Three pints to the Wing

Hey!, so here is something of no importance what so ever. Its another creative writing assignment, but unlike before this is actually entertaining. Well, its a fun read. Though my opinion may be biased. It is a semi-fictional story based from a historical family event. (that's the criteria) Amplifying information; the main character is my Great Grandfather. Read it and stop watching so goddamn much TV.

“Burrrrwhhannn¬¬˜” The sound of a 1930s biplane, fleeing at full-throttle, through a clear summer sky.
He had never seen anything so fast in his whole life. The plane leaps into sight from over the trees, climbs to kiss the clouds, then dives, straight at him. He felt alone and small as he glared up to this diving demon. Charles was standing in the center of an empty runway of grass and weeds. He was a hefty fellow, all six-feet one-inch of him. Maybe he was the tallest in the whole town. Feeling small and looking up at people was alien to him. The plane made an evil roar with all seven pistons as it announced its descent; Its angular scarlet body, wires and wings, its twirling chrome blades, everything was aiming straight for Charles clenched throat. He swallowed.
He was forty yards from a makeshift hanger of tall wooden beams and some awkward overlapping tin panels that came together at the roof, and the side furthest from him. Just beyond, acres of cattle corn, tall, dry as gin, and ready for harvest. Charles was standing in a runway and the plane was landing. “Braerwaahhnnn˜” The monster roared louder as it approached. The engine tempo slowed with the propeller, and it’s tail shifted downward. His meaty ears were receptive to every rev, wiz and putt of the, Jacobs R-755 radial engine. It was the sound of a short piped Harley-Davidson on P.C.P. His eyes glued, the shinny red body of the, Stearman 75, was close enough now to see Ray’s wide-open grin. Touchdown, the pilot waved his hand with a wild ‘get out of the way’ gesture. Charles saw him, he saw every cable loop, rivet, every puff of exhaust, he did nothing. Ten feet before Charles’s face was introduced to the lower wing, the big man curled to the ground to let the machine pass over him. He felt the concussions of the cylinders echo in his chest. The rhythm gave him a primal feeling.
The plane rolls to a stop and the engine cuts. A man wearing a leather cap and aviator goggles climbs from the open cockpit.
“Teapots Chuck! I told you to get out the way; it rained heavy last week and I don’t care to find any potholes.”
Raymond was raised 3rd oldest of eight, to a Baptist preacher. He never cursed, neither of them did. It was a different time then.
Charles always has this look to him, with his fleshy cheeks and his coy smile; he always looks like he just thought of something funny and he is about to tell you. And you’d wait for it, but he only delivered when you didn’t see it coming; –just to put you back on your toes. Charles knew the value of timing.
“I wanted that good look yer talkin about”, Charles said.
The two chat briefly, both coveting the intricate mass of fresh painted metal. Raymond broke pace of the conversation.
Shaking the remaining foam from his mason jar. “I’m out, you want another pint?”
Charles broke his gaze from the plane, “Sure, but that’s my last, I never have more than four” and hands the jar to Ray.
Raymond, interjected, “Since when?”
“Last Tuesde”
“What happened on Tuesday?”
Charles big cheeks dropped, and his smile went straight, “I had five on Tuesde.” –Ray’s shoulders sank a little, he knew better. Wordless, he turns, and starts walking. Charles’s signature smile returned, this time with a little extra coy. Raymond’s airfield was a huge space of wild cut grasses but it also doubled as his back yard, his house sixty or so yards up the hill.
Charles reverted his attention to the beautiful machine; it was talking to him, making creeks and small audible pops from the cooling engine. The fuselage was warm to touch. Charles has seen a plane before, but not like this, never in the air or so close. Taken back by the moment, he recalled Raymond’s letter.

Dear Chuck,
Been meaning to get a telephone but I would never be in the house to hear it ring anyhow. I have been busy these 2 weeks. Your not going to belive this. I was commin down Normand road with the ford from Olson’s house few weeks back. Then I seen this kid sitting on top of a areoplane in middle of road. He told me he was from the Royal Canadian Air Force and his group were being sent to England. They figure there gonna be needed over there on account of the Germans. So Im guessing he did not much care for the idea and Smith’s creek is far south as he made it. Landing gear was broken. Boy said if I put him up for week and hide the plane, he’d fix and teach me to fly her. Few days ago I put 90 dollars in his pocket and got him on the train over in Imaly City headin to Flint. Says he can get a job there on account that’s were they make them Kaydet areoplanes.
Come visit soon, if you bring that [peanut-butter] brittle I’ll be happy to give ya some of my beer to take home. Give Francis my love.
Ray,

Ray huffed down the hill, a jar in each hand; he made way towards his impromptu runway. The confused look on his face was because after scanning the field, he couldn’t see Charles. This is because Ray made the mistake of not looking in the direction of the cockpit. There he was, the leather cap pulled tight forced over his big head, and the goggles creasing in the side of his pudgy face. With three initial sputters’ “putt-putt-pop”, the engine roared, and raised to ear bursting speeds. Ray aghast, drops Charles’s beer and starts running franticly, careful not to spill his own. The vibration and torque of the engine fills Charles’s barrel chest, the feeling gives him a that same wide-open grin. Covered in sweat and beer, beer jetting from the sides of his glass like a sprinkler, Ray yells to limits of his lungs. Charles turns his head and sees Ray chasing him through the tinted eyewear. Charles, still grinning, produces a mason jar filled with a deep amber and foam from behind the wall of the cockpit, and salutes it to Ray’s direction.
After Raymond took to the air eager to show off his new aviation skills, Charles thought to grab his self a back up of Ray’s House-Made ale. Charles knew the value of timing. With the jar to his lips he washes back half a glass, reseats himself and opens the throttle. The plane was rolling, increasing speed; Ray running, approaching closer with his futile crusade. It was faint, but Charles could hear a whisper of a scream, “You son-a-bitch!” Charles laughs to himself through his own coy smile. Virgin to the controls and half buzzed, Charles watched as the grass, corn, and the angry farmer fell from view. He had never seen anything move so fast in his whole life.
“Burrrrwhhannn¬¬˜” Its the sound of a scarlet, Kaydet Stearman 75, fleeing at full-throttle, through a clear summer sky.