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Imagine yourself in the comfort of your living room, a kitchen chair as your cockpit, a broomstick as your control stick, and the voice of an aviation pioneer crackling through the radio. It’s the late 1920s, and the Alexander Aircraft Company is revolutionizing the way people think about flight, not with soaring planes, but with vivid lessons broadcast over the airwaves. This isn’t just a story about aviation; it’s a story about creativity, humor, and a vision to bring the skies within reach of everyone. Let’s dive into the whimsical yet groundbreaking initiative that had thousands tuning in to “A Chair, A Stick, A Radio.”

“A Chair-A Stick-A Radio” by Willis Parker, published in Popular Aviation, March, 1928.

We never will know just how many of the thousands of radio fans in the middle west and Rocky Mountain regions placed kitchen chairs before their receiving sets, seated themselves more or less comfortably with their left hands firmly grasping broomsticks between their knees and eagerly followed a course of ten lessons on how to fly as presented over Broadcasting Station KOA, Denver, by Chief Pilot Cloyd P. Clevenger of the Alexander Aircraft Company. 

The fans were assured that, if they supplied themselves with kitchen chairs and broomsticks, they could get more out of the lessons than otherwise. However, the chair and broomstick idea were more for the purpose of creating atmosphere than anything else, for it is obvious that learning to fly by radio or by a correspondence course is out of the question. The entire purpose of the radio lessons was to create air-mindedness and arouse in the listeners a greater desire to learn to fly. Each lesson was fifteen minutes long and they were given Friday evenings from 8 to 8:15 o’clock. 

To arouse interest and hold the attention of the unseen audience and create aviation enthusiasm, the lessons had to be entertaining and chuck full of “atmosphere.” To do this, the lessons were not presented directly to the audience, but the listeners received the information secondhand through Clevenger’s efforts to teach an alleged gawky rube how to fly. The alleged rube was none other than Gene Lindberg, one of the most popular newspaper humorists in the Rocky Mountain region.

Gene’s comments upon the pilot’s instructions, his remarks concerning the various parts of the plane, his soliloquies while “in the air” provided enough clean amusement to prevent radio fans from turning to other stations where jazz orchestras might be performing. There was also a fortunate coincidence in names, for Gene’s name is exactly the same, as far as pronunciation is concerned, as that of the famous trans-Atlantic flyer. In spelling it lacks the letter “H.”

Through the liberal use of accessories, the audience was given the representation of the roars of airplane motors, which were produced by turning electric fans into the microphones. For ordinary cruising the fan was turned only part way on. For racing the motor while warming up or at the take-off, a full blast of the fan did the work. 

The lessons were in dialogue form and began with the repartee that resulted upon Gene’s arrival at the field. The first was a simple explanation of the controls and the various parts of the ship. Gene asks some pointed though humorous questions regarding the qualifications for good pilots, which Clevenger answers and in doing so indirectly assures every listener that almost any person can learn to fly. 

In a subsequent lesson Gene asks “When a fellow like me puts up his hard cash for flying lessons, he wonders when the investment will pay dividends. Do you think I’ll make my first five hundred thousand by 1930.” 

This gave Clevenger an opportunity to explain that there is a demand for salesmen with flying ability as well as a demand for good pilots. This should have aroused interest among the radio fans who were seeking financial opportunity should have and created in them a desire to get into the game. 

As an illustration of the humorous touches, note this bit of dialogue: 

“GENE- Clev, this air feels awful thin to me, today. Are you sure there aren’t any holes in it?” 

“CLEV—Nope, no holes. An Eaglerock just came in with a fresh load of air from sea-level. I patched all the holes myself.”

Illustrating how some of the points may be presented through the medium of dialogue, mixed with a little humor, note the following which took place, supposedly, when the duet were preparing to go up and were starting the engine: 

“CLEV—Don’t say ‘ON; say ‘CONTACT. (Sound of motor.) 

“CLEV—Hold the stick back, now, and give it the gun. There are blocks in front of the wheels.” “GENE—Then I can’t shoot anywhere?” 

“CLEV—Nope.” 

“GENE—Why give it the gun, then? ***” 

“CLEV—You’re green, all right! Always remember this. The minute your propeller speeds up, it naturally tries to pull the ship ahead. It can’t go ahead with blocks under the wheels, so it tries to stand on its nose. With the stick held back the propeller blast presses on top of the flippers and holds the tail down.” 

(Blocks are removed and the ship taxis off.) 

“GENE—Hey, Clev. This thing wobbles all over the field! What you got in the radiator, alcohol?” (After much additional repartee they start down the field with Clevenger issuing instructions, among which are: 

“CLEV—Use the ailerons to keep your wings absolutely level.” 

“GENE—Aha! Go straight and always be on the level! You can’t cheat in these things!” 

“CLEV—If you get the impression your right wing is low, move the stick to the left enough to bring it up immediately. Now, for the elevators. When you’re on the ground, your nose is way above the horizon.” 

“GENE—I can’t help my nose. I was born with it.” 

“CLEV—Cut out the horse play. Hold the stick forward now, at the start of the takeoff, until the nose comes down almost to the horizon, then return the stick to an approximate neutral.” 

(They are in the air.) 

“GENE—Wow! Something’s gone fooey. What the—?” 

“CLEV—Gene, I’m ashamed of you. I Thought I taught you not to skid.”

“GENE—So that’s what I was doing? You ought to have tire chains on these babies.” 

“CLEV—There’s no mud or soft sand in the air, Gene. It’s all in your head. You’re in too big a hurry to get your nose around the horizon. Take it easy. You’re putting too much inside rudder on your turns. Now! Straighten her out and fly south.” 

“GENE—South, South! Lord, man, which way is South? Think Im a duck?” 

In one lesson Gene is taught the principles of stalled flight, which Clevenger explains is necessary to know how to prevent getting into accidental tail spins. He explains that Gene probably will go into a spin and Gene promptly has a heavy feeling in his stomach and declares he feels pale. However, the tail spin is made, corrected, and everything ends with a good landing. 

In the lesson on looping, Gene has some thrills that are humorous yet dangerous. Clevenger speaks at length on the need of watching the horizon, keeping the wings level and pulling the nose up to the horizon when the loop is completed, to which Gene remarks that “You sure keep your nose on the horizon a lot in this flying business.” 

In reference to keeping the plane straight in a side drift wind, Gene remarks, “Funny things, these planes. Steer ‘em straight and they go so crooked you’ve got to steer crooked to go straight.” The lessons were based upon Clevengers’ book, “Modern Flight.” All through the dialogue, where appropriate, mention was made of what was said in the book. 

Just how effective the radio advertisement was, will never be known, but there were hundreds of copies of the book sold shortly afterwards and an increased visitation to the aviation school. Undoubtedly scores of listeners were led to investigate especially after hearing Gene’s soliloquy on his solo flight, parts of which follow: 

“Holy Cats! Here I am, 500 feet up in the sky and no Clev in the front seat. *** Maybe I shouldn’t have done this—maybe I’m not good enough yet maybe. Aw, rats! Clev knows his stuff. He wouldn’t have let me solo if he didn’t think I could do it. *** Wonder what Clev’s doing now? I’ll bank and get a good slant at him. There he is, the little runt, no bigger’n a bowling pin. *** He ain’t making any motions. Just watching. Why shouldn’t he? This is a darn keen bank. No skid, no slip. No wind on the cheeks. *** Gee, this thing works just as well now as when Clev was with me. *** Talk about having your hands full—a fellow’s got his feet full, too. *** There’s Clev, waving his helmet. Guess I’d better drop back down. *** No wind on my tail this trip. Down she goes in the glide. ** Easy there. Round her out nice and gentle. Ooops! That left wing’s a bit low. There, level as a lake. Now we’re slowing. No you don’t, you son-of-a-gun, I won’t let you settle yet. Three feet off. Sitting pretty. Two feet. Little more stick. Ahh! A three- pointer. I knew I could do it. I’M AN AVIATOR NOW.” 

The ingenuity behind “A Chair, A Stick, A Radio” wasn’t just about teaching flight; it was about igniting a spark of air-mindedness in an era where aviation was still in its infancy. By blending education with humor and creativity, these lessons inspired countless individuals to dream of soaring above the clouds. As we look back on this unique chapter of aviation history, we’re reminded that sometimes, it’s not the planes that take us higher—it’s the imagination that fuels our desire to fly. If this story inspired you, don’t forget to like, share, and subscribe for more fascinating tales of aviation history. Fly high, dreamers!

The post Flying Lessons by Radio: The 1920s Adventure of ‘A Chair, A Stick, A Radio’ appeared first on Buffalo Air-Park.

Picture this: a sleek Lockheed Vega gleaming under the sunlight, its powerful engine roaring to life. Beside it stands Ruth Nichols, goggles perched on her forehead, a determined glint in her eyes. She isn’t just preparing for another flight—she’s preparing to rewrite history. Ruth Nichols was a woman who defied societal expectations, broke world records, and soared into the annals of aviation history. Today, we delve into the story of the “Flying Debutante,” a woman who proved she was anything but.

The Flight That Changed Her Life
Born on February 23, 1901, into a wealthy New York family, Ruth Nichols seemed destined for a life of privilege, far removed from the adventurous world of aviation. But in 1919, her father gave her a gift that would alter her path forever: an airplane ride with Eddie Stinson Jr., one of the era’s most daring pilots.

