While your Trembling and Fearful Unca Cheeks is well and truly aware that the sentiment which follows will (doubtless) be regarded as something very much akin to The Heresy Ultimate, amongst the more rabidly loyal of the BLACKHAWK cognoscenti (may the members of their respective houses know peace and serenity all the rest of their days)... he's going to throw out the poor, sunken thing he's been using as a chest, all these years, and offer the observation nonetheless:

"My all-time favorite BLACKHAWK 'period' has pretty much jack-all to do with either Will Eisner or Reed Crandall.' "

Okay. Fine, then. Go ahead and throw your silly old tomatoes, if you like. I was thinking of fixing myself a nice salad for lunch later on, anyway.

As wizened and bent as Your Unca Cheeks truly is, these days -- did you know that Metamucil can be effectively "freebased," incidentally? -- he was not (contrary to popular rumor) gadding about in knee pants and rolling a hoop down cobblestoned streets, back in the days of "gaslight correspondents" and buggy whips.

Therefore he just plain ol' missed out on those early, halcyon days of the long-absent MILITARY COMICS, and their vigorous (and fondly-

remembered still, by many) meta-fictive offerings, re a "Blackhawk" squadron comprised of six men (and one truly deplorable racial caricature), all bedecked in identical dark blue leather jumpsuits and jodhpurs and suchlike; whupping up on the Nazi war machine with a breezy and cheerful sort of élan.

No my earliest exposure to DC Comics' "Action Aviators" was during the (comparatively) brief period during which they all ponced about in those tres niftique green-and-red costumes of theirs, dock-walloping cheesy mad scientists and laughably inane outer space creatures (as rendered by that inimitable Silver Age great, Dick Dillin.)

God alone knows, I'm not proud of that fact.

Nonetheless it's of that four-color era in BLACKHAWK history, in particular, of which I've always been hopelessly enamored...

... and (therefore) it's that selfsame era which we'll be taking a closer (if -- at times -- horrified) gander, on this and the following pages.

Watch out, now.

This is gonna sting a little bit.

"El Blackhawk Peligroso (The Dangerous Blackhawk)" [BLACKHAWK #219; April, 1966; either Bob Haney or Arnold Drake, writer; Dick Dillin, artist] opens up with a shot of "The World Exhibit of Heroes... a colorful pageant dedicated to great names of the past and present..."

An unidentified hand has just finished (conveniently) drawing our attention to a rather large-ish ruby -- identified as "the legendary Cyclops' Eye" -- and commenting idly on just how supremely well- guarded the durned thing is, when --

-- all of a sudden, like --

-- a man dressed up like a gigantic flying squirrel swoops in and takes it.

(Thaaaat's right only Page One... and already, we've got Giant Flying Squirrels, here.)

(Unca Cheeks has been sittin' on this'un for simply ages and ages, now. Waiting... waiting...)

(Well... yes; yes, I suppose that would make Unca Cheeks something of a bastard, come to think.)

In any event -- all questions of Unca Cheeks' dubious parentage aside -- the seven members of that two-fisted fightin' squadron, the Blackhawks (who were, we are hurriedly informed, "all set to put on a sensational act of their own [at the exhibit]") instantly take to the skies in their cumbersome-looking "Hawk-Copter," in order that they might thereby put the quick kibosh on the villainous Rocket J. Squirrel wannabe.

This proves far easier planned than done, however, as The Ridiculous Rodent hastily passes the ill-gotten lucre to --

-- all of a sudden, like --

-- a man dressed up like a giant BUTTERFLY.

"From me to you, with love and kisses, Butterfly Pal!" the squirrelly guy simpers, whilst making the airborne exchange. (... oh, man... I so very much do not not NOT wanna bloody go there, awright...?)

The appreciably more maneuverable "Human Butterfly" (lookit I gotta call him something, right...?) spends a handful of panels making the Ace Aviators look pretty much like a bunch of pug-ugly chumps -- darting this way and dodging that way; managing always to end up hovering juuussssst out of easy reach of Our Heroes -- and inspiring the team member known as Chuck to exclaim, in (perfectly understandable) frustration "That flittin' flutterbug is makin' flools... I mean FOOLS... outta us!"

This hopelessly lame series of events could have gone on for pretty much forever, really -- it's only Page Three by this point, after all; still plenty of time for the guy in the Giant Sea Bass costume to show up -- when --

-- all of a sudden, like --

"... a... a... well," (the author finally confides); "... this one is anybody's guess!"

(... which -- when you stop and think about it, I mean -- is pretty tough talk from some would-be Shakespeare whose just coughed up both a Squirrel Man and a Human Butterfly, without so much as a small, wry nod or a shrug of the auctorial shoulders. I'm just sayin', really, is all.)

The "anybody's guess" in question, in this particular instance, is a rusting and dilapidated barn door with wings -- held together in various places with what appears to be clothesline, and bearing the crude scrawl "El Blackhawk Especial" along one side -- which does to the air space being shared by Blackhawk and butterfly alike what Unca Cheeks did to that perky young blonde film major, back in the carefree youth of his wastrel college days.

