Part 4

Some weeks I barely made expenses, and on others I carried passengers all week long at five dollars each. On the whole I was able to make a fair profit in addition to meeting expenses and depreciation.

One evening while I was waiting for chance passengers at a field in southern Minnesota, a car drove up with several young fellows in it, one of whom was a graduate of the Army Air Service Training Schools. He asked me why I did not apply for enlistment as a cadet at Brooks Field and explained that by writing to the Chief of Air Service at the War Department in Washington I could get enrollment blanks and full information on the course and its requirements.

I had always wanted to fly modern and powerful planes. Ever since I had watched a group of fourteen De Havilands with their four hundred horsepower Liberty motors come into the field at Lincoln in my flying school days, I had longed to fly one of them. The Army offered the only opportunity, for there were no Liberty engines flying around barnstorming. Consequently at the hotel that night I wrote my letter to the Chief of Air Service, and a few days later when I received my next mail forwarded from Minneapolis, a letter from Washington with the enrollment blanks was included. The letter informed me that a candidate must be between twenty and twenty-seven years of age inclusive, unmarried, of good physical condition, and must have a high school education or its equivalent.

I completed and returned the forms, and a short time later received another message authorizing me to appear before an examining board at Chanute Field, Rantoul, Illinois, in January, 1924.

Toward the end of September I began to work south. Cold weather was coming on in Minnesota and most people did not enjoy flying in an open cockpit in winter.

I barnstormed over into Wisconsin but found that someone had been carrying passengers for half price there. I had always conformed to the rule in use among most pilots at that time, of giving a good ride for five dollars but not carrying anyone for less. So I left southern Wisconsin and turned towards Illinois. After taking off I decided to take in the International Air Races at St. Louis, which were then in progress; so instead of sizing up each town I passed over for its passenger possibilities, I flew towards St. Louis until the gasoline ran low, then landed, took on a fresh supply from a passing gas truck, and pressed on to Carlinville, Illinois. There I picked up more fuel, and a twenty-five dollar passenger for St. Louis.

As we neared Lambert Field where the races were being held we passed over the race course while the bombers’ contest was in progress. I landed on a hill east of Lambert in order to keep out of the way of the races, and waited until evening before hopping over and staking my ship down at the end of one of the long rows of civilian planes.

A large number of my old friends were attending the races and soon after landing I met Bud Gurney who, together with one of the flying students at Lincoln, had managed to get to the races without buying a Pullman ticket. He had brought his chute with him and was entered in the parachute spot landing contest, in which he was to be the last attraction of the meet by staging a double drop.

In the evening, after the races were over for the day, I carried a few passengers and looked over the different types of planes. I would have given the summer’s barnstorming profits gladly in return for authority to fly some of the newer types, and I determined to let nothing interfere with my chance of being appointed a Flying Cadet in the Army. This appeared to be my only opportunity to fly planes which would roar up into the sky when they were pointed in that direction, instead of having to be wished up over low trees at the end of a landing field.

When I went to St. Louis it was with the expectation of pressing on still farther south when the races were over, but with Bud’s assistance I sold my Jenny to his friend, flying instruction included. Marvin Northrop who had flown a Standard down from Minneapolis had sold his ship in St. Louis also; together with a course in flying. Since it was necessary for him to return home immediately, I agreed to instruct his student while mine was learning on the Jenny.

I had promised to carry Bud for his last jump, and towards evening on the final day of the races he packed his two chutes and tied them together with the only rope he could find. It was rather old but we decided that it would hold and if it did not the only consequence would be a little longer fall before the second chute opened.

I coaxed the old Jenny up to seventeen hundred feet and as we passed to the windward of the field Bud cut loose. The first chute opened at once, but in opening, the strain on the old rope was too great and it snapped releasing the second chute which fell another two hundred feet before opening.

[Illustration: © _Erickson_

“WE” MAKE A TEST FLIGHT]

[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_

CURTIS FIELD, L. I.--PATSY, THE MASCOT FOR “THE SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS”]

Planes were circling all around the parachute and flying in every direction without apparent regard for one another. The air was kept in constant motion by their propellers, and the chute swung from side to side in the rough currents with the result that Bud broke an arm as he landed among the crowd on the side of a ditch. This was the only accident in which anyone was injured during the entire meet.