The aircraft was a biplane, its fabric-covered wings stretching like a bird ready to take flight. The exposed cockpit offered no protection from the elements, immersing passengers in the raw experience of flying. As the engine roared to life, vibrations coursed through the plane, mingling with the scent of oil and gasoline.

Ruth climbed into the cockpit with a mix of fear and excitement. The plane lifted off the ground, revealing a patchwork quilt of fields and roads below. She felt the exhilaration of weightlessness for the first time. Then came the loop—a heart-pounding maneuver. The plane ascended sharply, flipped upside down, and descended in a smooth arc. Ruth clutched the sides of the cockpit, terror gripping her. But as the plane leveled out, her fear transformed into awe. In that moment, she fell in love with the skies, vowing to make aviation her life’s pursuit.

A Passion Ignited
Ruth’s determination to fly wasn’t deterred by societal expectations. While studying at Wellesley College, she secretly took flying lessons, defying the norms of the time. In 1924, she earned her pilot’s license, becoming one of the first women to do so. That same year, she became the first woman in the world to obtain a seaplane license, mastering the challenging art of water landings and takeoffs.

By 1927, Ruth had joined the ranks of elite pilots, becoming one of the first two women licensed to fly transport planes. In 1928, she co-piloted the first non-stop flight from New York to Miami, a daring endeavor that cemented her reputation as a serious aviator. Newspapers called her the “Flying Debutante,” a nickname she loathed. To Ruth, it trivialized her skill and reduced her achievements to a novelty. Determined to prove herself, she let her actions speak louder than any headline.

Breaking Records and Barriers
In 1930, Ruth borrowed a Lockheed Vega from industrialist Powel Crosley Jr., a sleek monoplane designed for long-distance flights. With its polished frame gleaming under the sun, Ruth prepared for takeoff. She wasn’t just flying across the country—she was chasing a dream. She shattered Charles Lindbergh’s transcontinental record, completing the journey in just over 13 hours. The flight was a triumph, a declaration that women could soar just as high and fast as men.

The following year, Ruth continued to break records. In March 1931, she piloted her Lockheed Vega to an altitude of 28,743 feet, enduring freezing temperatures in an unpressurized cabin. Frost formed on the windows as she gripped the controls, breathing oxygen from a tank to combat the thin air. Just a month later, she set the women’s speed record, reaching 210.7 miles per hour.

These achievements solidified Ruth’s place among the aviation elite. She wasn’t content with personal glory, though. She wanted to inspire others and challenge the limits of what women could achieve in aviation.

Setbacks in the Skies
Not every flight ended in triumph. In June 1931, Ruth attempted to become the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic. She meticulously prepared her Lockheed Vega, equipping it with extra fuel tanks for the grueling journey. As she approached New Brunswick, Canada, severe turbulence forced her into an emergency landing. The crash left her with broken vertebrae, a fractured nose, and severe lacerations. Despite her injuries, Ruth remained undaunted. From her hospital bed, she began planning her next venture.

Later that year, her beloved Lockheed Vega was destroyed in a fire caused by a fuel leak. The loss was devastating, but Ruth’s resolve only grew stronger. Her love for aviation wasn’t tied to a single machine—it was a part of who she was.

One of Ruth’s most striking acts of resilience came after another crash left her with severe injuries. Against medical advice, she returned to flying within weeks, piloting a plane while wearing a plaster cast and steel corset. She later quipped, “Maybe it doesn’t make sense…family and friends have urged me to keep my feet on the ground. The only people who haven’t tried to change me are flyers. They comprehend.”

Aviation for a Greater Purpose
Ruth’s ambitions extended beyond records. In 1939, she founded Relief Wings, an airborne ambulance corps that provided disaster and wartime relief. Imagine Ruth stepping out of a meeting with military officials, blueprints and plans in hand, advocating for aviation’s role in saving lives. During World War II, she served as a lieutenant colonel in the Civil Air Patrol, blending her passion for flying with her commitment to humanitarian work.

After the war, Ruth focused on global causes. She organized flights for United Nations International Children’s Emergency Fund (UNICEF) and continued advocating for aviation as a tool for humanitarian aid. Her dedication to using flight for good showcased the depth of her character and her belief in the transformative power of aviation.

Pioneering Space Advocacy
In the 1950s, Ruth’s passion turned toward space exploration. In 1959, she underwent astronaut testing, a rigorous process designed to assess the physical and psychological fitness of potential spacefarers. Standing in a sterile testing facility surrounded by medical equipment, Ruth made her case for women’s inclusion in the space program. Although societal biases prevented her from becoming an astronaut, her efforts paved the way for future generations of female astronauts.

The Final Chapter
Tragically, Ruth’s story ended too soon. In 1960, at the age of 59, she passed away. Yet her contributions to aviation and humanitarian work endure. In 1992, she was posthumously inducted into the National Aviation Hall of Fame, a recognition of her groundbreaking achievements and indomitable spirit.

Close your eyes and imagine a sky filled with endless possibilities. Ruth Nichols saw that horizon, and she didn’t just dream of reaching it—she soared beyond it. Her story is a testament to resilience, innovation, and courage.

If her story inspired you, please subscribe to my channel for more tales of aviation pioneers. Share this video to honor Ruth Nichols’ legacy, and leave a comment about which aviator you’d like to learn about next. Together, let’s keep these incredible stories flying high.

This story wouldn’t have been possible without the invaluable photos and information provided by the International Women’s Air & Space Museum (IWASM). Their mission is to collect, preserve, and showcase the history and culture of women in all areas of aviation and aerospace; to educate people of the world about their contributions; and to inspire future generations by bringing this history to life.

Visit the IWASM to learn more about Ruth Nichols and other extraordinary women who have shaped the skies and beyond: https://iwasm.org/wp-blog/.

The post Ruth Nichols: Defying Gravity and Expectations appeared first on Buffalo Air-Park.

Imagine the dawn of aviation—a time when flight was still a wonder and the possibilities seemed endless. Among the pioneers of this era was Jonathan Edward Caldwell, a man whose dreams soared as high as the skies he aimed to conquer. Unlike others refining traditional airplanes, Caldwell sought to revolutionize flight itself—crafting aircraft that could take off vertically, hover mid-air, and mimic the elegance of bird flight. His bold experiments left a legacy of ambition, innovation, and mystery, culminating in an unexpected connection to one of the 20th century’s most enduring cultural phenomena: UFOs.

Jonathan Caldwell: The Visionary

Jonathan Edward Caldwell was born in 1883 in Ontario, Canada. Though little is known about his early years, he eventually immigrated to the United States, where he worked as a farmer before delving into aviation. He wasn’t a trained engineer, yet he became consumed by the mechanics of flight, particularly the way birds soared and maneuvered effortlessly through the air.

Caldwell’s vision extended far beyond the conventional designs of the time. He believed the future of aviation lay in vertical take-off and landing (VTOL) aircraft that could operate in confined spaces and navigate like no fixed-wing plane could. This concept, decades ahead of its time, would later be realized in modern helicopters and tilt-rotors—but Caldwell was attempting it in the 1920s and 1930s, with far less advanced technology.

Despite his lack of formal training, Caldwell’s enthusiasm and determination fueled his work. He began filing patents for radical new designs, experimenting with unconventional shapes and propulsion systems, all aimed at overcoming the limitations of traditional aircraft.

The Feather-Wing Plane and Other Inventions

Caldwell’s first major innovation was the Cyclogyro, patented in 1923. The design featured rotating frames with adjustable blades, resembling Ferris wheels mounted to either side of the fuselage. 

These rotating airfoils were intended to control lift and direction, allowing for vertical take-off and hovering capabilities. While the concept was revolutionary, the technology of the era couldn’t support its complexity.

By 1927, Caldwell turned to nature for inspiration with the Ornithopter, a flapping-wing aircraft designed to mimic bird flight. Its fabric-covered wings incorporated valves that opened on the upstroke and closed on the downstroke to generate lift and thrust. Though imaginative, the design faced the same fate as the Cyclogyro—its potential outpaced the engineering of the time.

In 1933, Caldwell unveiled his most ambitious creation, the Feather-Wing Plane. Featuring three revolving wings on each side, the aircraft aimed to replicate the flapping motion of birds. Caldwell claimed it would redefine aviation, making vertical flight possible and practical. But despite its groundbreaking design, the Feather-Wing never achieved sustained flight, hampered by limited funding and technical setbacks.

Caldwell’s work culminated in the Disk-Rotor Plane, developed in 1934. With its circular rotor functioning as both wing and propeller, Caldwell envisioned it as a cheap, mass-market aircraft that could take off from small spaces. He promised it would cost less than an automobile, making personal flight accessible to everyone. Yet, like his earlier designs, the Disk-Rotor Plane struggled in test flights, culminating in a crash that marked the end of the project.

The Mystery of the Tobacco Shed

By 1940, mounting debts and legal troubles forced Caldwell into obscurity. He vanished abruptly, leaving behind unfinished projects and a trail of unanswered questions. His disappearance might have been the end of his story—if not for an extraordinary discovery nearly a decade later.

