail. The fuselage and tail section were in good condition, but years of prairie winds had left both warped and twisted.

While under construction, this aircraft was the laughingstock of the county. Only Ed Cornwell thought it would fly.

John and I had enjoyed a few quiet moments sipping our beer and appraising the discarded vehicle, framed in buffalo grass, with the Rocky Mountains as backdrop. As I watched, the old relic seemed to come alive. In fact, John and I were there together when Ed’s big day had come around.

“Ready for another beer?” John asked.

“Sure.”

John reached in the back seat of his Chevy convertible, and my thoughts drifted back to a September morning in 1948. This might take more than one more beer, I figured.

I happened into Ralph Lessy’s welding shop one afternoon. Ralph was designing something for a huge engine that sat on the concrete floor. Ralph, a laconic grouch to those who didn’t know him, was actually funny, clever, and somewhat acerbic. He was an expert and creative welder, and if he liked you, he would make anything for you, even if he considered it a waste of his time. He tolerated Ed Cornwell and knew that what he was putting together for Ed didn’t make much sense.

“What are you building?” I asked.

“An engine mount for Ed Cornwell’s airplane,” he said.

I looked at the six-cylinder behemoth sitting nearby on the concrete floor. “That’s a truck motor,” I said.

“I can tell you’re gonna go far, kid,” said Ralph.

“Well, Ed was an aviator in the war. He must know what he’s doing.”

Ralph reached for his welding hood. “A lot of folks thought he was, but he loaded bombs.”

“He was a pilot, Ralph! Everybody knows that!”

“He was in North Africa with Doolittle. I was in North Africa with Patton. I know what Ed Cornwell did during the war.”

Ralph pulled his helmet down—my cue to leave.

John Dugan, who knew everything about wood, ran the lumber yard. He was a dour old guy, but tolerant. I played baseball with his kid, Tommy, who had a big butt and could hit a half a mile. I found out from Tommy that his dad was helping Cornwell with his airplane. I had to get in on that.

We stood under the overhang, watching the construction. Old John and Ed were gluing the wing spars. It was a big operation.

“Where’s the propeller?” I asked.

Ed, a muscular blond who looked like Joe Palooka, glowered at me. “That’s none of your affair, Squee,” he snapped. Apparently he took me for one of his skeptics.

“Okay. I was just asking.”

Old John explained. “Ed’s whittling it out himself.”

“Out of what?” I asked.

“Hickory, goddammit!” Ed snarled. “You and Tommy be on your way!”

I knew Sherman Quine, a handsome dark-haired guy who had married my elementary school teacher and had made bomb runs over Germany in B-24s. I walked up to the porch of his sumptuous red brick home to find out what he knew about Cornwell’s airplane. The Colonel—that’s what we called him—hadn’t been in the war for God, country, and glory; the man was there to fight and win, so he could come back and get his farm equipment dealership established. He was an easygoing gentleman, receptive to questions.

“Did you know Ed Cornwell’s building an airplane?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, nodding.

“I just saw it,” I said. “It looks pretty raw. Doesn’t he need controls, plexiglass, hydraulics, and things like that?”

“He does,” Quine said.

“Where would he get that stuff?” I asked.

“I arranged for it.” The Colonel’s voice had a tone of resignation.

“Where? How?”

“Out of a salvaged L-19.”

“What’s that?”

“A spotter plane. Something like what he’s trying to put together,” Quine explained.

“I’ve always heard he was a pilot,” I said. “Ralph Lessy says he isn’t.”

“No, he’s not.”

“He’ll kill himself!” I said.

“I wouldn’t think so,” the Colonel replied.

“Why not?”

“He won’t get off the ground.”

To Ed’s credit, he picked the right spot for the attempt. The public land was grassy, smooth, and infinite. The day of the flight, all types came from miles around—ranchers, townspeople, farmers. John Arness, who owned the newspaper, was there to record the big event. Cars ringed the area, and they honked incessantly. Some spectators set up tables with lemonade; others with booze. The crowd clamored. Tufted, puffy cumulus clouds drifted in a clear sky.

