september newsletter-1

COPA Flight 65
Hangar News
Vernon Flying Club
1
SEPTEMBER 2015
COPA FOR KIDS!
After 2 months of little or no rain, July 25th 2015 dawned dark and dreary in Vernon British Columbia. Although
the rain clouds hung low on the mountain tops and the rain had been falling since 3 AM, forty anxious COPA
Flight 65 and Vernon Flying Club volunteers showed up at 0730 for the decision from COPA Captain Stu
McLean and Air Boss Chuck Ross. After reviewing the local METARs, TAFs, Silver Star Radar and a brief
weather check-flight, it was a no brainer....No Flying Today! Postponed to our Rain Date.
All lined up and ready for business
Fortunately by the next day, Sunday the 26th, the weather
had cleared, the forest-fire smoke was gone and we were
presented with perfect COPA for Kids weather...overcast,
calm & dry with temperatures down to the mid 20's. With
a pre-registered list of 110 kids expected, the COPA/VFC
team of 40 volunteers swung into action at 0700, just as
the first excited Kid showed up with parent in tow. Startup began smoothly with Ground Ops Coordinator
Marion Ross at the helm. Registration was quickly put
into action by Diane Usher and her team of 4 registrars.
The ground school and safety briefings, using a Cessna
150 and a Seawind 3000, were ably run in two streams by Barry Meek and Ted Malewski. Next, Head
Loadmaster Barry Harsent's team of three volunteers guided the excited groups of Kids into the waiting hands
of one of 12 Flight Attendants, led by Vera Peshkova, who then boarded the Junior Aviators into the waiting
aircraft with military precision.
With a team of 3, Lead Safety Officer Dan Cook was able to give the thumbs up for the on-time departure of the
first flight, flown by Barry Jackson in his Beech 35, at 0835. Quickly following him were 10 other COPA pilots
with an assortment of interesting aircraft. These included BettyLee Longstaff (C-172), Art Ratte (Lancair
Legacy), Franz Fux (RV7A), Homme Van derMeer (C-172), John Swallow (RV7A), Ken Fenner (PA28), Rob
Kennett (RV6A), Robin Campbell (Aviat Husky
on Amphib Floats), Scott Campbell (Carbon
Cub) and Steve Foord (PA28). A spare aircraft
was provided by Jim Schwerman (C182RG on
Amphib Floats).
For the under 8 year olds, a series of 'flights'
were made in the VFC Barrel Aeroplanes
guided around the ramp area by Don Usher. It
was hoped that this 'ground' experience might
also be a first step in igniting an aviation
passion in a number of future Junior Aviators.
Meanwhile in the VFC clubhouse over 200 hot
dogs and drinks were prepared and handed out
by Food Services volunteers, Kristine Hiew and
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Connie McKinnon. Photo credits go to new VFC member Francois Arseneault.
All air operations, which were conducted without incident under the watchful guidance of Air Boss Chuck Ross,
were completed by 1230 hrs, before the heat of the day could make flying uncomfortable and just as the first
rain showers appeared over the mountain tops.
By the end of flying on this perfect day, 150 enthusiastic Junior Aviators had flown and been awarded COPA for
Kids certificates and log books. Over 40 tired but happy COPA/VFC volunteers could sit back with a wellearned hot dog and perhaps an adult beverage and say “Mission Accomplished.”
Pilot BettyLee Longstaff with Yana Schellenberg
Pilot Rob Kennett with happy
passenger
<Loading the first flight of the day
Betty Lee Longstaff with three happy
fliers!>
Registration desk team Diane Usher, Carolyn Neish, & John Mogensen
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SEPTEMBER 2015
In reviewing previous Newsletters, I came across one of the earliest – that of heading for coffee in Salmon Arm with Chuck Ross.
CHUCK ROSS’ RV 4
Tuesday night; sitting in front of the computer
working on the October newsletter: a phone call
from Chuck Ross inviting me to coffee in Salmon
Arm. We are to go up in Chuck’s RV4; we’ll
meet at his hangar around 0930 hours. “Get a hold
of Harry Chapin” he urges; “Tell him to meet us
for coffee”. Instead, I e-mail John Bagshaw and
invite him and Harry to meet us around 1000
hours.
It was a long night. I had not been up in Chuck’s
aircraft before. However, I had broken one of the
Ten Commandments many times since I’d been
coming to the airport. The one that goes: “Thou
shalt not lust”. Every time I saw that yellow
aircraft with the green stripe the tablet containing
Commandment Ten cracked like cheap mirror. To me, C-GEAU epitomizes a pilot’s airplane: single- or
tandem- seat; and a tail dragger to boot.
I arrived at Chuck’s hangar just after he had
pulled it onto the taxiway.
His preflight
inspection had been accomplished in the hangar,
so all that was left to do was brief me on cockpit
layout, fire extinguisher location, emergency
egress, and the like. Stowing my jacket in the
baggage compartment behind the rear seat back
rest, I carefully eased myself into the rear
cockpit. The roll-over bars between the seats are
very handy as a secure handhold as you ease
yourself down onto the seat. The modern fourpoint seat straps are connected and tightened.
The noise-canceling headset is donned: I’m
ready to go.
The back seat is a passenger seat: the only
control that is replicated is the control column.
No instruments, no throttle, no mixture, no switches, no flaps: just the control column. However, it is
understandable why this is so: if the aircraft is not to be used for training, there is no reason to duplicate any
controls in the rear seat. Other than allowing someone in the back seat to take control of the aircraft
occasionally, there is no need for complete replication.
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Battery switch on, boost pump for a few seconds, then the starter is engaged: the engine barks into life
immediately. C-GEAU started life with a 150 HP Lycoming engine; however, Chuck installed high
compression pistons and now figures he has the equivalent of 160 HP. The short taxi to the run up position
allowing the temperatures to migrate into the green, and a short run up at 1700 RPM had us ready for departure.
After the short backtrack for runway 23, the application of full power produced a noticeable acceleration down
the runway. Chuck raised the tail somewhere between 30-40 MPH with lift off occurring shortly after 50 MPH.
Climb out was brisk: 90 MPH produced 1500 feet per minute. It also produced a fairly nose high attitude.
Chuck indicated that cruise climbing at 110 MPH produced a much lower attitude while still affording an
extremely respectable 1000 feet per minute ascent.
Clear of circuit altitude, a right turn put us on a heading
for Salmon Arm. Level at cruise altitude, Chuck
relinquished control. As with my previous trip in Larry
Williams RV-6, I found the controls very light. A few
turns were undertaken to feel out the aircraft, but the high
cruise speed of the RV-4 meant that within minutes, we
were close enough to Salmon Arm that it was time to turn
control back to Chuck so he could set up for landing.
However, I had control long enough to note that only
having the control column in the back seat was
unsettling: there was nothing for my left hand to do…
A left hand down wind for runway 14 at about 80 MPH
was followed by 75 MPH base leg. On final, speed was
reduced to 65-70 MPH. Chuck had indicated that he
liked the shorter glide approach as opposed to the longer powered one. We wound up needing just a touch of
power on short final to maintain our angle, but the speed was smoothly bled off over the button and culminated
shortly thereafter with an nice gentle touchdown at about 50 MPH. A nice demonstration.
We were a little early for coffee, so Chuck parked at the pumps and took on a few gallons (sorry, litres) of fuel.
We then pushed the aircraft over to the west side of the ramp and headed for the terminal.
Upstairs, some members of the Salmon Arm Flying
Club had arrived and I was introduced to the group.
Most notable for me was my introduction to Harry
Chapin. Harry is a former air force officer and was
member of Canada’s famed Snowbirds; we had known
of each other in the military, but had never crossed paths
before. I had heard that he had a well developed sense
of humour and I was not disappointed. Unfortunately,
John Bagshaw was unable to attend due to a previous
engagement (something about a golf club meeting..)