In 1949, Maryland State Police investigating reports of abandoned aircraft stumbled upon a tobacco shed on a farm near Glen Burnie. Inside, they found two peculiar machines, covered in dust but unmistakably unique. One resembled a giant wooden tub, about 14 feet in diameter, with an engine and cockpit at its center. Around its top and bottom rims were four-bladed propellers designed to rotate in opposite directions. The other was a helicopter-like contraption topped with a disc-shaped rotor, stretching 16 feet across and covered in airplane cloth.

The discovery captivated the public and drew the attention of the U.S. Air Force, which had been investigating a wave of UFO sightings since 1947. Could these strange machines explain the mysterious “flying discs” reported across the country? The Air Force thought it was possible.

Caldwell and the UFO Phenomenon

At the time of the discovery, UFO mania was sweeping the nation. Kenneth Arnold’s sighting of flying discs over Mount Rainier in 1947 had sparked a cultural obsession with unidentified flying objects. Caldwell’s disc-shaped aircraft seemed to fit the description, and the timing of their rediscovery fueled speculation.

The Air Force launched an investigation, speculating that Caldwell—or someone inspired by his work—might have developed advanced versions of these designs in secret. Captain Claudius Belk, leading the inquiry, noted that Caldwell’s smaller models had reportedly flown successfully in the 1930s, even if the larger prototypes had failed. The possibility that these crafts might have been mistaken for flying saucers added a layer of intrigue to an already mysterious story.

Even skeptics couldn’t dismiss the parallels. Caldwell’s rotating discs, hovering capability, and unconventional shapes aligned with public descriptions of UFOs. While the Air Force ultimately dismissed the connection, their initial interest legitimized Caldwell’s place in UFO lore.

Public Reaction: Genius or Dreamer?

Reactions to Caldwell’s work were deeply divided. Supporters, including mechanics who worked on his prototypes, praised him as a visionary, claiming his designs were simply ahead of their time. Critics, however, dismissed him as an overambitious dreamer whose ideas lacked practical feasibility.

The rediscovery of his aircraft reignited fascination. Headlines like “Original Flying Saucers Found” captured the public imagination, blending fact and folklore. While some saw his machines as precursors to modern VTOL technology, others latched onto the UFO connection, believing his designs were linked to extraterrestrial technology or secret military projects.

A Legacy of Innovation and Mystery

Jonathan Caldwell’s story is a testament to human ambition and the fine line between genius and folly. His designs, though flawed, anticipated concepts that would later shape modern aviation. The discovery of his aircraft during the height of UFO mania blurred the boundaries between aviation history and cultural mythology, ensuring his place in the annals of both.

Caldwell may not have achieved his dreams, but his work continues to inspire curiosity and speculation. Whether remembered as a misunderstood inventor or a figure in UFO lore, his legacy invites us to imagine what lies just beyond the horizon.

Jonathan Caldwell’s story is a remarkable blend of ambition, innovation, and mystery. He was a man who dared to challenge the limits of his time, crafting aircraft that embodied dreams of a future where flight was accessible to everyone. Yet his legacy is as much about the questions he left behind as the machines he created. Were his designs simply ahead of their time, or were they an inspiration for something greater? Could the strange crafts discovered in Maryland really explain the UFO sightings that captured the world’s imagination?

While the answers remain elusive, one thing is certain: Caldwell’s vision continues to captivate those who explore the intersection of history, aviation, and the unknown. His story reminds us that even when dreams don’t fully take flight, they can still soar in the minds of those who dare to dream.

Join me next time as we uncover more stories that shaped the history of flight. See you in the skies!

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In a city divided by war and desperation, a simple act of kindness took flight. This is the story of the Berlin Airlift’s most human mission—a mission born not of strategy but of the heart. As Thanksgiving approached in 1948, one man’s small promise became a symbol of hope for a city on the brink. Join me as we step into the skies of Berlin and uncover the story of the ‘Candy Bomber’ and the Thanksgiving that lifted more than spirits—it lifted an entire city.

It was the autumn of 1948, and West Berlin found itself at the epicenter of a rapidly escalating Cold War. Following the devastation of World War II, Germany had been carved into four occupation zones controlled by the United States, the United Kingdom, France, and the Soviet Union. Berlin, though situated entirely within the Soviet zone, was similarly divided into four sectors. As tensions between the Soviet Union and the Western Allies grew, the city became a flashpoint in the struggle for influence over Europe.

In June 1948, the Soviets implemented a full blockade, cutting off all road, rail, and canal access to West Berlin. Their aim was clear: to starve the city into submission and force the Allies to abandon their sectors. Food, fuel, and other essentials dwindled rapidly. For the 2.5 million residents of West Berlin, it seemed as if the future would bring only hunger and despair.

The Western Allies, however, refused to back down. Rather than retreating, they launched the Berlin Airlift, a bold logistical operation to supply the city entirely by air. It was an audacious plan, one that initially seemed impossible. The first flights, nicknamed “Operation Vittles” by American forces and “Operation Plainfare” by the British, began on June 26, 1948. What was intended as a temporary measure quickly grew into a monumental effort.

By November 1948, the airlift was in full swing. Each day, planes landed at Tempelhof Airport in Berlin every few minutes, delivering coal to keep homes warm, flour for baking bread, and medicine to keep the sick alive. The operation required Herculean coordination, with pilots flying in treacherous weather and ground crews working around the clock to unload supplies and prepare planes for their return trips. Despite the dangers, spirits were high among the aircrews, who took pride in their mission to sustain a besieged city.

Lt. Gail Halvorsen: The Candy Bomber

Gail Halvorsen was not the kind of man who sought the spotlight. Born on October 10, 1920, in Salt Lake City, Utah, he grew up on a small farm in rural America. From a young age, Halvorsen was fascinated by flight. He spent his youth watching planes soar overhead, dreaming of one day piloting his own. His modest upbringing instilled in him a strong work ethic, a deep sense of humility, and an unwavering belief in doing what was right.

When World War II began, Halvorsen answered the call to serve his country. He became a pilot in the U.S. Army Air Corps, flying transport missions in the Pacific Theater. The war left its mark on him. He had witnessed the destruction wrought on cities, the suffering of civilians, and the heavy toll of conflict. These experiences shaped his determination to use his skills for good in the postwar years.

In 1948, Halvorsen was stationed in Germany as part of the U.S. effort to counter Soviet aggression. It was there, in the midst of the Berlin Airlift, that his legacy was born. One day, while waiting for a cargo load to be prepared at Tempelhof Airport, Halvorsen wandered over to the airfield’s perimeter. There, behind a chain-link fence, he saw a group of children watching the planes land. They weren’t begging or shouting; they simply stood in awe, their eyes fixed on the skies. Their resilience and quiet gratitude struck a chord with him.

Halvorsen reached into his pocket and found two sticks of gum. He passed them through the fence, watching as the children carefully divided the gum and even shared the wrappers to smell. Overwhelmed by their joy at such a small gesture, Halvorsen made a promise: he would return with more candy. “I’ll wiggle my wings so you know it’s me,” he told them.

True to his word, Halvorsen began fashioning tiny parachutes out of handkerchiefs and dropping chocolate and gum from his plane. His fellow pilots noticed and joined in, turning the small act of kindness into what became known as “Operation Little Vittles.” Word of Halvorsen’s efforts reached the U.S., sparking an outpouring of support. Candy manufacturers, schoolchildren, and ordinary citizens donated tons of sweets, ensuring that every child in Berlin could experience a moment of joy amidst the hardship.

Halvorsen’s compassion went beyond the candy drops. He often visited Berlin hospitals to play with young patients and teach them how to blow bubbles. To him, the airlift wasn’t just about delivering supplies—it was about reminding the people of Berlin that they weren’t alone, that someone cared.

Thanksgiving and Operation Little Vittles

As Thanksgiving approached, Halvorsen’s candy drops had become a symbol of hope. The holiday provided an opportunity to deepen the connection between the Allies and the people of Berlin. In addition to the usual cargo of coal and food, U.S. forces arranged for traditional Thanksgiving meals to be flown in, complete with turkey and cranberry sauce. For many Berliners, these meals were a reminder of kindness and humanity in the face of adversity.

By Thanksgiving, “Operation Little Vittles” had delivered more than three tons of candy. To the children of Berlin, Halvorsen was a hero—not because of the chocolate, but because he showed them that someone cared enough to bring light into their darkened world. To Halvorsen, it was never about heroism. As he would later say, “It was a heck of a lot better to feed them than to kill them.”

As the Berlin Airlift drew to a close, it became more than a story of planes and supplies. It was a story of resilience, compassion, and connection. The Thanksgiving of 1948, marked by meals of gratitude and candy drifting from the skies, symbolized something greater—the triumph of kindness over adversity, of humanity over division.

Lt. Gail Halvorsen’s simple act of kindness transcended its moment, reminding the world of the power of small gestures. His candy drops became more than parachutes of sweets; they were parachutes of hope. The Candy Bomber’s legacy is etched not just in history books but in the hearts of those he touched.

In a divided world, the Berlin Airlift—and the Thanksgiving within it—proved that compassion can bridge even the widest chasms. As we look to the skies, let us remember that sometimes, the greatest victories are not won by force, but by the strength of the human spirit.

I highly recommend you check out the video I created for this post on BAP’s YouTube channel. I found actual footage of the Berlin Airlift and added a small clip to my video. You won’t be disappointed!

Thanks again, and I’ll see you in the next one!

