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| Norman W. Smith on the left, Paavo Galkin second from the right at Tokat in Sudan 1974 after 32hrs flying in 4 days. |
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| Paavo Galkin on the right. |
Norman W. Smith dedicates this to Paavo Galkin.
THE AG-PILOT'S LAMENT
Ah, those far off Halcyon days of Yore when AG-pilots swooped and zoomed their wings with glee, under the wires between the trees, rolling their wheels on Nile waters too. Swiping bugs and crubs at every flight pass with chemicals sprays of guaranteed death.
Aeroplane wheels festooned with foliage, propeller blades green from slicing earths green leaf, real low flying AG-pilots were we. No taxing for us, we land in to load up, a 180 to make, and take off out.
In our element were we in cockpits alone as we flew with delight from dawn to sun down, earning our pay, field run by field run.
AG-pilots were we and proud of it too, on our chosen flight path so close to the ground, and maybe you too as you gazed in awe at our aerial work.
Chemicals came in 200 litre drums, black all over plus skull and cross bones, mixed with water or sometimes neat, to fill up our tank, for we`ll take off in a trice, returning soonest for more, our bonus determined by area sprayed, corners to be cut to boost that pay, even if with a Union Jack spray.
Some poisons made us drowsy, others just stank. D.D.T stuck to our windscreens causing hazardous change of colliding with unseen obstacles in our flights way. Over the evenings cool pint no flies sat on us because bug killing poisons oozed from our pores.
Aeroplanes were aged, tired and worn, to fly them above tree tops was considered with scorn, for when they came down they´d surely burn, with we AG-pilots inside to hasten the fire.
To the Sudan went we at the end of August to spray boll weavils in Geziral cotton crops, was just the grandest foray from UK to Khartoum on a weeks ferry flight by the light of the moon.
Living was basic but we managed to cope after initiation to General Gordons revenge, of going at both ends without a thing in between to sustain the actions four days.
Home to UK with bonus to spend as winters frosts gave way, to top dress winter corn with fertilizers, before May´s bugs breeding called for aerial sprays to curb their desires.
Post Sudan, our UK farm fields were so, so small bordered by tall hedges and wires across, fear not, for flying under those wires was considered normal, with spinning propeller wire cutter on the front.
We were AG-pilots fearless and brave, no flight challenge to great for our superior panache. Cancel All Aviation was far over our heads, but who provided dispensations from air rules, enabling we AG-pilots to earn our bread and a beer or two.
We filled up the hedgerows and ditches too with chemical sprays containing goodness knows what. Mrs. Jones´ budgie took a whiff up its beak and keeled over dead for that.
Spots on the washing, spots on the fruit, spots on the bee´s, the birds and butterflies, too, as our wings vortex carried sprays afar. Simple AG-pilots were we. The boffins plus MIN´ of AG´ new best, -didn´t they?
Before swooping down to spray that field, take stock of who lives nearby. Cottages in that corner are of no consequence, but that rural des´-res plus Bentley will sure take offence.
Fly clear of race horses, ridden or corralled for they injure themselves as they take fright from our flight so low. Beware of mature ladies driving cars on rural roads, for fright they take just as horses do, ending up in the ditch, to then blame you!
Farm fields were our airfields in every shape and form, landing uphill preferred, down to get airborne. Beware of dew soaked grasses in the early morn`for they´ll put you in the corner hedge, crestfallen and forlorn. Mid afternoons high temperatures and a full load on board might put you through that far hedge, wondering where all the power and lift has gone.
R.A.F. airfields are prickley indeed, their air controllers never seeing such aerial deeds as AG-pilots perform. Very´s red are sure to shoot skywards to shoo you away from that hallowed domain and field to be sprayed.
Land not on the taxiway, the runway to shum, nor park by the tower on the S.A.T.C.O.s spot, for they´ll treat you with disdain as an aerial bum, renegade, rebel and cowboy to boot, with air radio not.
Or low flying fast jets there´s no real problem, for by the time you see him he´s missed your AG-plane. The fast jet who get´s you your never to see - because - your already the late AG-pilot, been and gone!
G-ASVX/PHANTOM 1974
Norman W. Smith
04-04-2006
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