Much, much too soon it was time to head back for
Vernon. The trip home was a reprise of the trip up.
Overhead the field at 2400 feet was followed in turn by
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a left hand downwind and base for runway 23. The landing back home was a twin of the one in Salmon
Arm…..a “squeeker” right on the money.
In answer to my questions, Chuck indicated that he’d taken about seven years to “slow build” his aircraft, with
completion coming in 1998. The aircraft is in excellent shape and for Chuck and his wife Marion, is ideally
suited to their needs. While it would be nice to have a bit more room and speed, they have an aircraft that has a
respectable cruise TAS and a reasonable fuel burn. (Translation: it goes like stink and doesn’t burn much gas!)
My thanks to Chuck for the invite; next time I’ll get the coffee AND the gas; sorry about the drool in the back
seat...
End note: since that story appeared in the Newsletter, not only has Chuck thrown caution to the wind and let
me fly his aircraft, but my own has taken to the air – a Van’s RV-7A, completed after some nine years of toil.
HORSE SENSE
Rex was a smooth city slicker who decided that since he wore boots and a Stetson all the time, he
should own a horse. He heard about an old VFC pilot who had a horse for sale and gave him a call.
The pilot said the horse was well broken, gentle enough for his grandchildren to ride, and that he
wanted $250 for him. Suspiciously, Rex said, "$250 isn't much for that kind of horse. What's wrong
with him?" Our worthy said, "He don't look so good."
Because the price was right, Rex decided to go over and take a look at the horse. He was led out to
the corral and there was a teenage granddaughter leading a good-looking bay gelding around with a
piece of baler twine and 3 little kids on his back. Rex had seen enough... he slapped leather, peeled
off $250 in cash before the other could raise the price, and included $20 extra for delivery.
The next morning, the gelding was in his corral. He went out, saddled him up, and rode down to the
creek... whereupon the bay immediately walked off the creek bank. As they fell five feet into the
water, Rex bailed off and watched in dismay as the horse got up, ran down the creek until he
bounced off a big boulder, took a left and hit a tree dead-on and then stood there, shaking. The city
slicker realized the horse was blind. He led the horse home, unsaddled him, went to the house and
immediately called the retired pilot at his club. "Why didn't you tell me that the horse was blind?" he
demanded. The old aviator replied, "I did, yer honour. I told you he don't look so good."
MARRIAGE PROBLEMS
After 35 years of marriage, a husband and wife came for counselling. When asked what the
problem was, the wife went into a tirade listing every problem they ever had in the years they had
been married. On and on and on: neglect, lack of intimacy, emptiness, loneliness, feeling unloved and
unlovable, an entire laundry list of unmet needs she had endured. Finally, after allowing this for a
sufficient length of time, the therapist got up, walked around the desk and after asking the wife to
stand, he embraced and kissed her long and passionately as her husband watched - with a raised
eyebrow. The woman shut up and quietly sat down in a daze. The therapist turned to the husband
and said, "This is what your wife needs at least 3 times a week. Can you do this?"
"Well, I can drop her off here on Mondays and Wednesdays, but, I fish on Fridays.
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Pardo's Push: An Incredible Feat of Airmanship
Sitting in two F-4 Phantoms, the four American
airmen awaited their takeoff orders. It was March
10, 1967, and their mission to bomb a strategic
target in Thai Nguyen, 30 miles north of Hanoi, was
now a reality. It was also more dangerous than any
mission they had yet flown in Vietnam. The target
was the enemy's only steel mill for the production of
essential war materiel, and was therefore well
protected.
The attack order included two tasks for the airmen.
First, with their missiles, they were to screen the
main strike force of F-4s and F-105s against North
Vietnamese MiGs. Second, if the enemy MiGs did
not try to intercept the main strike force, the two
escort aircraft were also to attack the steel mill. The airmen were assigned to the 433rd Tactical Fighter
Squadron at Ubon Royal Thai Air Force Base in Thailand. Each escort F-4 carried six 750-pound bombs and
four missiles, as well as an electronic countermeasures (ECM) pod on the right outboard station.
For nine days the mission had been postponed because of heavy monsoons and low clouds over the clustered
hills that surrounded the target. On the previous two days, bad weather had forced the entire strike force to turn
back from the main target and attack secondary targets–transportation facilities and supply points in Laos and
North Vietnam. Today, however, the skies were clear; this time, there would be no turning back.
First Lieutenant Robert Houghton and Captain Earl Aman in one aircraft, and 1st Lt. Steve Wayne and Captain
Robert Pardo in the other, had carefully preflighted their planes. While waiting to take off, Aman thought about
the intelligence estimate that Thai Nguyen would be defended by both MiGs and extra anti-aircraft guns. He
adjusted his helmet with one hand, reached to Houghton's shoulder with the other, and quietly said, 'Hey, Bob,
this job is going to be tougher than any we've yet faced.
Houghton nodded, and confessed that this was the first mission in which he was worried about getting shot
down even before they took off. But the steel mill would be the most important target of any they had attacked
so far.
The takeoff order finally came, and the strike force was airborne. Before they even got close to the main target,
anti-aircraft fire blackened the sky, filling it with deadly flak. When Aman and Houghton were still 75 miles
from Thai Nguyen, a close burst from a North Vietnamese anti-aircraft shell sent flak smashing into their plane,
shaking it violently. Aman immediately called over the intercom to see if Houghton had been wounded.
Fortunately, they both had escaped injury. They then hurriedly checked their gauges and discussed whether or
not to return to Thailand or proceed on to the target.
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On the initial check, the Phantom appeared flyable. Rather than jettison their payload and turn back, they
decided to try to complete their mission, and held their damaged plane on course toward the Thai Nguyen steel
mill. No enemy MiGs appeared, but the anti-aircraft fire remained heavy.
Aman and Houghton nosed their plane down through the enemy fire and dropped their bombs on the target, as
did the other F-4s and the F-105s. Several American aircraft were shot down near the steel mill. Aman and
Houghton felt their plane take two more hits and saw Pardo and Wayne's F-4 under heavy fire directly over the
steel mill. The first hit had badly damaged Aman and Houghton's plane, and it was now losing fuel fast. They
radioed their situation to their element leader, who then set a course for them south of Hanoi, back toward the
in-flight refueling point where they were supposed to rendezvous with the tanker aircraft. The wounded F-4 was
losing fuel so fast, however, that it could not possibly reach the tanker or even make it back to the Laotian
border. Aman and Houghton saw they had no alternative–they had to eject. Still over enemy territory north of
Hanoi, they prepared to bail out.
Pardo and Wayne's plane also had been hit when they made their own run on the steel mill. As they came off
the target, their Phantom was hit again, by a 37mm round in the fuselage aft of the pilot's seat. Bright warning
lights flashed on Pardo's instrument panel, alerting him that the plane was severely damaged. It lost electrical
power and began losing fuel. Miraculously, though, the F-4 was still handling normally.
Knowing their planes were badly damaged, both crews climbed their crippled F-4s to 30,000 feet to preserve
fuel and to enable them to glide as far as possible after they ran out. The remaining aircraft in the strike force
had no alternative but to continue heading back to Ubon. Pardo could see the fuel leaking from the other F-4,
and he radioed to Aman: Earl, you've been hit badly; you're losing fuel.
Aman answered him: We know; we're getting ready to bail out.
Pardo and Wayne knew that if that happened, their comrades would face certain capture or death. Pardo yelled
into his radio: Don't jump! We're going to do our damnedest to help you fly out of here!