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Imagine a time when flight was more art than science—an era of bold experiments and eccentric contraptions that defied logic and gravity alike. In those early days of aviation, when inventors and daredevils competed to conquer the skies, the world witnessed creations that were equal parts brilliance and madness. These so-called “freaks that flew” were a fascinating chapter in the evolution of aircraft, embodying humanity’s relentless ambition to master the heavens. In this video, I’ll take you on a journey through the annals of aviation history, exploring the peculiar designs, daring innovations, and remarkable stories of the unconventional machines that paved the way for modern flight. Buckle up for a tale of ingenuity, courage, and the occasional misstep—welcome to “Freaks That Flew.”

“Freaks That Flew,” by Bertram W. Williams, published in Popular Aviation and Aeronautics, May, 1929.

Although aviation was well advanced from a military point of view all over Europe prior to 1914, the various governments were careful not to encourage standardization among individual aircraft constructors. In the maze of designs submitted and new types constantly being produced they strove valiantly to pick out something that would really come in useful for that delightful European Game—war. 

Perhaps it will be news to some people that aeroplanes were employed in military operations in the Balkan-Turkish flare-up of 1912. They were. Bleriot monoplanes did some useful scouting over the Turkish lines on more than one occasion, sufficient at least to prove that these flimsy things of stick and string could be very annoying to an enemy—especially if that enemy had none of his own. 

Military leaders the world over and ever since the first caveman hurled a rock at his neighbor, have always been distinguished by a lack of imagination. It is doubtful if any of the European war lords expected heavier-than-air machines would serve otherwise than as an aid to reconnaissance work and duties formerly detailed to light cavalry. The idea that an enemy might actually show his objection other than by ground fire to aircraft flying over his private and exclusive territory never entered the heads of even the Potsdam bigwigs. 

There was much loose talk of bomb-dropping, long distance raids, and so forth, but it was more the bombast of the man in the street than the belief of the gray—beards who held the  leashes of the war dogs. Yet none of these gentry, military, naval, or civil, were overlooking any bets. When it comes to war or preparing for it, “Hang the expense,” that’s the motto—in Europe at least. 

Naturally, the best way of encouraging an inventor is to offer him a worthwhile prize to produce something that will measure up to required specifications. By the end of 1912 there were almost more types of planes being turned out in France, England, Germany, and Holland than there are in those countries today with America thrown in. And they were not all freaks by a long shot. A plane that failed to get off the ground received the loud, “ha ha,” then as much as it would now. 

The great mass of citizenry in the countries mentioned were, if not exactly “air-minded,” keenly interested in aviation. Also the governments of Great Britain and Germany were becoming a little jealous of France’s dominancy in this new science. Both in planes and aero engines she was leading. 

It is no exaggeration to state that the Gnome rotary engine was the greatest boost to aviation since the Kittyhawk flight, though of course the beginnings of man-made wings date before either. 

Just as the boy who passes all examinations at school or college, often turns out a failure in after life, so the flying machines that answer every requirement of an exacting government do not always show up so successfully as expected. £10,000, I believe, was the sum offered by the War Office at London to the manufacturer of a plane that could fly at a certain speed, climb to a given height, and perform a few mild stunts. And let me tell you, friends, ten thousand quid was quite a piece of change in those days. 

Curiously enough, the winner was an American, Samuel F. Cody. Cody, though a civilian, had been connected with the British army for several years prior to 1912, chiefly by his experiments with man-lifting kites, the forerunner of the observation balloon. I saw the prize-taking machine at the Aero Show in London in 1913. It was a weird contrivance, looking as if it had been built out of discarded fishing rods. 

All the struts and longerons were of bamboo with no attempt at fairing. The pilot sat on an open platform in much the same exposed position as that of the early Wright and Farman “box-kites.” Accommodation for the two passengers was on either side of the pilot in the form of iron seats, exact replicas of those to be found on horsedrawn plows and other agricultural implements. Indeed, the whole structure resembled a reaper and binder. 

A very short time after the machine had been accepted by the government, Cody was killed on it whilst flying with a passenger in a test flight. After that, John Bull was content to rest on his oars a while as far as British-made aircraft was concerned and to buy most of his equipment from La Belle France. 

Mr. A. V. Roe, the well-known designer of Manchester, was the first to introduce the biplane type with a fuselage body instead of the nacelle and long outriggers. Its advent reduced the number of freak planes and construction followed more or less on standardized lines. Immediately after the appearance of the improved rotary engine Le Rhone, France, began to experiment with small speedy monoplanes which, while beautifully made, took considerable skill to handle. 

The Germans, now thoroughly aroused, were convinced at last that the heavier-than-air machine had come to stay and was likely to prove a serious rival to the expensive and unwieldy dirigibles they had been building. Most of their earlier types were extremely clumsy ships powered by enormously heavy engines. 

Dr. Etrich, an Austrian, invented the Taube (dove) monoplane, so called from the curious and unconventional shape of its wings, which were tapered and held in place by a maze of wires running to cabanes above and below the fuselage. The remarkable feature of this type was that the tips of both wings were turned up at a negative angle of incidence, the idea being that in case of a sideslip the reversed area would offer sufficient resistance to the air to allow the machine to right itself. The disadvantage was that these upturned tips were an enormous drag when the monoplane was flying level. 

The Germans discarded the Taubes very shortly after the war started. About 1915 they enlisted the services of a gentleman named Anthony Fokker who taught them quite a lot about efficient aeroplane construction. 

But designers all over the world were not satisfied. They were forever experimenting with new wing shapes, arrangement of planes and elevators, though strangely enough little attention was devoted to the actual aerofoil surfaces even after the discovery by M. Bleriot in 1913 that two-thirds of the lifting power of a heavier-than-air machine was derived from the upper side of its planes. A great deal of time and labor—designers didn’t have much money in those days—was spent in searching for the ultimate in wing-tips. The purely square was, of course, the most economical to build. But the elliptical was proven to be far more efficient than any other shape. Round and diagonal were also tried out. The Germans and Austrians gave some attention to “swept back” wings; but the Pfeil or arrow plane had little to recommend it. 

In 1914 certain manufacturers came out with inherent stability ships, a quality gained by placing one or both planes at a dihedral angle to the path of flight. Such machines were not popular with skilled pilots, who claimed they were difficult to handle under certain contingencies. 

Of the legion of freaks continually cropping up at the various aerodromes, the queerest was the Canard from the workshops of M. Bleriot. This extraordinary apparatus was a monoplane with the tail and control surfaces in front. But it flew. The writer has seen it skimming a few feet over the ground with a very young and very scared pilot in charge. 

Another unconventional machine that caused considerable excitement in the British newspapers was the one invented by Mr. Dunne in 1913. He had produced something that represented an entirely new theory in aircraft construction. It was an arrow-shaped biplane without any fuselage. Nor were there the usual elevators, stabilizer, or rudder fastened to outriggers. 

Horizontal and vertical control was effected entirely by working the ailerons, and its designer claimed it was so efficient and steady in the air that it could be flown “hands off.” He gave several demonstrations and convinced the lay press at least that at last the much sought for foolproof machine had been discovered. 

Contrary to general belief, the Great War did not stimulate aviation to any marked extent. It was no time for any experimentation. Aircraft factories all over the world were rushed with orders, and though of course the performance of machines improved considerably during the four years of hostilities, it was due more to the competition among manufacturers of aero engines than any radical change of design in the aircraft. There were refinements of streamlining and fewer exposed parts to offer parasite resistance; but little else. 

At the end of 1918, the aeroplane was a speedy, fast climbing, but exceedingly dangerous and uncertain means of transport. What little interest that had been aroused in this country by the exploits of the “war birds” in Europe quickly died down. The average American wanted something that was useful in peace time. He refused even to be stirred by the two successful flights across the Atlantic and the earlier gallant attempt of Hawker—all in 1919. 

The policy of the government may have had something to do with this apathy. At the end of the war, Uncle Sam found himself with an enormous quantity of DH.4 biplanes on hand—a clumsy two-seater that required a four hundred horsepower engine to lift it off the ground. And the latter was also on hand in the shape of the much boosted Liberty, a motor of some merit but short working life. Both plane and engine were obsolete years before they were out of use; yet in consequence of their cheap-ness and the way they were “dumped” onto the army and Post Office, American aircraft and aero engine manufacturers had little encouragement to produce newer or more efficient types of either. 

Undoubtedly the machine which has had the greatest influence on modern commercial aircraft design was the Junkers monoplane of 1920. While not a freak in any sense, it presented several original features. It was entirely of metal, even the wings being covered with thin sheets of duralumin. The latter were tapered, about sixteen inches thick at the roots, and with a lifting power hitherto unknown. Also they were cantilever in structure without any supporting braces or similar resistance-offering surfaces, yet sufficiently strong to carry about fifteen full-grown men on each panel. They were placed below the fuselage instead of flush with or above as had previously been the custom with all monoplanes. Powered with a 185 h.p. engine, it carried seven people. Its present use on the great German lines and its adoption with slight changes all over the world has proved its success. 

The more efficient single wing was coming back into its own. In 1921 an Italian designer named Jacuzzi resident in California, manufactured a machine somewhat resembling the Junkers and started a passenger line between San Francisco and the Yosemite. Unfortunately before the company was in actual operation, the designer, the engineer, and a well known pilot were killed while on a long distance flight in a crash the cause of which was never learned. 