For the next few weeks I instructed my two students and made a short barnstorming tour through Illinois.

IV

HEADING SOUTH

When the period of instruction was completed I flew the old Jenny up to my student’s home in Iowa and, after watching him make a few solo flights from his home field, I left on a train for Lincoln. My last sight of the old Jenny was as it passed two hundred feet over the station near the center of town--and my parting instruction had been to keep a safe gliding angle when over the city and under no circumstances to come below fifteen hundred feet.

I went to Lincoln to get an S.V.A., which is a two-place Italian pursuit plane, and fly it back to St. Louis. But on arriving I learned that it was in the old Pulitzer Field near Omaha and in questionable condition. It was reported that some cows had eaten all the fabric off the rudder. Cows and mules are fond of the fabric covering, and it is not uncommon to hear of a plane being completely stripped by these animals in a few minutes. On the other hand, I have left a machine unguarded in the same pasture with cattle for days without having them touch it. And during the two weeks I spent at Maben, Mississippi, there had been a number of mules in the same pasture with my ship yet they apparently never came near it.

We filled the back of a touring car with a new rudder and other spare parts, and drove to Omaha the next morning.

The S.V.A. was in even worse condition than had been represented. In addition to needing a new rudder, part of the lock-stitching had broken in the wings and as a result, the fabric was very loose. The radiator had developed a number of leaks which someone had attempted to stop by dumping in a pailful of bran. And when we eventually did get it started the engine skipped badly and would not “rev” up over 1100 R.P.M.

At last we decided to attempt to fly the ship to Lincoln where it would be much more convenient to work on it, and I took off with a sputtering motor and with the centigrade five degrees below boiling. At the end of five minutes the needle was crowding the peg at 115°, and in fifteen minutes the water expansion tank exploded. I landed in a stubble field and hired the farmer to hitch his team to the ship and haul it to a fence corner next to his house, where I left it to be taken apart and hauled to Lincoln by truck.

I passed the month of December barnstorming in Illinois, and in January went to Chanute Field to take the entrance examinations for a Flying Cadet.

On one occasion while at Lambert Field I had made a short flight into the Ozark foothills with Leon Klink, an automobile dealer who had bought a Canuck that fall and was just learning to fly it. After I returned from Chanute Field and was waiting for the results of my examinations, we decided to make a pleasure flight through the south, barnstorming only enough to make current expenses, if possible. Klink wanted to learn to fly, and at the same time take a vacation, while my only objective was to keep flying and at the same time be ready to enter the next class at Brooks Field which commenced in March, providing my examinations had been passed satisfactorily.

Accordingly on the twenty-third of January we took off from Lambert Field in five below zero weather and headed for the Sunny South.

Our first stop was at Perryville, Missouri, where we visited with some of Klink’s friends for several days, and carried nineteen passengers. After leaving Perryville we flew to Hickman, Kentucky, and landed in a soft field east of town. We had passed out of the extremely cold weather and the wheels of our plane sank several inches into the southern mud. When we had refueled and attempted to take-off, it was impossible to get enough speed to lift the tires out of the mud. So Klink got out and I tried to take-off alone. On the third attempt the ship gained enough speed for the wings to begin to carry a portion of the load and keep the wheels from sinking so deeply; then it was only a matter of a few more feet before I was off.

I picked out a hayfield a little further from town, which appeared to be a little more solid than the first, and landed. By that time it was too late to make another hop before dusk, and as even the new field was too soft to make it advisable to carry any passengers, we left the Canuck tied to a fence and went into Hickman for the night.

The first effort to take-off the following morning was unsuccessful, also the second. We could not gain a speed of over five miles an hour over the soft ground. Finally, with the assistance of several men pushing on each wing, we got the ship to the top of a gentle rise which gave us enough of a start to take-off without serious difficulty. We stopped once in Tennessee for fuel; then at Friar Point, Mississippi, where we landed in an old cotton field and tied down for the night.

The Canuck had only one fuel tank with a capacity of twenty-three gallons or enough to last for two and a half hours. By leaving half an hour for locating a landing field, which was quite difficult at times, we had enough gasoline remaining for about one hundred and twenty-five miles in still air. If we were bucking a head wind it would be just that much less.