Pardo never mentioned that his own plane also had been hit. Both aircraft were over a danger zone southwest of
Hanoi, between North Vietnam's Red and Black rivers, and the skies were filled with patrolling enemy MiGs.
Despite the fact that his own crippled plane was wavering, Pardo again called over the radio: Aman, I think we
can help you. Jettison your drag chute, and we'll do our damnedest to get you out of here.
Pardo then struggled to position the nose of his aircraft into the empty drag chute receptacle of Aman's F-4. The
front of Pardo's plane wobbled up to the tail of Aman's, but the attempt failed because there was too much jet
wash coming off the engines of the lead plane. Refusing to give up, Pardo next attempted to position the top of
his plane's fuselage against the belly of the other F-4, while Aman and Houghton did their best to steady their
plane. That effort, however, also failed because of the excessive jet wash.
Although his comrades in the front fighter were now convinced there was no choice but to bail out in enemy
territory, Pardo would not give up. He radioed seemingly impossible instructions to Aman: Drop your tailhook,
and we'll push you out of here!
The suggestion was mind blowing. The steel tailhook was designed to be used only for emergency landings to
snag barrier cables and break the plane's forward momentum–as in the U.S. Navy procedure for landing on an
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aircraft carrier. But to use the tailhook to push a crippled aircraft while still in the air? What Pardo was planning
to do had never been tried.
As the tailhook of the lead F-4 dropped and automatically locked into position, the plane's slipstream made its
tail sway. This in turn made it very difficult for Pardo to establish contact between the tailhook and the glass
windscreen of his own aircraft. Houghton and Aman's plane was now down to only 400 pounds of fuel, and that
was rapidly draining out as it descended at the rate of 3,000 feet per minute.
Flying at 300 miles per hour, Pardo carefully brought his plane's nose up under the rear end of the other plane to
nudge his inch-thick glass windscreen against the tailhook. Any pushing had to be done with utmost care. If the
glass broke, the tailhook would smash into Pardo's face. Pardo cautiously began to push his windscreen against
Aman's tailhook for a few seconds at a time, in each instance just until the force of turbulence thrust his plane
aside. Nonetheless, Aman's rate of descent began to slow.
Suddenly, cracks started to zigzag through Pardo's windscreen. Pardo immediately backed his fighter off and
tried a different approach. This time he positioned the tailhook against the square of metal at the junction of his
windscreen and his radome. Carefully, Pardo continued to push the other fighter a few seconds at a time, until
turbulence would once again brush Pardo's plane aside. But the tactic was working. The rate of descent of
Aman's F-4 was cut from 3,000 to 1,500 feet per minute.
While Aman's engines were still running, their jet blast complicated the task of maintaining contact with the
tailhook.
Aman yelled to Houghton, Bob, their nose keeps slipping off our tailhook!
Houghton yelled back, Right, and our engines are now flamed out!
With the lead plane's engines off, however, the jet wash was significantly less and Pardo kept pushing the
doomed plane. Both F-4s were now flying on only one pair of engines. Although they were still over enemy
territory, the desperate maneuver had tripled Aman's glide range and decreased his rate of descent to 1,000 feet
per minute. As Pardo battled the forward plane's slipstream, Aman and Houghton desperately fought to hold
their aircraft steady and to maintain a heading southwest toward Laos.
Then Pardo and Wayne's own F-4 began to show the effects of the hits it had taken. A fire warning light
indicated an internal fire in the left engine. Its temperature had increased from the normal 600 degrees Celsius
to 1,000 degrees. That meant that the flame holders or burner cans inside the engine had ruptured and there was
an uncontrolled internal flame that might detonate the engine and quite possibly the entire aircraft. Pardo
glanced around, saw the scary gauge reading and shut off the left engine.
By now the rate of descent was up to 2,000 feet per minute again. With only one live engine for both planes,
there was no way they could possibly make it to safety. In desperation, Pardo turned on the left engine switch
again. But in less than a minute, the engine warning light flashed again. Wayne told Pardo, Our left engine is on
fire; we've got to shut it off and keep it off or risk a hell of an explosion!
Pardo shut down the engine again. Although they were now well out of range of enemy anti-aircraft guns, they
were still in extreme danger from a MiG attack. Miraculously, both planes kept flying southwest. For another 10
minutes Pardo's plane managed to fly and push Aman with only the one remaining engine. Wayne made a
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desperate radio call for a pair of aerial tankers, hoping that both F-4s could link up with them and be pulled to
safety. He quickly realized, however, that there was no way the tankers would be able to reach them in time.
Pardo and Wayne's aircraft had managed to push Aman and Houghton's about 58 miles to the southwest, but
now Pardo's plane was also running out of fuel. The four American airmen knew they would have to bail out.
Across the Black River, near the Laotian border, they radioed their position to the air search-and-rescue crews.
As they started to lose altitude rapidly, Aman and Houghton ejected and landed on a flat, bushy area, with hills
to the west.
Meanwhile, several A-1E Sandys and two HH-43 Jolly Green Giants had been scrambled from Thailand toward
the area in Laos where the four crewmen were expected to hit the ground. Houghton suffered a painful
compression fracture of a vertebra from the high-G ejection. As he was floating down in his parachute harness
over a small village, he could see a band of armed men with dogs, running, shouting and shooting at him.
Landing in a small tree, Houghton lost no time in unbuckling his parachute harness, desperately trying to avoid
his hunters. Despite his terrible back pain, his sense of self-preservation propelled his legs and feet as he ran,
pistol in hand, through the elephant grass to a small stream. There, he began painfully scrambling upstream.
After 40 minutes, Houghton lay hidden and hurting in the brush near a hilltop with his radio in one hand and his
.38-caliber revolver in the other, hoping that U.S. helicopters would find him before his pursuers did. As the
dogs picked up his scent and the armed guerrillas closed in, Houghton, in excruciating pain, started running up
the hill. He finally stopped in exhaustion and hid quietly in a thicket, pistol still in hand, waiting for a fight. He
radioed to the rescue aircraft, reporting his and Aman's location just west of the village and also the enemy
situation.
Aman found himself in a helpless quandary below a slippery cliff. Every time he tried to climb up the rock wall
with his slick-soled boots, he would slip down onto his back, which was also injured. He couldn't get out of that
location, but fortunately the armed troops had not spotted him.
Pardo and Wayne, meanwhile, continued to fly south as fast as their one engine could go for about a minute
more. Then they turned northwest toward a U.S. Special Forces camp in Laos to avoid ejecting near a North
Vietnamese Army base camp. Their fuel lasted only about two more minutes, after which their engine flamed
out. Wayne was first to eject, landing a little northwest of Aman and Houghton. He hid in the brush, holding his
pistol and radio, ready in case the enemy got to him but hoping an Air Force rescue helicopter would reach him
first.
Houghton radioed to the Sandys and reported that they were being pursued along the hillside by armed troops.
As the A-1Es arrived on station, they came in low, driving off the attackers without having to fire a shot.
Houghton again signaled the overhead aircraft, and shortly one of the Jolly Greens came in and winched him up
by cable. Then they flew up to the cliff and retrieved Aman the same way. A little farther to the northwest they
also rescued Wayne.
After Wayne had punched out, Pardo had glided the battered fighter a little farther to the northwest before he,
too, ejected. As he landed, he was knocked unconscious and sustained two fractured vertebrae in his neck.
When he came to he heard shouting and gunfire coming in his direction. Hurriedly, he grabbed his pistol and
radioed to the Sandys to strafe the hillside near his position, as he painfully ran about half a mile up the hill. The
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A-1Es came roaring in over the mountains, strafing the enemy troops and dispersing them. About 45 minutes
later the second helicopter finally located Pardo on the hillside, where he lay badly injured.