The Jacuzzi monoplane was a seven-seater cabin machine built of wood and fabric with a fifty foot span and slightly tapered wings. The power plant was a 200 h.p. Hall Scott motor. Aeronautical critics, however, took exception to the bracing of the wings which was in the form of Y-shaped spruce struts having the lower ends fastened to the axle of the undercarriage. Although this kind of bracing is seen slightly modified on modern three-engined planes today, it can never be classified as ideal, the slightest roughness in a landing communicating itself to the more delicate planes instead of being confined to a cheap and easily repaired damage of the chassis. 

A far more original and much neater design by an American was the Loughhead single-seater biplane exhibited at the Aero show in San Francisco in 1920. This little machine was a precursor of the light aeroplanes so popular at present in Europe. It was manufactured in Santa Barbara, California, and great care and attention to detail had been lavished on the finished product. Apart from the monocoque fuselage of three-ply wood, light and sturdy yet no thicker than one-eighth of an inch, there were other and more interesting features. The two cylinder, horizontally opposed, water cooled engine, also a product of the same firm, was entirely cowled in, the radiator being placed below the body.

The latter is a practice prevalent in latter-day U.S. military types. The wings were folding, allowing the machine to be stored in a garage ten feet wide. But the most notable peculiarity was that there were no ailerons or warping surfaces. Lateral control was effected by tilting the entire panel of one or other of the lower wings by means of a lever near the pilot’s seat. As no official record of the Loughhead biplane’s performance is available, the success of this feature is unknown. It was claimed the landing speed was only 30 m.p.h., and as the single-sparred lower wing could be swiveled to a vertical position immediately upon reaching the ground, an efficient air brake was provided. 

One must not forget that every one of the “freaks” described in this article flew. Of the countless atrocities that never left the ground no man will ever know; they were as the sands of the seashore. Also, it is well to remember when reading of some endurance contest or long distance flight that the pilots of a few years back had neither the splendid machines nor the reliable engines we have now. 

Yet, taking both these facts into consideration, there is hardly a present day stunt that has not been excelled by the earlier flyers. And the American pioneer aviator and constructor perhaps deserves more credit than any other; he least of all has had any support from press, public, or government. 

The “freaks that flew” may seem strange, even laughable, to modern eyes, but they represent a critical step in aviation’s journey from fantasy to reality. These unconventional designs tested the limits of imagination and engineering, leaving a legacy that inspired future innovations. They remind us that progress often demands failure, experimentation, and a willingness to challenge convention. As I wrap up this look into these fascinating machines, I’d love to hear your thoughts and favorite moments from this incredible chapter in history. Don’t forget to like, subscribe, and join me for more stories that bring the skies to life. Until next time, keep your eyes on the horizon and your dreams in the clouds!

The post Freaks That Flew: Aviation’s Strangest Designs of the Early 1920s appeared first on Buffalo Air-Park.

In the fierce dawn of aerial warfare, Max Immelmann was a name that haunted the British skies. A brilliant tactician and relentless pilot, he developed daring new maneuvers and seemed almost invincible. With nearly fifty Allied planes to his name, he became a living legend—a menace the British could no longer ignore. This is the story of the men who dared to set a trap, luring him into a final, deadly confrontation. What follows is an account of courage, loss, and the relentless drive to bring down one of history’s most formidable flying aces.

“How We Shot Down Immelmann” by Captain Jack C. Bursey, R.A.F.

Captain Bursey was awarded a special proficiency medal by the British Air Board for being one of 12 best all around pilots in the Royal Air Force during the war. He was also a Captain in the Air Intelligence Division branch of the British Secret Service. 

This remarkable story is being told for the first time. It gives the inside story of how the British squadron set a trap for the great German ace, and sent him to his death.

The exploits of Baron Manfried von Richtoffen, Germany’s premier war ace have been publicized all over the world. Everybody has heard or read about the redoubtable “Red Knight of Germany,” but comparatively few people are aware that there was another German ace who fought and died before the famous Baron “did his stuff” over Flander’s Fields. Captain Immelmann, the pilot to whom I refer, was an expert pilot—cool in the face of danger—reasoning things out before they happened, with the result that he was the first to discover and use the now famous “Immelmann turn,” a wonderfully efficient maneuver used to evade an enemy plane diving on one’s tail. 

Immelmann was a thorn in the side of British airmen, and he had nearly half a hundred planes to his credit before he met the fate of many of the bravest pilots who ever flew. The story of his last battle is being chronicled here for the first time, and in this little history you will read something of life at the front. 

Immelmann used to fly a single seater plane, painted blue, and in nearly every battle he was alone. Before going into the details of his last fight, I would like to point out the fact that at the time of these events (1917) the Royal Flying corps were practically licked to a standstill because of the superiority of the enemy planes. Where the ships that we used to chase all over the sky were capable of a top speed of 95 miles an hour, the enemy in Fokker D.VII’s could make us like it because they could crash through the air at something like 125-130 miles an hour. Ask any war time pilot just how much of an advantage 30 miles an hour is in extra speed! 

Now Immelmann wasn’t exactly satisfied with this advantage in speed—the matchless courage of some of the British pilots tended to balance things up, so he evolved the idea of adding the element of surprise to his attacks. Here’s how he did that. On days when there were clouds in the sky, and there were many days like that in France, Immelmann would climb up into the clouds and hide in them. Not hide in the sense of trying to avoid a fight, but so that he couldn’t be seen by any of our boys. Occasionally he would drop down out of his hiding place to see what he could see, and sooner or later he would pop out just in time to see an antiquated plane flying along perhaps a thousand feet below him. That’s when the action started—nearly always resulting in the complete extinction of the lower ship. 

A few short, sharp, well-directed bursts of machine gun fire would be directed at the all unsuspecting pilot, and almost immediately he would start that long dive earthward with the plane completely smothered in black smoke and lurid flames.

After a victory such as this Immelmann would climb back into the clouds again, there to await another opportunity to add to his ever mounting list of crashed planes. 

It was my pleasure to be a member of the famous 29th Squadron, Royal Flying corps at this time—the squadron that in August 1918 made a record never equalled on any front—destroying 55 enemy planes and 17 enemy observation balloons in one month of hard fighting without losing a pilot either killed or wounded. And in those days it was necessary for us to go anywhere from ten to thirty miles on the enemy side of the lines to get into any scraps! 

Yet fifty per cent of the casualties in my squadron were caused by Captain Immelmann. So you can see that we did not  harbor any very pleasant thoughts in our hearts about this opponent.

One night while we were at dinner the conversation turned to the events of the day. It had been a very disastrous day for us—three of our best boys had taken that long plunge into Eternity—their planes wreathed in smoke and flames—and two of them had been sent there by Immelmann. The three vacant places at the dinner table were mute testimony to the excellence of the enemy’s shooting, and immediately after we had drunk a toast to the memory of our dead buddies, we set about formulating plans whereby we could rid the skies forever of this powerful menace. Many and varied were the plans submitted. One pilot offered, in all seriousness to fly his plane deliberately into the plane flown by Immelmann—colliding with him at full speed to ensure his death. But of course that plan was discarded immediately. Finally a scheme was suggested that sounded good. 

We planned that one plane would go into the air and fly about below the clouds, the pilot to be flying in such a manner as to convey the impression to Immelmann that he was a new pilot to war flying. The plane he was to fly would be of an obsolete type—but strengthened in every manner possible, and with a brand new motor installed. Also it would have a special rocket gun attached to the center section struts that would fire a rocket straight up into the air for about three thousand feet. Five more pilots would take their planes up above the clouds and simply wait there for the rocket to appear, telling them that their target had been lured away from his haven, the clouds. Then they would dive down with their motors wide open and come down to the rescue of the lone pilot acting as a bait. That was the plan. 

Then followed the real argument. Who would go on the trip, and who would be the lucky (?) one to fly below the clouds? Everybody wanted to go—in fact it got so bad that there was almost a fight about it. However the matter was settled in truly British fashion—and when the results were declared there were no dissenters. There were fifteen active pilots in the squadron, and we simply divided up into five groups of three men, or rather boys, for that’s all most of us were—and we all started with an equal amount of money, and played cold hands of poker for exactly one hour.

The man in each group who had the most money at the end of the hour’s play would form one of the patrol to fly above the clouds. The five men were eventually declared, and then came the task of selecting one of the remaining ten for the offering—and we hoped that it wouldn’t be burnt offering. To determine who should have the honor of acting in this capacity we resorted to straws. Ten straws were prepared—one of them shorter than the rest, and the ten men who had lost in poker each drew a straw. 

Generally our dining room was about as noisy a place after dinner as could be found anywhere in France, but as each man stepped forward to draw, there was a deathly silence. I was the fourth man to draw—and I am sure that the other boys each breathed a sigh of something approaching relief when they saw that I had drawn the fateful straw. For myself, I looked at that straw for fully half a minute before I could say anything, and then I ordered drinks for the crowd. 

The next morning saw plenty of activity on the flying field. Between patrols we prepared the sacrificial plane—installing extra flying and drift wires, changing the motor and generally preparing the plane for a long dive such as it was not intended for. I also installed on the rim of the cockpit a rear vision mirror that would help me to see back of me without turning round, and in a couple of days we were all set for the adventure. 

We had to wait for an ideal day—clear enough for flying, but with enough clouds around to make it possible for Immelmann to hide. There was not long to wait, and on the morning of the fateful day, I walked out to the hangar and gave the old crate a final look over to see that everything was all right. 