We spent the night with one of the plantation hands near the field and the next day in seeing the country and carrying a handful of passengers. In the evening we visited a “hanted” house with a party of the younger residents but were unable to find any “hants.”

Our next stop was at Hollandale, then Vicksburg, where we landed in a little field six miles north of town by slipping in down the side of a small mountain and ground-looping before striking a stump. After a day seeing Vicksburg we flew to Clinton where the passenger trade was quite lively and another day passed making sightseeing flights.

We refueled at Hattiesburg and Mobile, then landed at the Naval Air Station near Pensacola, Florida, where the Commanding Officer showed us every courtesy during our visit.

At last I received notice from the War Department to the effect that my examination had been satisfactorily passed, along with an order to appear at Brooks Field, San Antonio, Texas, in time to enter the March fifteenth class of Flying Cadets.

Klink and I decided to cut short our stay at Pensacola and to work our way as far west as time would allow before it was necessary for me to leave for Brooks Field.

We had promised to take one of the ladies of the post for a short hop before leaving, and on the morning of our departure I took off for a test flight before taking the lady over Pensacola. Just after the ship had left the field and was about two hundred feet high over the bay, the motor “reved” down to about five hundred. I banked around in an attempt to get back to the field but lacked by about fifteen feet enough altitude to reach it, and was forced to land in the sand hills less than a hundred feet from the edge of the flying field. The first hill wiped off my landing gear and one wheel went up through the front spar on the lower left wing, breaking it off about two feet from the fuselage.

A quick survey of the plane showed that we would require a new landing gear and propeller in addition to the material required to splice the spar.

The Navy hauled the plane into one of its large dirigible hangars and allowed us to make use of its equipment in repairing the damage. We purchased a spare landing gear and a propeller, then built a box frame around the broken spar and after gluing all the joints, screwed it in position and wound the splice with strong cord, which was then shrunk tight by several coats of dope. In this way the splice was made stronger than the original spar had ever been.

When we were not working on the ship we made several trips to the old Spanish forts which protected the city during the days when Florida still belonged to Spain. These are in an excellent state of preservation and contain a number of passageways, one of which is supposed to lead underground between the two fortifications, but although we searched carefully for the opening to this tunnel we never found it.

In all we spent about a week repairing the plane and when it was ready to fly once more I tested it with an Irving parachute borrowed from one of the officers of the station. That was the first service type of chute I had ever worn and I experienced the unique feeling of not caring particularly whether the ship held together during the tests or not. I put that Canuck through maneuvers which I would never have dreamed of doing with it before, yet with the confidence of absolute safety.

The advent of the service parachute was a tremendous step forward in the advance of aviation. It gave the test pilot a safe means of escape in most cases when all else had failed. It permitted formations to fly closer in comparative safety and in short allowed flyers to learn more about their planes than ever before. All this contributed to the ever-increasing knowledge of practical flying which makes possible the safety of present air commerce.

The airplane parachute has developed with the rapidity of the planes themselves. For years descents with chutes were made from balloons, but the first jump from a plane was by Capt. Berry at St. Louis, Missouri, in 1912. His parachute was a comparatively crude affair and of no use in an emergency. Ten years later, service type parachutes had been perfected which were strong enough to stand any strain the weight of a man’s body falling through the air could place on them, no matter how many thousand feet he fell before releasing the parachute from its pack; and today, fifteen years after Capt. Berry made the first jump from an airplane, every army and air mail pilot is required to wear a parachute.

The test flight over, we lashed a five gallon can of gasoline on each wing and followed along the Gulf of Mexico to Pascagoula, Mississippi. There was a small crack half-way down the back of the Canuck’s gasoline tank and when the gas no longer oozed out through the crack we knew that the tank was half empty. By carrying the two gas cans we obtained an extra hour’s cruising range, and when the main tank became low I would pour their contents into it through a short length of steam hose. In this way we expected to make longer flights between landing fields and partially make up for the time lost at Pensacola.