The Jolly Green Giant rescued Pardo and then flew northwest to a remote outpost in Laos to refuel. There,
Pardo, Wayne, Aman and Houghton were all placed on one helicopter for transfer back to Udon and medical
treatment.
Ironically, the U.S. Air Force leadership in Southeast Asia was so sensitive to combat losses during the war that
Pardo was actually reprimanded for the loss of his F-4. By 1989, however, the Air Force had re-evaluated the
matter, and the four airmen received long overdue recognition. Earl Aman and Robert Houghton received the
Silver Star for continuing to press the attack even though their aircraft had sustained severe battle damage.
Robert Pardo and Steve Wayne also received Silver Stars for their heroic actions to save their comrades. The
courage in the sky demonstrated by these four American airmen, in what became known as Pardo's Push, had
made possible one of the most incredible feats of airmanship during the Vietnam War.
This article was written by William Garth Seegmiller and was originally published in the December 2003 issue of Vietnam magazine.
Weight Loss Program
A guy calls a company and orders their 5-day, 5kg weight loss program. The next day, there's a knock on the
door and there stands before him a voluptuous, athletic, 19 year old babe dressed in nothing but a pair of Nike
running shoes and a sign around her neck. She introduces herself as a representative of the weight loss company.
The sign reads, "If you can catch me, you can have me."
Without a second thought, he takes off after her. A few miles later puffing and puffing, he finally gives up. The
same girl shows up for the next four days and the same thing happens. On the fifth day, he weighs himself and is
delighted to find he has lost 5kg as promised.
He calls the company and orders their 5-day/10kg program. The next day there's a knock at the door and there
stands the most stunning, beautiful, sexy woman he has ever seen in his life. She is wearing nothing but Reebok
running shoes and a sign around her neck that reads, "If you catch me you can have me". Well, he's out the door
after her like a shot. This girl is in excellent shape and he does his best, but no such luck. So for the next four days,
the same routine happens with him gradually getting in better and better shape.
Much to his delight on the fifth day when he weighs himself, he discovers that he has lost another 10kg as
promised. He decides to go for broke and calls the company to order the 7-day/25kg program.
"Are you sure?" asks the representative on the phone. "This is our most rigorous program."
"Absolutely," he
replies, "I haven't felt this good in years."
The next day there's a knock at the door; and when he opens it he finds a huge muscular guy standing there
wearing nothing but pink running shoes and a sign around his neck that reads, "If I catch you, you are mine."
He lost 33 kilos that week.
Not Really A Lie…
John was a firm believer of ‘the more the merrier’. After only 10 years of marriage he already had
8 kids. When John was forced to move because of his job, he was having a very hard time finding an
apartment where the landlord would be willing to rent to such a big family.
Finally after being turned down one time too many John had an idea. “Listen here, Sally” said John
to his wife, “take six of the kids and go visit your Grandmother’s grave while I go see this apartment.”
Later that day while checking out an apartment, the landlord asked, “How many children do you
have?” “I have 8 children,” John truthfully replied, “but 6 of them are with their Mother in the
cemetery.”
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Wrong Way Corrigan
by Don Surber
On May 10, 1927, a young mechanic removed the chocks from an experimental airplane at an airfield in San
Diego, California. The plane was the Spirit of St. Louis, which its pilot, Charles Augustus Lindbergh, landed in
Paris just 11 days later, completing the first solo transatlantic flight, and making aviation history. His flight
helped shrink the world by turning the Atlantic Ocean into The Pond. Lindbergh went on to great fame and
glory, as he collected the $25,000 that New York hotelier Raymond Orteig had offered eight years earlier to the
first man to make a transatlantic flight.
The mechanic was Douglas Corrigan, who would find his own way onto the front pages of the newspapers in
New York City 11 years later by landing his airplane in Ireland, completing the most infamous solo transatlantic
flight. He went into the history books as Wrong Way Corrigan, for he insisted he was headed for California.
Blarney, as they say in Ireland. But in some ways, his unauthorized flight across the Atlantic was more
heroic than Lindbergh's legendary journey.
Born in Texas, Corrigan grew up in Los Angeles. He worked in construction, but took flying lessons in a
Curtiss JN-4 “Jenny” biplane, gaining his pilot's license in 1926. He also went to work for Ryan Aeronautical
Company, a small outfit run by Benjamin Franklin Mahoney and T. Claude Ryan. The company is now part of
Teledyne.
In February 1927, a young air mail pilot named Lindbergh wired the company. The telegraph read, “Can you
construct Whirlwind engine plane capable flying nonstop between New York and Paris?"
Mahoney, who ran the company, was absent, so Ryan replied, “Can build plane similar M-1 but larger wings
delivery about three months."
But later in the day, Mahoney returned to the office, learned about Lindbergh's inquiry and immediately
wired, “Can complete in two months."
Mahoney understood the importance of this mission to aviation in general, and his own company in
particular. A successful voyage would garner national publicity for his
piddling company. Thus, he offered to sell the plane at cost to Lindbergh and
his backers. Although Corrigan did not design the Spirit of St. Louis, he
helped build the plane, which is why he received the honor of helping
Lindbergh take off for New York. And like every young man in America
back then, he dreamed of following the trail Lindbergh blazed.
But following that dream was difficult. Whereas Lindbergh's father was a
former congressman and his connections were many, Corrigan's parents were
divorced and he knew no one famous. This is not to diminish Lindbergh's
achievements. Indeed, he was indeed daring and bold. His courage, stamina
and preparation for the flight were outstanding. Congress awarded him the
only Medal of Honor for a non-combat mission because of the military
implications of successful transatlantic flight. Truly, Lindbergh is an
Exceptional American, too famous for these pages.
However, Corrigan was not the joke people made him out to be. Corrigan
had to follow him with a second-hand plane he bought for $325. The Federal
Aviation Administration said the plane was unworthy of transatlantic flight.
After modifications, the FAA then deemed the plane unfit for flight.
But he persevered and fixed the plane. On July 9, 1938, Corrigan left California for Floyd Bennett Field,
Brooklyn, New York. It took him 27 hours as he cruised at 85 MPH to save fuel. His aircraft developed a leak
which filled the cockpit with gasoline fumes.
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He filed a flight plan to return to California. But he had enough. For three years he tried and tried to get
clearance. He headed for Ireland with the plane's fuel tanks mounted on the front, allowing him to see only out
of the sides. He had no radio and his compass was 20 years old.
But Corrigan's story instantly attracted worldwide attention. Pulitzer Prize winning journalist Hubert Renfro
“Red” Knickerbocker met him in Ireland.
“You may say that Corrigan's flight could not be compared to Lindbergh's in its sensational appeal as the
first solo flight across the ocean. Yes, but in another way the obscure little Irishman's flight was the more
audacious of the two. Lindbergh had a plane specially constructed, the finest money could buy. He had lavish
financial backing, friends to help him at every turn. Corrigan had nothing but his own ambition, courage, and
ability. His plane, a nine-year-old Curtiss Robin, was the most wretched-looking jalopy,” Knickerbocker wrote.
“As I looked over it at the Dublin airdrome I really marveled that anyone should have been rash enough even
to go in the air with it, much less try to fly the Atlantic. He built it, or rebuilt it, practically as a boy would build
a scooter out of a soapbox and a pair of old roller skates. It looked it. The nose of the engine hood was a mass of
patches soldered by Corrigan himself into a crazy-quilt design. The door behind which Corrigan crouched for
28 hours was fastened together with a piece of baling wire. The reserve gasoline tanks put together by Corrigan
left him so little room that he had to sit hunched forward with his knees cramped and not enough window space
to see the ground when landing."