As I climbed into the cockpit there was silence—deep silence broken only by the mechanics “Switch off, gas on” and then, “Contact.” After a few futile swings the wheezy old motor finally coughed into life, and I throttled it down so that it could get properly warmed up. I climbed out to smoke a cigarette—possibly my last one, and then went into a little last minute conference with the five escort pilots. That finished with, I returned to my ship, climbed in, fastened my safety belt and swung round into the wind ready for the take off. 

As I opened the throttle wide there came a cheer from the mechanics and pilots, and after a long run the old plane finally lifted itself into the air and I started my long climb up to the clouds. 

Soon I saw a reassuring sight—the five planes that would dive to help me, I hoped, climbed past me to their positions above the clouds. They looked mighty good to me then, and the pilots waved to me as they passed. Again my thoughts tried to jump a half hour or so ahead, and I wondered if they would be in time to draw me from the devilish machine guns of Immelmann. It was just at that time that a most disturbing fact came to me! In all of our plans and preparations we had forgotten to equip my plane with machine guns! Try and imagine how you would have felt, climbing toward a battle with the Ace of Aces of the enemy air services and no guns on the plane!

For a moment I was tempted to turn back, but I thought of the other boys above me who would do all the shooting necessary. At least, I hoped that they would! About three miles on the enemy side of the front line trenches I saw a fine thick bank of clouds that looked as though they would be an ideal spot for our enemy to conceal himself in, and with motor throttled down I proceeded to fly around in wide circles right underneath them. I acted as though I had been sent on an observation trip for my first visit to the lines, and after half an hour of such flying I was gratified to see a blue plane dive gently out of the clouds.

A blue streak—Immelmann! I saw him before he saw me—which gave me a break, but it wasn’t very long until he spotted what looked like an easy prey. I watched him from out of the corner of my eye—flying along with one hand on the control stick and the other on the trigger of the rocket gun. As Immelmann started to increase his dive toward me I stuck the nose of my ship down slightly, and he came after me. There seemed to have come to me a feeling of complete safety—and I also seemed to sense that Immelmann wouldn’t shoot at me until he got in close enough to be sure of getting me with his first burst. Gradually I put the nose further down until my old crate vibrated enough to have made it fall to pieces had not been strengthened. And Immelmann came after me! 

He was falling into the trap! Perhaps his thoughts were that he could have a little fun by scaring a new pilot, but he did not keep this in mind very long, for suddenly his ship was put into an almost vertical dive. Just at that time, mine also went into a vertical dive, but not before I pulled the trigger which sent my red rocket of distress upwards into the clouds. When friend Immelmann saw that rocket he must have realized that he was in a tough corner, for he  momentarily pulled out of his dive, and looked back. Seeing nothing, he returned to the attack, and right then is when my heart started to beat really fast. I thought to myself, “My God, the rocket hasn’t reached them!” I don’t know how long it took the boys to come down through the clouds, but there was never a more welcome sight in all of my life when I saw those five Nieuports diving down with motors wide open! 

Immelmann saw them at the same time that I did, I think, for he forgot all about me right then, and tried to turn back in one of his famous turns to the shelter of his sky harbor. Too late! The five Nieuports rapidly assumed battle formation—the well known “V”—and they proceeded to encircle our adversary. I looked upward, and against the mistiness of the clouds forming the background, I saw them hem Immelmann into a trap that no amount of good flying would have gotten him out of. Closer and closer they got—Immelmann turning and twisting in his almost mad efforts to escape. It seemed to me down below that they were toying with him as a cat does with a mouse, and then suddenly there came the death blow. 

One of the pilots pressed the triggers of his guns, and a stream of tracers shot forward straight toward the enemy ship. Instantly the remaining pilots opened fire, and I knew that nothing could save Immelmann now. 

The blue streak of Immelmann’s plane suddenly shot high above his five opponents, and I thought for a moment that he was going to elude them. But instantly I realized that no living hand had pulled that ship into it’s zoom—and in the next second the plane burst into flames, and the menace to our squadron started that long plunge that ends only in a mass of smoldering wreckage far below. 

Immelmann had paid! His account had been squared—the deaths of our comrades had been avenged, and as he continued downward, leaving a trail of black smoke behind him, I saw five boys who had saved me from a similar fate stunting their planes to give vent to their pent up feelings. 

I eased back on the throttle of my ship, and turned in the direction of the flying field, where I landed safely. Shortly afterward the other boys came in, and there followed the world war’s greatest celebration until Armistice Day. During dinner a toast was drunk to our dead foe’s memory—and the next day a wreath was dropped over on the enemy side of the lines—our tribute to a fallen fighter. And then, well, back to the every day events of flying and helping to win the war! 

In the end, it took more than bravery to defeat Max Immelmann. It took strategy, sacrifice, and an unbreakable bond among comrades willing to do whatever it took to end his reign. With Immelmann’s final fall, the skies over France became just a little safer, and a chapter of wartime aviation history closed. But his legacy, and the bravery of those who faced him, live on. If you want to hear more of these incredible tales from the golden age of aviation, subscribe and join us as we uncover more stories from the past that still soar today.

Thanks again, and I’ll see you in the next one!

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Imagine a time when hopping across the country in an airplane wasn’t about reclining seats or inflight entertainment but was instead a thrilling, unpredictable adventure. Picture boarding a “cloud Pullman” for a business trip not knowing if you’d actually reach your destination without detours, blizzards, or makeshift landings. In 1928, C.R. Borkland chronicled a remarkable journey across America, flying through snowstorms and scaling mountain passes, all to demonstrate the transformative power of air travel. 

This tale isn’t just a historical recount; it’s a lens into the early days of aviation—an era of courageous pilots, daring passengers, and the growing pains of an industry that would one day shrink the world. 

Join me as I delve into Borkland’s daring escapade, and get ready for a vivid snapshot of how far we’ve come in aviation. Stick around; you won’t want to miss these glimpses into the incredible history of flight!

We Take a Little Trip by C.R. Borkland, published in Popular Aviation, May, 1928.

The public has been fed up a little with accounts of nice easy, fast trips, and it may be that a little account of a trip taken under about all the difficulties possible will give some people an idea of what the transport companies are doing to overcome them. 

This trip was undertaken for purely business reasons, and business dictated taking the air. From a purely dollars and cents standpoint it paid. Figure the cost of transportation from Chicago to San Francisco, from the Golden Gate City to Los Angeles, then to San Diego, back to Los Angeles, from there to Salt Lake City, Denver, Wichita and back to Chicago. 

Figure the expense of berths, meals, tips and all the other little extras you never can remember and have to lump on the swindle sheet as “misc.” Then put a conservative value on your wasted time, the time you spend reading magazines on the train, looking out of the window, trying to sleep nights, trying to stay awake daytimes so you can sleep nights. 

It actually figured a clear gain in money, and it also permitted me to travel on Sundays, nights and other times out of business hours. 

Let me say right here that you do not meet with any misrepresentation when you apply for passage with the air transport companies. You are told that you may be delayed for weather reasons, that portions of the trip may be uncomfortable, and that you may not particularly care for it. Quotas of passengers are not hard to fill; in fact, on many of the lines you cannot fly when you please, unless you take the precaution of booking in advance. 

These cloud Pullmans are apt to be as crowded as any of the rail variety. In fact, the only difference that I can see is that the air transport companies have no upper berths to push you into. Boeing tells me that the first of June they will put on two twelve passenger busses in place of the two place and pilot jobs now used. At first only for the week end runs, but later for the daily runs. 

That ought to help the crowding some, for then the passengers won’t have to nurse mail sacks part of the way. Anyway, I’m getting away from the point. 

J. E. Leopold, who was in charge of the hangar at Chicago Municipal Flying Field took my $200 and introduced me to Billy Rose, the song writer, who was to be my fellow passenger. Rose was trying to get out to the coast to see Fanny Brice’s new act open on Monday at Los Angeles. It was Saturday night. He made it. 

Not being a successful song writer, but a poor drummer boy who earns his salt by telling folks how good his wares are, I figured that by leaving Saturday night I would be able to go to work in San Francisco Monday morning with no loss of time. I made it, too. 

That morning it was only eight below zero in Chicago, and try as I might I couldn’t keep my mind fixed on sunny California. Somehow or other my feet kept reminding me that I was in the Windy City with the Bomby Climate. Fortunately my trunk yielded up a lot of old flying togs and I felt I would not suffer from the cold. 

The weather reports from points along the line were not so encouraging. Ralph Johnson, our pilot, decided to wait a while. It had warmed up a little, a few degrees, and was snowing. We loafed, swapped lies and nodded until 3:27 A.M. in Boeing’s warm hangar. By that time Billy Rose had decided that we could reach the Pacific Coast quicker by walking. 

Johnson started and pushed us over Illinois at about 130 miles per hour, in what was as interesting a night ride as anyone could ask for—if they stayed awake. But not worrying about the Illinois terrain, as I have had the pleasure of seeing it from that angle, and many others, many times for many years, I let old man Snooze take charge, and Rose and myself were soon asleep. 

The drone of the engine ceased and I woke up by the reverse alarm clock method at 5:05 A.M. We were pulling into Iowa City. Ten minutes were not enough to see the city, so we stayed in while the plane was gassed up. We left at 5:15. 

