A poem, written by one of the crew to the Aussie team (well, to Brad) in Uvalde in 1991.
THE MAN FROM THE NEW ENGLAND RANGES - BY WARWICK KENNY
APOLOGIES TO “BANJO” PATERSON.
DEDICATED TO BRAD EDWARDS-WINNER 1991 WGC UVALDE USA
There was movement at the glider-field, the word had passed around,
That the next world comps were in Texas USA.
A racing challenge, for top ranked pilots, and a victor must be found,
So, all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted airmen, from nations, near and far
Were mustered, by their skill, to get it right,
For pilots love hard flying, where soaring battles are,
And these aces snuff the battle with delight.
And Tony Tabart, was to lead the team, manage and, backup,
The old man, with his hair left long for show;
But few could glide beside him when his blood was fairly up-
He would go wherever plane and man could go.
And Ingo Renner, came round to lend a hand,
No better pilot ever held the reins;
For never was, a task, beyond him, and his mighty records stand,
He learnt to fly while soaring on the plains.
And one was there, Brad Edwards, a tall and gangly bloke,
With thinning hair, suntanned skin, and shoulders oversized,
His glider, Yankee Lima, was a well-bred, but proven hope;
And, as such, are by mountain pilots prized.
Brad, was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won’t say die -
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so tall and lanky, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, “I want to let you know,
It’s a long, hot, and tiring contest lad - what have you to say?”
“Texas is hot, but so am I - let’s go-
I’m as ready as I’ll ever be” -then Ingo, spoke for his friend -
“I think we need your spirit here,” he said;
“I warrant, he’ll be with us, when he’s wanted at the end,
For both his crew and he are mountain bred.”
“He hails from the ranges of New England, up by Lake Keepit’s side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
And the Western plains that go forever, must be taken in a stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And these New England pilots on the ranges make their home,
Where giant gorges carve those rugged hills between;
I have seen full many airmen, since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet, such pilots have I seen.”
So he went – for their speed, gliders had, on board water, to dump
Therefore, faster through the skies, they could plough,
And the old man gave his orders,” Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try- for fancy flying now.
Stay forward in the rankings, and keep your soaring tight.
Fly boldly lads and gain a good start,
For never yet was pilot that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they got ahead, by the half-way mark.
So, they all took off to hold them; they were racing on the wing,
Where the best and boldest pilots take their place,
Then alas, Brad was slowed, when he lost, his vital yaw string
The mob, now from the back, ahead of him they raced;
Charging, past Yankee Lima, with a sharp and sudden dash,
As the whole field shot, to reach the top, by half- way through.
Then, on day four, a life was lost, when two gliders had a crash.
-All pilots are in danger, when they flew.
But fast the oz-team rallied, where, out on the desert track,
Were rounding up the gaggles overhead,
From low, over nodding oil-rigs, they climbed both up and back
To the cliffs of white, that beetled overhead.
But upward ever upward, the others held their way,
Over large corrals, and rolling tumble-weeds;
And the old man muttered fiercely “we may bid the mob good day,
No man can fly them down, from such a lead.”
When they reached day five in the comps, even Ingo took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild salt- scrub grew thickly, and the ground was full
Of armadillo holes, and any slip was death,
But, the man from the New England ranges put his glider out ahead,
He wheeled his aircraft round, and gave a cheer,
And he raced them across the prairies like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He scorched across the Texas hills, at speed, that was a feat,
He cleared the rugged canyons in his stride,
And the man from New England never shifted in his seat -
It was grand to see that mountain pilot fly
Now, streeting high above the desert, it was time to make up ground
So flying down the sky, at a racing pace he went;
Skipping past gliders out on track, to boosthis ranking up this round,
And, from the bottom, he began, a bold assent,
Climbing to top, of the leader-board, with two days to the end,
And the watchers with their scorecards, standing mute,
Saw him ply his talent fiercely, as others set out to contend;
Among them, Doug Jacobs, of the U S A, in full pursuit,
He thought he had the jump, by starting late, and then to lead.
And along the ranges, his cunning tactics were concealed;
But from the dim and distant hills, to the finish line at full speed,
Still in front, Brad, in Yankee Lima, was revealed.
He had run them single–handed, and in the scoring it was shown-
As if the mob were being hunted, by a dingo, out on track.
But they faulted, tired and beaten, then he turned and headed home,
And alone and unassisted led them back.
Hailed as yankee leader, Brad was hoisted up on shoulders for a trot,
And that name, they plastered on his car, was no slur.
His pluck was still undaunted and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain man a cur.
And down by Lake Keepit side, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Lakeside the reed beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from the New England ranges is a household word today,
And the pilots tell the story of his ride.