Publicly, aviation officials pretended to be livid, as they suspended his flying license for 14 days -- or about
the amount of time needed to sail back to the United States. The story of Wrong Way captured the hearts of
Americans. No one believed him but everyone went along with the gag because the plane he flew in was
literally held together with baling wire. He was given ticker-tape parade down Broadway and in Chicago. The
next year, RKO made a movie about him, “The Flying Irishman,” with Corrigan playing Corrigan. He was the
working class Lindbergh.
He retired from aviation in 1950 and bought an orange grove. In his obituary in 1995, the New York Times
noted the 50th anniversary of his flight.
“After a son was killed in a plane crash on Catalina Island in 1972 he became increasingly reclusive, until
1988 when he was lured back into the limelight by an offer to display his plane at an air show. Mr. Corrigan,
who had taken it apart in 1940 and stored it in his garage, was so enthusiastic that the show's organizers became
alarmed. Although Mr. Corrigan had not flown since 1972, the organizers found it prudent to station guards on
the plane's wings during his appearance at the exhibition and even discussed anchoring the tail of the plane by
rope to a police car,” his obituary read.
And at 81, he just might have taken off, too -- and headed back to Ireland.
There are two ways to do things, the right way and the wrong way. In this case, the wrong way was the right
way.
PONDERING THE IMPONDERABLE
During the heat wave a few weeks ago, a group of us met at the Flying Club to cool off with a couple of bottles of Ten Penny Ale. After
the usual round of jokes and the start of the second round of ale, we started pondering some unsolved questions of the day. Questions like:
what to do about the “Conflicting Traffic” nonsense; will there be many changes when Prime Minister Trudeau is in power; how many angels
can do deep knee bends on the head of a pin?
We managed to come up with satisfactory answers to all of them but were brought up short when one of the ‘Darryls’ casually wondered
if giving birth was more painful than getting kicked in the crotch. Now, this presented a problem in developing cogent argument based on
personal experience: not all the men present were married and few would own up to being kicked in the crotch. However, all the married
men said that their wives were unanimous that the birthing experience was much more painful than a sissy kick in the nether region.
A satisfactory resolution to the question seemed impossible, however, the day was beautiful and the fridge was still full of beer. After
several hours of intense debate, a general consensus was reached through elegant deductive reasoning. A year or two after giving birth, a
woman will often say, “You know; it might be nice to have another child”. On the other hand, no-one present had ever heard of a guy saying,
“You know, I think I would like another kick in the crotch”.
On that high note, the meeting was adjourned…
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ROLE PLAYING
A husband is at home watching a football game when his wife interrupts: “Honey, could you fix the light in the hallway? It’s been
flickering for weeks now”.
He looks at her and angrily says “Fix the light? Now? Does it look like I have a G.E. logo printed on my forehead? I don’t think
so!”
The missus says “Well, then; could you fix the fridge door? It don’t close tight”
To which he replied “Fix the fridge door? Does it look like I have Westinghouse written on my forehead? I don’t think so!”
“Fine,” she says, “Then, could you at least fix the steps to the front door? They’re about to break”
Hubby responds “I’m not a damn carpenter and I don’t want to fix the steps! Does it look like I have Home Depot written on my
forehead? I don’t think so! I’m sick of this nagging; I’m going down to the Longhorn for a few beer.
So, off to the pub he goes where he drinks for a few hours. After a while, he gets a bad case of the ‘guilts’ and starts feeling badly
about the treatment he accorded his wife. Two more brewskis and he decides to go home and help his ‘wifey’. It’s a little after dark,
but as he walks into the house, he notices that the steps are already fixed. When he closes the door, he notices that the hall light is
working. When he grabs another beer from the fridge, he notices that the door closes smoothly and completely. He calls “Honey,
how’d this all get fixed?”
Coming down the stairs, she said “Well, when you left, I sat outside and cried. Just then, a nice young man asked me what was
wrong and I told him. He offered to do all the repairs and all I had to do was either sleep with him or bake him a cake.
Nodding in approval, her husband said “So, what kind of a cake did you bake him”?
Exasperated, his wife replied “Hellooooo….. Do you see Betty Crocker written anywhere on my forehead?”
Wife's Diary:
Tonight, I thought my husband was acting weird. We had made plans to meet at a nice restaurant for dinner. I was shopping
with my friends all day long, so I thought he was upset at the fact that I was a bit late, but he made no comment on it.
Conversation wasn't flowing, so I suggested that we go somewhere quiet so we could talk. He agreed, but he didn't say much. I
asked him what was wrong; He said, 'Nothing.' I asked him if it was my fault that he was upset. He said he wasn't upset, that it
had nothing to do with me, and not to worry about it. On the way home, I told him that I loved him. He smiled slightly, and
kept driving. I can't explain his behaviour. I don't know why he didn't say, 'I love you, too.' When we got home, I felt as if I had
lost him completely, as if he wanted nothing to do with me anymore. He just sat there quietly, and watched TV. He continued
to seem distant and absent. Finally, with silence all around us, I decided to go to bed. About 15 minutes later, he came to bed.
But I still felt that he was distracted, and his thoughts were somewhere else. He fell asleep; I cried. I don't know what to do. I'm
almost sure that his thoughts are with someone else. My life is a disaster.
Husband's Diary:
A two-foot putt… Who the hell misses a two-foot putt?
FENDER BENDER
A woman is on trial for beating her husband to death using instruments from his guitar collection. After hearing from the
prosecution and the defence, the judge addressed the woman.
“First offender?” he inquired.
“No, your honour”, she replied. “First the Gibson, then the Fender”.
UNDERMEDICATED?
My brother went for his annual medical last week. He came over to see me when he got home and he was sporting a real worried
look on his face. I cracked a beer for him and said “You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders. What’s
wrong?”
Steve took a small, white pill from his pocket and said “The Doc says I have to take one of these pills a day for the rest of my life”.
”So”? I responded. “That’s not so bad”.
With a note of concern and a catch in his voice, my brother said “He only gave me three pills”.
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Aviation Maintenance Technician Day is a United States day of recognition, observed on May 24, that recognizes the efforts of
aviation maintenance professionals as well as the achievements of Charles Edward Taylor, the man who built the engine used to
power the airplane of the Wright Brothers. The date May 24 was selected to honor the birth date of Taylor.
THE MAINTAINER
By Charles E. Taylor, as told to Robert S. Hall
When Orville Wright died Jan. 30, 1948, Charles E. Taylor became the only surviving member of the three who built the
first airplane. Charlie Taylor was the only employee and intimate associate of Wilbur and Orville Wright throughout the
critical years. Without precedent or fanfare, Taylor built the engines for the Wright's first planes. This article, written in
1948 while Taylor was living in retirement in California , was first published in Collier's, Dec. 25, 1948, and was
reprinted in Air Line Pilot, December 1978. Taylor died Jan. 30, 1956, at the age of 88.
It was a hot June night in Dayton. It must have been a Saturday because I was at the Wright Cycle Company gassing
with Wilbur and Orville. They used to stay open Saturday nights to take care of the folks who worked all week and
couldn't get around any other time. One of the brothers, I forget which, asked me how would I like to go to work for them.
There were just the two of them in the shop, and they said they needed another hand. They offered me $18 a week. That
was pretty good money; it figured to 30 cents an hour [Editor's note: Taylor 's statement implies a 60-hour work week]. I
was making 25 cents at the Dayton Electric Company, which was about the same as all skilled machinists were getting.
I was a machinist and had done job work for the boys in my own shop. Once I made up a coaster brake they had
invented, but they dropped it later. I knew they were interested in box kites and gliders, and that they had gone south to
Kitty Hawk , N.C. , in 1900 with a glider. I didn't know anything about the stuff, but I did know something about the
bicycle business.