More rest. Rose may be a regular song writer, but he never could write words to fit his snore, and make a hit out of it. I woke again with a start—it was 8:19 and we were in Omaha. 

Doc Coomer announced that we could stretch our legs. Doc and C.A. Sluder told us that the water had frozen, but they had secured a breakfast for us. That was welcome, but we had to eat it in the ship, as we only waited twenty minutes while they changed the mail from one ship to another. 

There was no loafing after getting started, but the start was a long pull. This time the weather was clear. It was 7:39 A.M. Talk about air travel being fast, here we are leaving a city forty minutes before we arrive there. L.L. Bowen, the pilot for this section, tells us to set our watches back an hour. 

The country west of Omaha is flat and uninteresting. We are flying low. At 10:00 A.M. we arrive at North Platte, and stay only ten minutes. We leave in the same ship with Bowen still piloting. 

More flat country and we reach Cheyenne at 11:20. H.B. Shaver is in charge of the field here, and is as pretty a field as you could ask for. About thirty miles off the mountains rise right up off the plains. 

Neither Rose nor myself are so keen about the nice lunch they had for us. Henry Boonstra is flying us. We take off right for the mountains straight at Sherman Hill, which has the highest beacon in the world on it. If they call these things hills, how high are their mountains? 

It was just noon when we left Cheyenne and in about three quarters of an hour it started in to snow. Snow—it was a blizzard. I never saw anything like the way it swirled around us. We had been flying up a valley, mountains on both sides, and when this snow shut in you couldn’t see them. Boonstra went right down to within a couple of hundred feet of the ground. He was looking for a field where he had made a forced landing two years before. 

How he found it I don’t know, because he certainly couldn’t see it. It must be the same sort of instinct that brings migrating birds back to the same place year after year. We started circling around. No chance to tell which way the wind was blowing. Snow whirled all around us. Once in a while we could catch a glimpse of a man on the ground. He caught the idea presently for he extended both arms and then waved the windward arm forward, something like the crawl stroke in swimming. 

The field was plenty long enough, but there was a snow covered haystack at one end. It looked as high as the Wrigley Building, but might have been a few feet shorter. The trouble was that it was a disappearing haystack. One minute you could see it and the next minute it was gone. Never mind, with the exhibition of flying that Boonstra had already given us, neither of us had any doubts about the landing. 

Down we went, and a good landing on the property of Arthur J. Cheeseborough, who seems to own most of the country around here. It is called Elk Mountain. Mr. Cheeseborough fed us and warmed us until the snow was over. 

By 3:00 P.M. it was clear and a crowd had gathered, about all the inhabitants of Elk Mountain, as you can judge by the photograph. 

Off we jumped, over more mountains and then a stretch of fairly flat country. Boonstra was trying to save time and make up some of the time lost in the Elk Mountain landing, so he decided to land at Cherokee for gas. There is an emergency field there and we landed at 3:30. We helped the old caretaker and his wife gas up the ship and took off twenty minutes later. Cold, and windy? you never felt anything like it. We would have liked to stay and visit for a while. Sometimes these emergency field caretakers do not see anyone for weeks on end.

At 7:00 P.M. we arrived at Salt Lake City. There are no beacons on the line west of here so they do not fly at night. Boonstra took us to the hotel and we certainly put in a good night’s rest. The only trouble is leaving so early in the morning. 

The field manager called for us before seven o’clock in his model T (ground style-not air) and at 7:05 we took off, with Bob Ellis piloting. 

We held another hill-hopping contest for two hours and landed at Elko, Nevada. We had passed over the Great Salt Lake Desert, which is nothing but a bunch of muddy ground blown clean. 

In ten minutes we were ready to leave and arrived at Reno at 10:40. Twenty minutes later, with C.K. Vance as pilot, we left Reno for what is the most beautiful part of the trip. Mountains, wind-blown clouds, deep valleys, hills, and that gem of a lake, Lake Tahoe. 

Then over the last of the hills, and over the green flats, and it’s warm, with some real sun. No, it’s hot. This is the real estate man’s Paradise. The only place where they do not have to lie- much. 

Vance has a phone rigged up with the cabin. It’s a one way affair, he can talk to you, but you can’t call him back. He tells his passengers about the country as you fly over it. 

At Sacramento, at 12:05 we dropped the mail and then were off down the river, past more flats and a few mere knolls, comparing them with the hills around Cheyenne. 

Here’s Oakland Airport at 12:35, and it is some airport. Well, here I am, better than two thousand miles away from Chicago, ready to go to work, and I have lost only a half a day. In spite of the forced landing and the consequent loss of time, the bad weather and all of that, I’m certainly ahead of the time game right here. 

You might make fifty such trips and never run into the combination of circumstances that made me late. But if you did, you would come out of it with the same idea. Every one of the pilots is a real flyer, and there is only one thing that he thinks more of than getting the mail through on time-and that is the safety and comfort of his passengers. 

As we disembark from this exhilarating journey, it’s clear that early air travel was more than just getting from A to B—it was about grit, adventure, and the pioneering spirit. C.R. Borkland’s narrative reminds us of a time when even business trips were extraordinary endeavors, with pilots like Ralph Johnson and Boonstra forging paths through the unknown. These pioneers laid the foundation for the smooth, efficient travel we often take for granted today. If stories like these captivate you, keep following my channel. There’s a treasure trove of aviation history waiting to be uncovered, and each tale promises to transport you to a world where the sky was, quite literally, the limit.

Thanks again, and I’ll see you in the next one!

The post We Take a Little Trip: 1920s Biplane Adventure appeared first on Buffalo Air-Park.

Step back to a time when aviation was in its infancy, when daring pilots took to the skies in rudimentary machines, and every flight was a leap into the unknown. The early 20th century was an era of unparalleled courage and groundbreaking innovation in the world of flight. In this article, “Over-Sea Notes” by Philip Wilcox from The Aeroplane magazine, we’re transported to 1911—a period when aviation enthusiasts on both sides of the Atlantic were captivated by the feats of legendary figures like Glenn Curtiss, André Houpert, and Harriet Quimby, each pushing the boundaries of what was possible in the skies.

Join me as I explore firsthand accounts of the pioneering efforts in American aviation, from daring experiments with hydroplanes in California to the establishment of aviation schools on Long Island, and the trials faced by early aviators in Italy. These stories reveal a time of intense passion, a global fascination with flight, and the relentless pursuit of innovation that laid the foundation for the modern aviation industry. Whether you’re a history enthusiast, an aviation aficionado, or simply curious about the early days of flight, this article offers a rare glimpse into the heart of aviation history.

Over-Sea Notes, by Philip Wilcox, published in The Aeroplane magazine, June 21, 1911.

Mr. Philip Wakeman Wilcox writes from Long Island: “Some of the doings in this country are marvelous to read about, but I am afraid that you see more about them in England than we do over here, because here the papers are very much on the look-out for fake stories, and as a result, it is hard to get anything in the papers which is not pretty true.”

“There is mighty little being done over here which is at all startling. Perhaps the most energetic man in the experimental line is Mr. Glenn Curtiss, who has been doing the hydroplane stunts in California. There has been some good flying going on in different sections of the country, but I do not think that there has been anything that could compare with the stunts done in your part of the world. I think the man who is going to do more for aviation in this country than anybody else is Mr. Moisant, who is the brother of John B. Moisant, the man who was killed last year trying for the Michelin trophy.”

“He is the president of the Hempstead Plains Aviation Company., which has leased a tract of land of about 1,000 acres out here in Long Island, and is going to have the best proposition in the country when things get going. A contract has been given for five concrete steel hangars to start the ball a-rolling, and he hopes to have a number more before the summer is over. He also plans to erect a large grand stand, factory, and club house on the grounds. This same company conducts the Moisant School of Aviation, which is now running. There are now five students regularly practicing, and they are all in the air. The Bleriot type machine is being used. All of the machines are built in the factory in New York City.”

“I am sending you a picture of Sopwith’s machine after the wreck. The man standing up is Mr. Andre Houpert, the school pilot. The others are mechanics, but you can get an idea of the condition of the machine after the wreck.”

“Miss Quimby, who is the dramatic editor of Leslie’s Weekly, has been quietly taking lessons since the last of April, and in that time has really accomplished a few excellent flights. Until May 11th, when she made the best of her trips, her identity had been a secret, for she dressed in a tight-fitting aviator’s suit, and wore a deep hood. She and her instructor, Andre Houpert, have done all their work shortly after sunrise in the morning.”

“For the past two years the Aeronautical Society has been the real centre of all activity in a real way among Eastern aeronautical followers. The field at Mineola was in truth the first field in the United States, and on it have been conducted some of the most important experiments to date. That its office as a public point for flying has been terminated will be a surprise to more than one. Notification was given the Society on May 28th that it must vacate within the next thirty days.”

 “While the action is not unexpected, the dispossession of the thirty odd aviators with their machines causes considerable anxiety. Large flat fields like Hempstead Plains are very rare in the vicinity of New York. Early this year the fields near Mineola, as well as the large field in the neighborhood of Westbury, were leased for a term of five years to the Hempstead Aviation Company, which has arranged to give the Moisant School exclusive use of the property. Moisant, as well as officers of the real estate company, holds large interests in the organization which now has the field.”

The Latest from Sopwith.