Ed strutted to the aircraft and directed his crew away. He didn’t acknowledge the crowd, and if that was on purpose, no one could blame him. That group would not have given him a chance.

The airplane, in its military olive drab, was ready. It did, in fact, look airworthy. Ed crawled into his contrivance and closed the door. All horn honking and conversation ceased.

Minutes passed, and it began to look like Ed may have caved in to his detractors. Then the propeller began to turn. Car horns began anew. The engine caught, and the propeller became a blur—spinning hard, noisy, and certain. In an instant, the mood changed. The audience began rooting for the all-American buffoon to pull it off.

The engine roared, the airplane shook, and the propeller strained. Ed had the power at maximum, but after a few long, precious seconds, the airscrew could no longer stand the stress. The propeller broke, both halves flying like missiles. Years later, a wrangler discovered a broken propeller section far away in a gully.

Cornwell cut the power, and the engine wound down in a humiliating whine.

A few had wanted to see the airplane take off, and others had divined its failure. No one moved. The Colonel, realizing Cornwell was not about to exit his airplane to face the silent audience, ushered them away.

I contemplated the deteriorating wreck, and after I had finished a more than adequate amount of beer, I thanked John. “I needed that,” I said.

We drove away. Ed’s old airplane had struggled mightily to indulge its maker. But it wasn’t a total failure: It brought me home.

Lewis A. Bartlett is a man of great vision: He says it was so flat where he grew up, some Mondays he could see all the way to Wednesday.


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Comments (8)

Lewis A. Bartlett is indeed a man of great vision. He is also an excellent writer.

Posted by Ross Harp on July 19,2010 | 06:42 AM

I've known Al since our college days at the Univ. of Colorado back in the late 50's, but this is the first time I have read one of his articles/stories. I agree that he is an excellent writer and I enjoyed reading this piece very much. I grew up in Prospect Valley, Colo. just north of Deertrail several miles, so the setting of this story brought back memories of where I grew up.
Ken Vogel

Posted by Jacob (Ken) vogel on July 22,2010 | 01:23 AM

I have known Al Bartlett and his familly for many, many years. Unfortunately we lost touch with one another until just recently. I knew that Al was , among many things, a writer but I never had a chance to read any of his writings until "Above and Beyond...". Very enjoyable. Harvey

Posted by Harvey L. Logan on July 25,2010 | 12:30 PM

Al is a great guy. Met him at our military classification in Denver and then we entered the Army together on Aug. 5th
1953, and then roomed together at the Universtity of Colorado starting in Sept. 1955. We were friends during the whole college career and then he was my best man at my first wedding in 1960. We have been keeping in touch ever since although I live in Delaware and he lives in State of Washington. I have read a couple of books that he has written. Again he is great. Jerry Chapman

Posted by Jerry Chapman on July 25,2010 | 04:37 PM

Al Bartlett is a friend I've had the pleasure to know for 27 years. I've read several other books/stories Al has written, all good, however this story tops the list!
College boxer, teacher, insurance man, Piano player, farmer/hay man, C. U. football fan and spotter deluxe, and a proud son of Deer Trail, Colorado. This background provides Al with the in-sights and abilities to write like he can talk - attention grabbing and always interesting!
I could always count on Al to lift my day - and to count on rain if he'd cut his hay!!
Thanks Al, for a fine read!

Posted by Larry Gibson on July 25,2010 | 06:21 PM

BIG AL,
You are a great writer! That's great. I was glad Heidi posted the link to this on her facebook.

I want to see your earlier work "MacCaulley" come to life. Have you already published it under a different title and "Nome de Plume"? I would love to see it on Kindle.

Again, Congratulations.
Nicky

Posted by Nick Martell on July 28,2010 | 12:53 AM

Special visit this morning. So pleased so many of your old friends enjoyed visiting with you today.

Posted by Ross Harp on August 24,2010 | 05:25 PM

Special visit this morning. So pleased so many of your old friends enjoyed visiting with you today.

Posted by Ross Harp on August 24,2010 | 05:25 PM

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