David Palmer - Emergence

Momentarily plugged line with fingertip. Unscrewed fuel cap with other hand…

Tank hissed as cap loosened, like vacuum-packed jar. Detected immediate fuel-pressure increase against fingertip.

No — couldn’t be that simple! Or could it…?

Reinstalled fuel line on carburetor inlet. Poured fuel trapped in canteen back into tank (all but last drop, lest any water remain).

Removed cap all the way, peered down inside tank. Inlet four inches across; tank nicely crafted, bright light-alloy cylinder: Entire bottom visible if moved head around. And, as suspected, absolutely clean; nothing but gas/oil two-stroke mixture.

Then turned attention to cap. Was indeed vented, but cleverly so: intricate compound-leverage float-and-counterweight valve designed to plug breather during brief negative gees. Observed valve closely as inverted cap, then turned upright.

And there it was, big as life! Valve remained in closed position, sealing vent tightly. Textbook physics demonstration: Fuel not replaced by air as used; resultant vacuum resists further delivery, engine loses power.

Noted, without surprise, country of manufacture: German designers notorious for overengineering, obsession with excess gimmickry. Dieter Heinz, resident madcap mechanic/social critic at small VW dealership back home, possessed in ample measure practical field-worker’s contempt for Ivory-Tower theoreticians; opined most warranty recalls result of factory engineers’ insistence on devising ingenious solutions to nonexistent problems. Referred to resultant debacles as “chooting zemzelves een ze voot.”

Dieter speculated was real explanation of how Nazis lost war. Took particular delight in satirizing defect bulletins, highlighting technical overkill. Remember one in particular:

TO: All Noncommissioned Officers and below.

FROM: Blitzkrieg High Command Quality Control Center.

SUBJECT: Hand-Grenade Repair Bulletin Follow-up.

MESSAGE: In a previous bulletin, ZVP-111000WUB-827-D, it was reported that certain hand grenades manufactured by subcontractor Sturm Drang between 3 June 1943 and 8 October 1943, bearing Serial Numbers 87A000-112498BZQ148 through 87A000-112498BZS157 in one-millimeter-high characters on the inside of the release lever, have detonated in 4.91465 seconds instead of the specified 4.97771 seconds. This variation exceeded manufacturing tolerances.

Bulletin ZVP-111000WUB-827-D described how to correct this defect. However, it has been learned that this bulletin contains a typographical error. If Step 3 is followed as written, hand grenades so modified will detonate in .07331 seconds and could pose a hazard to the user.

All copies of bulletin ZVP-111000WUB-827-D must be corrected as follows: In Step 3, the word “left” in the third line should be deleted and the word “right” inserted. If the corrected instructions are followed properly, the hand grenades will perform satisfactorily.

However, if any hand grenades are observed to detonate in .07331 seconds, even after being correctly modified, safety pins and release levers of such hand grenades must be returned to Blitzkrieg Warranty Center. Upon receipt of safety pins and release levers, together with Quality Control Follow-up Report Forms filled out correctly, credit will be issued. Credit will not be issued if forms are filled out incorrectly.

Dieter posted above on service-department bulletin board during scheduled zone man inspection. Zone man German-born, -raised; ex-Reichwehr foot soldier. Was reported unamused.

And, as studied mechanism further, found was not all that amused myself. Simple reverse-acting needle/seat float valve would have done job without failure-prone complications.

However, Adam says he never met gadget too complicated for Shadetree Engineering fix. Secret usually is big-enough hammer. Or in this case pliers: Held breather open with fingers; mashed, mangled clever device until couldn’t move again even if received Summons From On High.

Screwed cap down on tank. Placed mouth over vent, blew; felt, heard air hiss through opening.

Prop-started engine again. Advanced throttle to full, timed run with wristwatch. Two minutes later still going strong.

Then, to satisfy scientific curiosity, placed finger over cap vent hole — stumbles set in hardly 20 seconds later. Released, engine ran smoothly again.

Men have hung on flimsier evidence.

Okay. Engine fixed; now to get out of here. First step: Reconnoiter takeoff route. Roomy, undramatic takeoff route.

Selected root leading downward from log’s base; employed to reach ground. Spent hours surveying loop from log into forest and return, plotting safe course. Took no chances: Manufactured wingspan go/no-go gauge from sapling; physically verified separation between each pair of trees through which must pass, marked route.

(Sounds as if contemplating major trek through woods. Not so; out and back, shortest possible distance. But hard work, hindered every step by environment. No problem solo, but 25-foot sapling not ideal hiking companion amidst underbrush, smaller trees, etc.)

Finally done. But too late to venture aloft; darkness approaching. Ultralight not equipped for night flying; no lights, rudimentary instruments only. Certain to get lost. Plus landing attempt in dark doesn’t bear thinking about (infrared perception isn’t that good). No choice: Must wait for morning.

Not looking forward to spending night here, but will manage: Made up only moderately uncomfortable bed beneath wing; consists of moss, leaves, etc. C-rations filled belly, though hardly in style to which accustomed — nothing like Adam’s cooking. Located cold, fast-running stream for water. Filled canteen, shook, drained; repeated endlessly until only hint of yummy gasoline flavor remains.

Then sat down to make present update. Which have. That’s where things stand now.

Time to try to get some sleep.

If possible.

Know am acting like fool, jittering like this. Physically verified trees’ separation, marked route clearly. No possibility of getting lost, encountering trees too closely spaced for plane’s passage. Nothing to worry about.

But can’t help it.

Do so hate waiting…!

Oh, Posterity, Posterity…

If get through this without blowing punch line will surely validate claim to histographer’s mantle. So much to tell; so little time…

However. Remember histographer’s creed: Unemotionally, deliberately, chronologically. Therefore:

Woke next morning at sunup, stiff, sore, cold. Night spent curled into fetal position on pile of moss no match for cozy trailer bed, clean sheets, warm blankets. Guess am spoiled.

Hearing back to normal: Ringing gone; could hear birds calling, insects humming, etc. Quite relieved, despite confidence affliction only temporary. Doubt deafness much fun — besides, countersurvival: What if failed to hear immigrant carnivore’s approach?

Stumbled down from log to stream; sloshed water on face, shrieking, gasping, sputtering in reaction — couldn’t have been warmer than 33 degrees! Did clear away cobwebs…

Performed morning elimination. (Amazing how few people grasp importance of emptying bladder, bowel, before risking possible injury. Daddy occasionally served as trackside physician for local quarter-mile stock-car racers. Pet peeve was heroes who, despite oft-repeated warnings, started race without first making personal pit stop. Lost count of those whose only injury following minor shunt was ruptured bladder, bowel. Daddy often remarked on dearth of repeaters: Burning, urine-filled void between thigh muscles, under skin, and/or peritonitis, both followed by otherwise unnecessary surgery, quite educational.)