The Wright shop was only six blocks from where I lived and I could bicycle to lunch. Besides, I liked the Wrights. So I
said all right, and I reported in on June 15. That was in 1901. Three weeks after I went to work for the Wrights, they took
off for the South with another glider. I was alone in charge of their bicycle company. They trusted me to handle not only
their customers but their money. When they returned that year, they decided to build a small wind tunnel to test out some
of their theories on wings and control surfaces. We made a rectangular-shaped box with a fan at one end powered by the
stationary gas engine they had built to drive the lathe, drill press, and band saw. I ground down some old hacksaw blades
for them to use in making balances for the tunnel. Nowadays, wind tunnels run into the millions of dollars, and some are
big enough to hold full-scale airplanes. That was the first work they asked me to do in connection with their flying
experiments.
For a long while, though, I was kept busy enough repairing bicycles and waiting on customers. The Wrights did most
of their experimenting upstairs where they had a small office and workroom. I worked in the shop in the back room on the
first floor. Part of my job was to open up at 7 a.m. They would get in a little later, between 8 and 9 a.m. We all stayed
until closing time at 6 p.m. We went home for lunch, but at different times so we didn't have to close the shop. Their
father, Milton Wright, was a bishop in the United Brethren Church, and the boys never worked on Sunday.
So far as I can figure out, Will and Orv hired me to worry about their bicycle business so they could concentrate on
their flying studies and experiments. I suppose the more of the routine work I shouldered, the faster they were able to get
on with their pet project, and I must have satisfied them for they didn't hire anyone else for eight years. If they had any
idea in June 1901 that someday they'd be making a gasoline internal-combustion engine for an airplane and would need
some first-rate machine work for it, they sure didn't say anything about it to me. But when they returned from the South in
1902, they said they were through with gliders and were going to try a powered machine. They figured they'd need a
larger machine to carry the motor, and they started work on the new biplane right away. At the same time they tried to
locate a motor. Nothing turned up. So they decided to build one of their own. They figured on four cylinders and
estimated the bore and stroke at four inches. While the boys were handy with tools, they had never done much machine
work, and anyway they were busy on the airframe. It was up to me. My only experience with a gasoline engine was an
attempt to repair one in an automobile in 1901.
The first engine
We didn't make any drawings. One of us would sketch out the part we were talking about on a piece of scratch paper,
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and I'd spike the sketch over my bench. It took me six weeks to make that engine. The only metal-working machines we
had were a lathe and a drill press, run by belts from the stationary gas engine. The crankshaft was made out of a block of
machine steel 6 by 31 inches and 15/8 inch thick. I traced the outline on the slab, then drilled through with the drill press
until I could knock out the surplus pieces with a hammer and chisel. Then I put it in the lathe and turned it down to size
and smoothness.
The body of the first engine was of cast aluminum and was bored out on the lathe for independent cylinders. The pistons
were cast iron, and these were turned down and grooved for piston rings. The completed engine weighed 180 pounds and
developed 12 horsepower at 1,025 revolutions per minute.
While I was doing all this work on the engine, Will and Orv were busy upstairs working on the airframe. They asked
me to make the metal parts, such as the small fittings where the wooden struts joined the spars and the truss wires were
attached. There weren't any turnbuckles in the truss wires, so the fit had to be just so. It was so tight we had to force the
struts into position.
The fuel system was simple. A one-gallon fuel tank was suspended from a wing strut, and the gasoline fed by gravity
down a tube to the engine. The fuel valve was an ordinary gaslight pet cock. There was no carburetor as we know it today.
The fuel was fed into a shallow chamber in the manifold. Raw gas blended with air in this chamber, which was next to the
cylinders and heated up rather quickly, this helping to vaporize the mixture. The engine was started by priming each
cylinder with a few drops of raw gas.
The ignition was the make-and-break type. No spark plugs. The spark was made by the opening and closing of two
contact points inside the combustion chamber. These were operated by shafts and cams geared to the main camshaft. The
ignition switch was an ordinary single-throw knife switch we bought at the hardware store. Dry batteries were used for
starting the engine, and then we switched onto a magneto bought from the Dayton Electric Company. There was no
battery on the plane.
Several lengths of speaking tube, such as you find in apartment houses, were used in the radiator.
The chains to drive the propeller shafts were specially made by the Indianapolis Chain Company, but the sprockets came
ready-made. Roebling wire was used for the trusses.
Propellers
I think the hardest job Will and Orv had was with the propellers. I don't believe they were ever given enough credit for
that development. They had read up on all that was published about boat propellers, but they couldn't find any formula for
what they needed. So they had to develop their own, and this they did in the wind tunnel. They concluded that an air
propeller was really just a rotating wing, and by experimenting in the wind box, they arrived at the design they wanted.
They made the propellers out of three lengths of wood, glued together at staggered intervals. Then they cut them down to
the right size and shape with a hatchet and drawshave. They were good propellers.
We never did assemble the whole machine at Dayton. There wasn't room enough in the shop. When the center section
was assembled, it blocked the passage between the front and back rooms, and the boys had to go out the side door and
around to the front to wait on the customers. We still had bicycle customers. The Wright brothers had to keep the
business going to pay for the flying experiments. There wasn't any other money. While the boys always worked hard and
there never was any horseplay around the shop, they always seemed to find time to stop and talk with a customer or
humor the neighborhood children who wandered in. Sometimes I think the kids were the only ones who really believed
that Will and Orv would fly. They hadn't learned enough to say it couldn't be done.
We block-tested the motor before crating it for shipment to Kitty Hawk . We rigged up a resistance fan with blades an
inch and a half wide and five feet two inches long. The boys figured out the horsepower by counting the revolutions per
minute. Those two sure knew their physics. I guess that's why they always knew what they were doing and hardly ever
guessed at anything.
We finally got everything crated and on the train. There was no ceremony about it, even among ourselves The boys
had been making these trips for four years, and this was the third time I had been left to run the shop. If there was any
worry about the flying machine not working, they never showed it and I never felt it.
You know, it's a funny thing, but I'm not sure just how or when I learned that Will and Orv had actually flown the
machine. They sent a telegram to their father saying they had made four successful powered flights that day--Dec. 17,
1903--and would be home for Christmas. I suppose their sister, Katherine, or maybe the bishop came over and told me
about it I know I thought it was pretty nice that they had done what they set out to do, and I was glad to hear that the
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motor ran all right. But I don't remember doing any jig steps. The boys were always so matter-of-fact about things, and
they never made an effort to get me excited.
Even when they got home there was no special celebration in the shop. Of course they were pleased with the flights.
But their first word with me, as I remember, was about the motor being damaged when the wind picked up the machine
and turned it topsy-turvy after Wilbur had completed the fourth flight. They wanted a new one built right away. And they
were concerned with making improvements in the controls. They were always thinking of the next thing to do; they didn't
waste much time worrying about the past.
Will and Orv
The Wrights didn't go into the airplane experiment with the idea of making a lot of money. They just seemed to be
curious about the problems involved--I suppose you would call it a challenge--and they were determined to find out why
they couldn't make it work. It was not a game with them or a sport. It may have been a hobby at the start, but now it was a
serious business.
I was happy working for Will and Orv, and I know they were pleased with my work. They showed it in many ways.
Orville even left me an $800 annuity in his will. When I finally left his employ in 1919, he could have forgotten about me
then and there. But the fact he did not helps me believe he appreciated that I had a part in giving the airplane to the world,
though nobody made any fuss about it, and I didn't either.
Will and Orv were always thoughtful at Christmastime. The second year I was with them they gave me a two-inch
micrometer. Another year it was a one-foot scale. And one Christmas they gave me a $10 gold piece.