From Pascagoula we went to New Orleans, landing in the race track north of the city. Then to Lake Charles and from there to Rice Field at Houston, Texas. At Rice Field we installed three fuel tanks under the top wing and center section, which gave us twenty-seven gallons extra capacity, or, in addition to the five gallon cans lashed on the wings, a cruising range of about four hundred miles.

The field was covered with water and as our next stop was to be Brooks Field, which is just a few miles south of San Antonio, we only filled the wing and main tanks, leaving the five gallon cans empty.

At Brooks I obtained definite instructions to report not later than March fifteenth.

It was then the end of February but we decided to push on as far west as the intervening time would allow. Then I would return by rail and Klink would continue alone.

We filled all of our tanks and after running along the ground for half a mile, stalled into the air; but after three circles of Brooks Field were completed and the plane was less than fifty feet high we landed and left one of the cans. Klink held the other in his lap in the rear cockpit.

We had no more trouble in attaining several hundred feet of altitude with the lessened load and greatly lessened resistance, which counted for much more than the weight of the gasoline, but an hour later, when the elevation of the ground below us increased as the mountains were approached, we were again just skimming the mesquite and cactus. At last it was necessary for Klink to heave his gas can over the side and for me to turn the ship down a ravine to keep from striking the ground. It was disappointing enough to leave the first can at Brooks Field but I do not believe Klink will ever forget the sight of the second as it burst on the ground below us.

Sometime later we came to the West Nueces River and, mistaking it for the Rio Grande, turned north. We had been cutting across country but had hardly flown long enough to have reached the Rio Grande. The Rio Grande was the only river, according to my map, with a railroad running along the northeast bank. We followed the West Nueces to Camp Wood where the rails ended. By that time I knew that the map was in error and we were on the wrong course, but as there was insufficient fuel remaining to warrant our cutting across the mountains to the west, we landed in a small sheep pasture near Barksdale. This pasture was not large enough for us both to take-off together so I flew the ship over to Camp Wood alone and landed in the town square. With the wind blowing from the right direction, and by taking off under two telephone lines and over one road, the square afforded a long enough runway, provided the wind was blowing from the proper direction.

The next day conditions were ideal but Klink wanted to go to a dance that evening, and the day after, the wind was blowing from the opposite direction. Our remaining time was passing rapidly and we were both anxious to get to California before my return to Brooks Field. If we could get the plane to a larger field six miles south of Camp Wood we would have room to take-off with a full load of gasoline.

One of the town streets was wide enough to take-off from, provided I could get a forty-four foot wing between two telephone poles forty-six feet apart and brush through a few branches on each side of the road later on. We pushed the ship over to the middle of the street and I attempted to take-off. The poles were about fifty feet ahead and just before passing between them there was a rough spot in the street. One of the wheels got in a rut and I missed by three inches of the right wing tip. The pole swung the plane around and the nose crashed through the wall of a hardware store, knocking pots, pans and pitch-forks all over the interior.

The merchant and his son thought that an earthquake was in progress and came running out into the street. He was highly pleased to find an airplane half-way into his place of business and not only refused to accept anything for damages, but would not even allow us to have the wall repaired. He said the advertising value was much more than the destruction.

[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_

CURTISS FIELD, L. I.--POLICE GUARDING “THE SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS” ON ITS WAY TO THE RUNWAY FOR THE TAKE-OFF]

[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_

CURTISS FIELD, L. I.--CAPTAIN RENÉ FONCK WISHES ME THE BEST OF LUCK]

The greatest damage to the plane was a broken propeller, although from that time on it always carried left rudder. We wired for a new propeller and a can of dope from Houston and in a few days were hedgehopping the mountain tops in true Canuck fashion on our way west.

A Canuck, or J.N.4C is nothing more or less than a Canadian Jenny and while it is lighter and performs a little better than a Jenny, it is subject to the same characteristic of being able to just miss most everything it passes over.

We passed over the Rio Grande and cut through a corner of Mexico, then landed on one of the Army emergency fields at Pumpville and induced the section boss to sell us enough gasoline to continue our flight.

Dusk overtook us near Maxon, Texas, and we landed between the cactus and Spanish dagger west of the town, which consisted of a section house and three old box cars of the type used throughout the Southwest for housing the Mexican section hands.