The somewhat-less-than-airworthy aircraft shudders itself to pieces moments later; disgorging a short, swarthy parachute-bound figure clad in the familiar red-and-green Blackhawk mufti.

"Buenos dias, amigos!" the cheerful 'chutist chirrups at the frankly flabbergasted fliers.

"YI-III-I I I !" the French Blackhawk known as Andre incredulously exclaims. "It is none other than Cisco... my cousin from South America!"

(We'll pause for just a moment, here, to allow that last little bit to sink in properly.)

Landing their 'copter nearby Andre's downed kinsman, the Blackhawks grill the grinning Cisco as to the whys and wherefores of his unexpected presence on American soil; with an increasingly thunderstruck Andre serving as interpreter.

"... and he says he wants to become a Blackhawk... like me!" the goggle-eyed Frenchman translates, at one point; to which a groaning Blackhawk responds, in turn [Pick One]:

A.) "Oh... my aching head! Him... a Blackhawk? NEVER!"

B.) " '... a Blackhawk like you?' You mean he wants to spend all of his free time doing bad Maurice Chevalier impressions in the bunk room, as well?"

C.) "I'd sooner induct the yip-yop in the squirrel costume."

D.) "Good. Great. We've really needed another screaming leather queen on this team, lately."

E.) "Doesn't the word 'cousin' imply that the two of you somehow share a common relation, somewhere along the line...?"

The naturally persuasive Andre, however, soon convinces his illustrious team leader ("But maybe we are too harsh with Cisco, mon ami! He made one big mistake -- oui -- but ze Blackhawks are famous for forgiving! Maybe -- possibly -- perhaps one more chance? If he fails, I will send him back to South America... hokay?") that his cousin's continued presence might not auger complete and total disaster.

In this -- as in so many other instances -- Andre is as wrong as lime-

green bowling shoes.

The following day, an ocean-bound tramp steamer sends an S.O.S. out Blackhawk Island way; and -- upon arriving at the scene in their ubiquitous Hawk-Copter -- the Sensational Seven are confronted --

-- all of a sudden, like --

-- by a guy tarted up like a Giant Komodo Dragon.

And still only Page Six, mind you.

A exhalation of the Dragon Man's flame-breath sets the chopper ablaze like so much dry kindling; and -- in bravely attempting to save their blazing craft -- Andre and Cousin Cisco are both sent tumbling head- over-rotor into the cold, unforgiving waters.

A soaked and shivering Cisco is hastily rescued and hauled aboard the steamer...

... but the laughing, devil-may-care Frenchman of the group, however...

... is gone.

Oh, yeah. Betcha this is gonna look reeeeeaaaal good on ol' Cisco's six-month review, by golly.

"I'll put it to you straight, Cisco," a grim-visaged Blackhawk admonishes the misery-wracked South American. "If you hadn't tried to play hero and save the copter, Andre wouldn't have died!"

(That's how you can tell a real "Leader of Men"-type, see, from your standard, garden variety grunt that innate ability to lend some small measure of comfort to your subordinates, in their times of greatest emotional turmoil. Presumably, it was only the presence of the [then-] adamantine Comics Code Authority Seal of Approval which prevented the story's author from detailing the sequence during which the Blackhawks took turns pimp-slapping a blubbering and hysterical Cisco into terrified unconsciousness.)

"Andre... really dead..." a stunned Chuck finally stammers.

"Dunder!" an aged and wide-eyed Hendrickson murmurs. "I just can't believe it!"

"I ban with heavy lump inside," the oafish Olaf offers, by way of muddled conclusion.

(Incidentally check out the chin on the group's resident Swede, why don'cha? Can you say "acromegaly," boys'n'girls? Sure I knew you could.)

"Haunted by a guilty conscience," the following caption glumly informs us; "... Cisco later walks dark streets alone, the thought of Andre's death twisting him into tight knots..."

When, suddenly --

-- all of a sudden, like --

-- the guy fruiting about in the Giant Mosquito costume shows up.

Seeking to redeem himself (however minimally) for his complicity in his cousin's untimely death, the plucky Cisco launches himself towards the buggy baddie, simultaneously giving shrill utterance to his burning need for big-time vengeance. ("Para Andre! Para todo los Blackhawks!")

That's when the giant sea otter and the bat-like doofus show up, of course.

"Don't kill him!" a mysterious voice orders, via short-wave radio. "Just knock him out... as you did the guard! Then bring him to the hideout... with the loot!"

An obliging Mosquito Man gasses the still-struggling Cisco into blessed oblivion; and -- upon finally regaining his senses once more -- the gaucho aviator is startled to discover himself caged...

... and the missing (and presumed deceased) Andre imprisoned likewise, right alongside him (!!).

"Andre!" a relieved and ecstatic Cisco cries out. "Estoy en paraiso!"

"No, mi primo," the Frenchman glumly responds. "You're not in ze Paradise! You are a very live prisoner... just as I am!"

Okay... so Your Ever-Solicitous Unca Cheeks is about to show you all the actual "master villain" behind all of the preceding folderol and foolishness, here.

This would be a simply outstanding opportunity for the more weakly-

constituted of those amongst you to bail the holy friggin' heck out of this four-color atrocity exhibition.