People have asked me if I knew why neither Wilbur nor Orville ever married, particularly since their older brothers,
Reuchlin and Lorin, and their sister, Katherine, did. I'm sure I never asked them, but I remember that Orv used to say it
was up to Will to marry first because he was the older of the two. And Will kept saying he didn't have time for a wife. But
I think he was just woman-shy--young women, at least. He would get awfully nervous when young women were around.
When we began operating at Simms Station on the outskirts of Dayton in 1904, we always went out on the traction cars. If
an older woman sat down beside him, before you knew it they would be talking; and if she got off at our stop, he'd carry
her packages and you'd think he had known her all his life. But if a young woman sat next to him, he would begin to
fidget, and pretty soon he would get up and go stand on the platform until it was time to leave the car. I don't recall that
Orville was that shy, but after Wilbur died I guess he just didn't feel like getting married. I think both the boys were
mentally flying all the time and simply didn't think about girls.
They were both fond of children, though. Orville, especially, was quite a hand with kids. He used to make toys in the
shop and give them away. Later, he designed a little wooden man on a flying trapeze and licensed some company to make
it.
The Wrights didn't drink or smoke, but they never objected too much to my cigar smoking. I used to smoke around 25
cigars a day. Once I walked down the street with three cigars going at once--you know how a young fellow does crazy
things once in a while.
Both the boys had tempers, but no matter how angry they ever got, I never heard them use a profane word. I never
swore myself, and to this day I can't think of a time I ever let go with anything stronger than heckety-hoo. The boys were
working out a lot of theory in those days, and occasionally they would get into terrific arguments. They'd shout at each
other something terrible. I don't think they really got mad, but they sure got awfully hot. One morning following the worst
argument I ever heard, Orv came in and said he guessed he'd been wrong and they ought to do it Will's way. A few
minutes later Will came in and said he'd been thinking it over and perhaps Orv was right. First thing I knew they were
arguing the thing all over again, only this time they had switched ideas. When they were through, they knew where they
were and could go ahead with the job.
It was Orville who gave me my first flight. He first offered me a hop in 1908 at Fort Myer , Va. , when we were
demonstrating the Wright airplane for the first Army contract. I was in the passenger's seat, and we were preparing to take
off when a high-ranking officer asked Orville if he would mind taking along an Army observer instead. Naturally I got
out, and Lt. Thomas E. Selfridge took my place. The machine crashed shortly after takeoff. Lt. Selfridge was killed, and
Orville was seriously injured. Lt. Selfridge was the first military air casualty. Since then, a lot of people say they have
narrowly avoided being killed in airplanes by a last-minute switch in plans. Maybe I was the first.
In May 1910, Orv finally took me up. It was at Simms Station, and he did what a lot of pilots have done in later years
with their first-flight passengers. He tried to give me a scare. We were flying around over the field when suddenly the
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plane began to pitch violently. I grabbed hold of a strut and looked over at Orv. He didn't seem upset, although he
appeared to be having a hard time controlling the machine Pretty soon the pitching stopped and we landed. Orv asked me
if I was scared. I said, "No, if you weren't, why should I be?" He thought it was very funny.
I always wanted to learn to fly, but I never did. The Wrights refused to teach me and tried to discourage the idea. They
said they needed me in the shop and to service their machines, and if I learned to fly, I'd be gadding about the country and
maybe become an exhibition pilot and they'd never see me again.
One of my jobs that summer of 1904 was as sort of airport manager at the Huffman Prairie, located about eight miles
east of Dayton at Simms Station. I suppose it was the first airport in the country, with all due respect to the sands of Kitty
Hawk. It was a small pasture the boys had arranged to use. We built a shed for the machine and a catapult to assist in the
takeoffs, because the field was small and rough. It was made up of a wooden track and a tower at the starting end. We
drew heavy weights to the top of the tower on ropes that were rigged through pulleys to the bottom of the tower, out to the
takeoff end of the track and back to the airplane. When the weights were released, the machine would dart forward. We
were all very busy out at Simms Station that summer testing the new airplane we built to replace the Kitty Hawk machine.
We scarcely had time to keep the bicycle business going, and by the following summer, the boys gave it up entirely.
I must have built half-a-dozen engines for the boys before the airplane company was formed in 1909 and they took on
additional help. The brothers also had me doing repair work on the airframe, and as they began to travel around to
demonstrate the machines, it was up to me to help with the crating, uncrating, and assembling.
Big business
After the company was started in 1909, the place was expanded, more men were hired, and I was put in charge of the
engine shop with men working under me. Some of the personal feeling of the old days, when there were just the three of
us, was gone. It was beginning to be big business. We had lots of orders, and the first plane sold for private use was to
Robert J. Collier. He was a close friend of Wilbur and Orville and owned stock in the company. Then Calbraith Perry
Rodgers came down to Dayton in 1911 to see about the machine he had ordered for his proposed transcontinental flight
and offered me $10 a day plus expenses to be his mechanic on the trip. At the time my wages were $25 a week. I told him
I'd go; then I told Orv about it. He asked me not to quit. I told him I had already given my word to Rodgers and couldn't
very well back out. He told me to make it a sort of leave of absence, and to be sure and come back.
Rodgers left the race track at Sheepshead Bay, Long Island, on September 17 and reached Long Beach , Calif. , 47
days later. It was my job to care for the plane every night and make repairs after every mishap. I traveled on a special train
that accompanied the flight. Rodgers failed to win the $50,000 prize posted by William Randolph Hearst because he took
longer than 30 days to make the crossing. But it was the first coast-to-coast flight.
Because my wife took ill in California, I didn't get back to the East again until fall of 1912. I found it wasn't like old
times. Wilbur had died from typhoid fever on May 30, and there were a lot of new faces around the Wright plant. The
pioneering days seemed about over for me. Maybe that's why that Christmas of 1912 stands out in my memory. It wasn't
going to be a very happy one, for either the Wrights or the Taylors. Christmas Eve there came a knock on the door, and
there was Orville with a big basket filled with everything for a big Christmas dinner. He just handed me the basket,
wished us a "Merry Christmas," and went away. It was the first time he had ever come to our house.
I stayed on with Orville after he sold the company and retired to his laboratory in 1915. I helped out with some of his
inventions and experiments and kept his car in good running order. But there was less and less work to do, and finally I
got restless and took a job downtown with the Dayton-Wright Company in 1919.
In 1916, we took the Flyer out of storage and fixed it up for its first exhibition at the Massachusetts Institute of
Technology in Cambridge. If it hadn't been for Roy Knabenshue, there might not have been the historic relic to exhibit
there or in Washington now. Roy tells how he approached Wilbur early in 1912 and asked him what he was going to do
with the Flyer, and Wilbur told him, "Oh, I guess we'll burn it; it's worthless." Roy argued it was historic and finally
talked him out of destroying the plane. It was then forgotten until Orville got this request to show it in Massachusetts. It
came from Lester D. Gardner (then publisher of Aviation magazine, later an officer in the Army Air Service in World
War I and founder of the Institute of the Aeronautical Sciences), who was in charge of the aeronautical part of the
dedication program of the new buildings of MIT at Cambridge. Orville was reluctant at first, but consented when Gardner
and Roy convinced him how interesting it would be to the public.
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Orville and I continued to see each other frequently after 1919. He used to bring odd jobs to me at the plant where I
was working, and I would visit him at his laboratory. Then in 1928 I moved to California and didn't see him again until
1937.
I got work in a machine shop in Los Angeles, and then the big Depression hit us. I was out of work but had saved some
money. I invested this in 336 lots in a new land development on the edge of the Salton Sea, down in the southern
California desert. I built a little house and sat around waiting for something to happen. Nothing did.
In 1937 Henry Ford hired me to help restore the original Wright home and shop when he moved them to his Greenfield
Village museum at Dearborn, Mich. They were installed near the first Ford workshop and Thomas Edison's original
laboratory. I helped Fred Black, the director of the project, track down the original machinery and furniture, and then I
built a replica of the first Wright engine The home and shop were dedicated in April 1938 with all the big names in
aviation on hand.
I met Orville often during this period, both in Dayton and in Dearborn. When I left the village to return to California in
1941, I called on him in Dayton . That was the last time I saw him, but he wrote me regularly about his work and I kept
him posted on what I did. He wrote every December 17. It was sort of a personal anniversary with us, and it was also a
Christmas message.
I always wanted to go back into the laboratory with Orville. He hinted at it in some of his letters--saying he needed
expert workmanship on his projects--but he never came right out and asked me. I had intended to go back East this past
summer if my old pump would let me, but Orville died on January 30.
In the last note I got from him, shortly before he died, he wrote: "I hope you are well and enjoying life: but that's hard
to imagine when you haven't much work to do." It was signed, "Orv."
He knew me pretty well.
THE HONEYMOON’S OVER
Jim decided to tie the knot with his long-time girlfriend. One evening, after the honeymoon, he was cleaning his
golf shoes. His wife was standing there watching him. After a long period of silence she finally speaks. "Honey, I've
been thinking, now that we are married I think it's time you quit golfing. Maybe you should sell your golf clubs."
Jim gets this horrified look on his face.
She says, "Darling, what's wrong?"
”For a minute there you were sounding like my ex-wife.”
"Ex-wife!" she screams, "I didn't know you were married before!"
”I wasn't!“
Assorted Laws
1. In any group of eagles you'll find some turkeys.
2. The further down the table of organization you are, the more you'll be missed if you're late to work.
3. When someone is kicking your ass, at least you know you're out in front.
4. Facts without theory is trivia. Theory without facts is BS.
5. Mice get stepped on when elephants dance.
6. Communications is equal to the square root of the mistakes times confusion times contradictions.
7. If everything seems to be coming your way, you're probably in the wrong lane.
8. It is impossible to tell from a distance whether a headquarters staff working on a project is simply sitting on their
hands or frantically trying to cover their asses.
9. The best way to get credit is to try to give it away.
10. Whom you badmouth today will be your boss tomorrow.
11. A squeaking wheel may get the grease, but it's also the first to be replaced.
12. First law of survival. Keep the boss's boss off the boss's back.
COPA Flight 65
Hangar News
Vernon Flying Club 19
SEPTEMBER 2015
SUPERSONIC DC-8!
On this day in 1961, a Canadian
Pacific Air Lines Douglas DC-8 set two
world records during a single test
flight. First, it reached 15,240 m at a
weight of 48,807 kg, a new altitude
record for a loaded transport jet.
Then, in a dive from that altitude, it
reached Mach 1.012 with a true air
speed of 1,066.8 km/hr at an altitude
of 12,074 m, becoming the first
airliner to break the sound barrier.
It was all part of an August 21st,
1961
test
flight
from
Edwards
Air
Force
Base,
thought
up
by
Douglas pilot William Magruder. According to flight test engineer Richard Edwards, the idea was to "get it out
there,
show
the
airplane
can
survive
this
and
not
fall
apart."
At the time, DC-8's had been used by commercial carriers for about three years and were competing with the
Boeing 707. While DC-8's weren't designed to go supersonic, the bragging rights of being the first to do so
were worth making the attempt.
In order to reach Mach 1, the jet had to be in a dive. This meant taking it up to 15,240 m,
which was also a record for altitude. As Edwards later said: "We took it up to 16 kilometres...
nd put it in a half-G pushover. Bill maintained about 23 kilos of push. He didn’t trim it for the dive so that it
would want to pull out by itself. In the dive, at 12,074 m, it went to Mach 1.01 for maybe 16 seconds, then he
recovered. But the recovery was a little scary."
The stabilizer was overloaded and the plane stalled when Magruder tried to pull it back.
"What he did, because he was smart, is something that no other pilot would do," says Edwards.
"He pushed over into the dive more, which relieved the load on the stabilizer. He was able to run the
[stabilizer] motor...and he recovered at about 10,000 m."
The crew successfully turned a mass-produced airliner into the world's supersonic commuter jet. Right by
their side the entire time? Chuck Yeager, the first person to
ever go supersonic in 1947. He escorted the DC-8 during its test,
flying a F-104 Starfighter.
"That’s an unofficial supersonic record, payload record, and
of course an altitude record for a commercial transport," says
Edwards.
After the test, the DC-8-43 was delivered to Canadian Pacific
Air Lines and was used by the carrier for almost two decades
before being retired. But this piece of aviation history isn't
hanging in a museum somewhere. After it was put out of
service, Canadian Pacific sold the aircraft for scrap. That's some
pretty fast junk.
COPA Flight 65
Hangar News
Vernon Flying Club 20
SEPTEMBER 2015
THAT’S THE SPIRIT!
VERNON FLYING CLUB
PRESIDENT: Rick Thorburn
VICE PRESIDENT: Bill More
TREASURER: Steve Foord
SECRETARY: Marion Ross
DIRECTOR: Alison Crerar
PAST PRESIDENT: Bill Wilkie
Newsletter: John Swallow
e-mail: jonnimart@gmail.com
Newsletter address:
#76 – 6688 Tronson Road, Vernon, BC V1H 1R9
VFC Meetings are held the third Tuesday of
each month at 7:00 p.m.
It was just before Christmas and the magistrate
was in a happy mood. He asked the prisoner who
was in the dock, 'What are you charged with?'
The prisoner replied, 'Doing my Christmas
shopping too early.'
'That's no crime', said the magistrate. 'Just how
early were you doing this shopping?'
'Before the shop opened', answered the prisoner.
THE LAST POST
SAY WHAT?
A senior citizen said to his eighty-year old buddy:
'So I hear you're getting married?'
'Yep!'
'Do I know her?'
'Nope!'
'This woman, is she good looking?'
'Not really.'
'Is she a good cook?'
'Naw, she can't cook too well.'
'Does she have lots of money?'
'Nope! Poor as a church mouse.'
'Why in the world do you want to marry her then?'
'Because she can still drive!'
MORRIS
Morris, an 82 year-old man, went to the doctor to get a
physical. A few days later, the doctor saw Morris walking
down the street with a gorgeous young woman on his arm.
A couple of days later, the doctor spoke to Morris and
said, 'You're really doing great, aren't you?'
Morris replied, 'Just doing what you said, Doc: 'Get a hot
mamma and be cheerful.''
The doctor said, 'I didn't say that… I said, 'You've got a
heart murmur; be careful.'
REGULATIONS
Hospital regulations require a wheel chair for patients being
discharged. However, while working as a student nurse, I
found one elderly gentleman already dressed and sitting on
the bed with a suitcase at his feet, who insisted he didn’t
need my help to leave the hospital. After a chat about rules
being rules, he reluctantly let me wheel him to the elevator.
On the way down I asked him if his wife was meeting him.
'I don't know,' he said. 'She's still upstairs in the bathroom
changing out of her hospital gown.'
In September 2005, I assumed the responsibility for the
Vernon Flying Club Newsletter, a task which has provided me
with some no small measure of satisfaction. The past ten years
have been fun and full of gratification; however, it is time to
let someone else put their mark on the job. At the Annual
General Meeting, a request will be made for a volunteer to
assume the position of Editor. If you can type, cut and paste,
and are not averse to a little plagiarism, you’ll do well.
PS The picture above? Practicing my thousand mile stare
while traversing the prairie provinces during my recent trip to
New Brunswick and back.
JMS