Really.

I mean it, now.

"Welcome to the underground castle of King Zootomy!" the diminutive, bespectacled Professional Virgin with the big papier mache crown perched unconvincingly atop his head announces.

"My pals call me King Zoot, for short!" the ridiculous runt continues, lying smoothly. "I'm a master of bionics... which means I'm the greatest at making machines that imitate animal traits!"

"Muy loco!" Andre exclaims; forgetting, however briefly, that he's supposed to be representing an entirely different ludicrously overblown national stereotype altogether.

"Don't make fun of me, you dolts!" the Pusillanimous Pipsqueak angrily retorts, gesturing towards his various and sundry Animal Goobers. "I'm the world's most fabulous scientist! If you doubt me, just look around you!"

(Those shrill, explosive peals of hysterical laughter you're all hearing, right about now, incidentally, are coming from a disbelieving Lex Luthor; Ra's al Ghul; Doctor Victor Von Doom; the Mad Thinker; Doctor Thaddeus Bodog Sivana; and Mrs. Dinkwater's first grade class at Mercy Heights Academy Grade School, entire.)

Thus piqued by the manifest disrespect of his caged captives, King Zoot cruelly arranges the following blackmail scenario unless Cisco willingly agrees to serve as one of the villain's malefic menagerie...

... the Zoological Zero will immediately instruct his pet "Dragon Man" to flambe Cisco's cousin to a crispy, crackly turn.

Garbing the unhappy Cisco in a patently ludicrous "Owl Man" outfit -- and programming a mechanical parakeet (!!) to accompany him; the better to observe (and transmit to King Zoot) the glum South American's every move -- the Bestiary Baddie chortles "You're a real howl, Owl! Fighting-wise, you might not be as mighty as a hawk... but wise-wise, you're more than a Blackhawk's match! [...] I'll succeed where knaves have failed! With my Owl-Man, I'll hoot [the Blackhawks] right into extinction!"

"Don't worry," a confident Andre ringingly declares. "My cousin Cisco is a brave lad! He will find a way to spoil your plans!"

"HA!" a smug King Zoot counters. "I gave him some of this Forgetful Fluid... as insurance! It'll make him my faithful subject... and he won't even remember who the Blackhawks are... except that they're enemies!"

"Sacre bleu!" a disappointed Frenchman growls. "You are ze king of fiends!"

(Y'know... I scarcely even need to supply the standard smorgasbord of snide, smart-assed asides, this time out; not when afforded a target as broad and flat and stone easy as this one, at any rate.)

Utilizing his newly-won airborne abilities to knock off a nearby jewelry store, the toxin-befuddled Cisco is forced into confrontation versus the remaining Blackhawks (who immediately deduce their feathered foeman's true identity, based on nothing more than keen, intuitive insight; the fact that he's still wearing his makeshift Blackhawks outfit; and furiously lobbing insults their way in fluent Spanish.)

(Boy... jump back Batman, huh...?)

("You sure it ban Cisco?" a puzzled Olaf inquires of his fellows.)

("It certainly wasn't Fu Manchu!" a tight-lipped "Chop-Chop" woodenly responds. [Insert Pained Observation or Disgusted Commentry Here.]

Sending the hapless heroes scattering like so many red-shirted tenpins, "Owl-Man" Cisco soars off with the stolen swag; returning robotically to the eagerly awaiting King Zoot (as well as a truly wretched and mournful Andre).

"You not only brought back a fortune," an approving King Zoot delightedly coos; "... but you made the Blackhawks look like real goofs! Ha-ha-ha!"

Five seconds after that the Blackhawks burst into King Zoot's mountain lair and pretty much just stomp anything wearing what looks like oversized GrrrAnimals undies into pain-wracked submission.

A shrilly-bleating King Zoot is halted in his desperate, panic-stricken escape attempt by an alert and athletic Blackhawk, his own bad self; and then --

-- all of a sudden, like --

-- we get the following, by way of artless summary exposition:

BLACKHAWK "... so when Owl-Man Cisco dropped this near the derrick, we knew you were alive, Andre... and we followed Cisco here!"

ANDRE (overjoyed) "My precious countainer of moustache wax! Ah... I didn't see him take it from me, when they first brought him here!"

BLACKHAWK (continuing; and with a perfectly straight face, I might add) "... and when King Zoot gave Cisco the 'Forgetful Fluid,' he didn't drink it... he deftly poured it back into the owl cowling!"

ANDRE ("camping" it up to beat the band) "Sorry, mon ami... I don't hear ze details! My moustache needs a fresh waxing!"

Ba-da-da-bump.

*Whew*!

Now, then was that a stinker... or was that a stinker...?

Maybe we'll have somewhat appreciably better luck next time out, when we continue our fond look back at the BLACKHAWK comics of the Silver Age...

... right here, next week.

The Good Lord alone knows, but that it certainly couldn't get any blamed worse... right?

Heh-heh-heh.

The BLACKHAWK Comics of the Silver Age (PAGE TWO)

The BLACKHAWK Comics of the Silver Age (PAGE THREE)

The BLACKHAWK Comics of the Silver Age (PAGE FOUR)