Writing from Columbus, Ohio, on June 2nd, Mr. T. O. M. Sopwith says: “How do you think the outfit looks at the Columbus, Ohio, meeting? Everything going strong, but impossible to get good petrol here, so not much power. Have to stir it up with a stick before you put it in the tank.”

Writing last week, Sopwith says:

“The ‘Family Tank’—the dear old ‘Family Tank’—is more or less a thing of the past. We were at the Columbus meeting and flew every day, and on the last night we had a repetition of Dover. There were two other machines with us in a tent, and the whole thing collapsed. In the morning there was hardly a piece of the machine left whole. Luckily the engine had been taken out, but the planes, elevator, and tail were badly smashed. I think we will be able to rebuild in about a fortnight, and we are starting in at once. It is bad luck, but as this is our third smash altogether, we must hope for better luck for the future.”

Italian Notes.

Ciro Cirri, whose death occurred on May 28th at Voghera, as the result of terrible burns caused by a forced descent and subsequent conflagration of his Bleriot-cum-Gnome, was one of the unlucky Picollo-Cei trio, all of whose deaths have been unusual. Cei’s decease is still being investigated here, the body having been recently exhumed (sabotage). Cirri was a Roman.

Roman also was Raymond Marra, who was killed at the Roman meeting on 8th instruction by a treacherous wind, aided by local eddies, which beat him down on to one of the big supports carrying the electric power current across country. He is said to have been electrocuted, as the machine—a Farman—was set on fire, and his body, though found well away from the machine, was burnt.

Whatever the cause of the recent numerous conflagrations, would not the enclosing of petrol tanks in leather or some resisting composition be advisable? Anything which would prevent the immediate exit of petrol should the tank spring a leak would be useful. Sparks are struck by the motor, etc., at the actual moment of contact with the ground, not afterwards. Cirri ’s tank was, they tell me, pierced by a wire stake, which the leather might have prevented. [What about solidified petrol? Ed.]

The writer, while recently at Rome, took advantage of a lull in the misfortunes which dogged the efforts of those managing the flying week to go out to the Parioli racecourse, where the meeting was being held, and where the Paris-Rome competitors had landed and were expected to be “showing off.” At two o’clock in the afternoon, and in the Roman sun no one was present except the aviators and the Press, the latter at loggerheads with the committee over the suspension of their hangar passes. A strike was neatly concocted, and in twenty-four hours the authorities capitulated. Notwithstanding, some excellent flying was done towards the evening, Garros being apparently the great favorite, while Vidart (Deperdussin) thoroughly explored the Roman garrets and church steeples.

Cagno’, Ruggerone, and Marra—who was killed’ later on in the week—were causing the Italians to sing Sursum Corda by their attempts to win the Circuit of the Tibur, a 300-kilometer cross-country flight formed by six trips round a 50-kilometer circuit. 

I noted the prevision of protection for the pilot on most of the Farman type biplanes, and also the presence of an Italian biplane of this type, the Asteria, with Cavaglia in charge.

On one of the trips for the Circuit Cagno was the victim of a curious accident. One of the cylinders of his Gnome came adrift and broke a skid, so that he was unable to prevent some damage to the machine in the forced landing which resulted!

The Farman monoplane which Goddard attempted to fly was evidently out for a car race only, and, although very fast, did not prove to be a flier, at any rate as far as the air was concerned. This was a great disappointment. Its appearance when on the ground is comic in the extreme, and it will certainly get a nickname. The “fussy fowl” or “hen with chicks” would both suit.

The stories of early aviation remind us of a time when humanity was just beginning to grasp the possibilities of flight—a time when courage and curiosity fueled dreams of soaring through the clouds. In reading these accounts, we see how much has changed and yet how the spirit of innovation continues to drive us forward. If these glimpses into the past have inspired you, stay tuned for more tales from the dawn of aviation. I’ll continue to uncover the untold stories and daring exploits that shaped the world of flight as we know it today.

Thanks again, and I’ll see you in the next one!

The post Over-Sea Notes appeared first on Buffalo Air-Park.

Join me for an exhilarating deep dive into the extraordinary role of Hellcat fighters during the Allied invasion of Southern France. These mighty planes, flown by specially trained Navy pilots, not only provided air cover but also spearheaded precision strikes that crippled German forces. From strafing motor convoys to blasting through enemy fortifications, the Hellcats left a trail of devastation in their wake, proving their unmatched versatility in battle. This episode explores how a new kind of naval airstrike redefined warfare, leaving both enemies and allies in awe. If you’re fascinated by tactical innovation, daring missions, and the sheer power of aerial warfare, this is an episode you won’t want to miss.

“Hellcats over France,” by Lieutenant (JG) John G. Norris, USNR, published in Flying magazine, January 1945.

Hellcats from Navy carriers supported our advancing armies in South France.

Aboard the U.S.S. Tulagi at sea, a new type of United States Naval air striking force made its battle debut during the Allied invasion of southern France. 

This recently-commissioned American aircraft carrier—employing only Hellcat fighters flown by especially-trained pilots—went into action for the first time and proved highly successful in a wide variety of combat assignments. The Hellcats not only provided air cover for the western flank of the invasion forces—remote from our landing fields on Corsica—but were given other important battle roles. 

They did gun-spotting for Allied warships pounding coastal defenses and other targets ashore. 

They carried out “pin-point” attacks with rockets and bombs against coastal batteries which survived continuous naval and high-level bombing assaults. 

They served as the “eyes” of the Allied invasion command in the area west of the Rhone River, keeping them posted as to what the formidable German forces in that area were doing.

And when the Navy pilots reported that the Nazis in southwestern France were racing toward Germany instead of massing for a counter-attack on our beachheads—information which enabled Allied troops to strike northward to head them off—the Hellcats were turned loose on still another job. 

Armed with rockets, 250-, 500- and 1,000-pound bombs and their battery of six .50-caliber machine guns, the carrier—based American planes struck repeatedly at the retreating German forces. 

A single squadron of the Hellcats based aboard this carrier reported the destruction of 487 enemy motor vehicles—including troop carriers, ammunition trucks and armored cars and tanks. They damaged an additional 114 vehicles. 

In addition, more than 200 locomotives and train coaches were destroyed or damaged, five bridges were cut, a score of trawlers and barges were blasted, at least eight forts and gun emplacements were silenced, and numerous fuel tanks and ammunition dumps exploded by the squadron’s dive-bombing and rocket-firing Hellcats. 

They ranged up and down the country west of the Rhone River. It was a strange sort of a job for Navy carrier pilots. By far the greater part of this destruction was concentrated within four days. One mission, led by the squadron commander, 30-year old Lieutenant Commander, William F. (“Bush”) Bringle, USN, of Memphis, Tennessee, was particularly successful. The seven pilots first discovered a Nazi troop convoy on a road west of Carcasson and immediately attacked the concentration of 100 or more trucks and armored cars with their rockets and bombs. 

“Each of us made six runs apiece on the column” said Ensign John M. Denison, USNR, of Lexington, Massachusetts. “We smashed hell out of them, averaging two flamers per pilot per run. There were several large explosions, probably from fuel or ammunition trucks blowing up. “The Germans left the trucks when we attacked and shot at us from the ditches. There was also considerable fire coming from a farmhouse close by so we bombed that and left it wrecked and burning.” 

“We discovered another motor column near Castelnau d’Aude and made three or four strafing passes at it with the same rate of destruction,” Ensign William C. McKeever, USNR, of Byesville, Ohio, said “Several miles west of there we sighted another column and strafed it, and near Villefranche attacked a column in which there were horse-drawn ammunition carts and weapons carriers. The horses stampeded and ammunition carts exploded. The return fire was intense. Several of our planes were hit.” 

The next day six of the Hellcats led by Lieutenant Frederick F. (“Schnapsey”) Schauffler, USNR, Nantucket Island, Massachusetts, played havoc with German motorized columns along roads near Uzes, Capelle, Bagnols and Remoulins. They destroyed between 80 and 100 of them. 

“Just outside of Pouzilliac,” Schauffler declared, “we ran into a long column of Nazi vehicles reaching around a bend in the road. We were carrying depth bombs and rockets. I got a direct hit between three trucks just at the bend. One was apparently an ammunition truck for there was a tremendous explosion rising 300 feet in the air. The tail of one truck flew in an arc several hundred feet and set a hay field afire. The fire on the road spread from one truck to another. 

“A few minutes later we ran into another column. They were packed close in double lanes like five o’clock traffic back in Boston. We attacked with rockets and I saw Candler [Lieutenant (J.G.) William R. Candler, USNR, Detroit, Michigan.] put a pair of rockets through a line of trucks, each rocket blowing up at least two.” 

Another heavy “bag” of enemy motor transport was made on a 30-mile stretch of road between LeLuc and St. Maximin, east of the Rhone. Allied spearheads captured this area a day or so later and Allied Army commanders obtained a first hand view of the effectiveness of the Naval air support. 

Brigade General G.P. Saville, USA, commanding the 12th Tactical Air Force and in command of all units giving close air support to the operations, sent a “well-done” to the carrier task group for this achievement. 

“Today I personally counted 202 destroyed enemy vehicles from four miles west of St. Maximin to two miles east of LeLuc” he radioed. “This is positive proof of an excellent job. I would be grateful if you would thank all concerned for me for an outstanding success and a definite contribution to the present rapid advance of the ground forces.” 

The ditches along the road gave convincing evidence of the destructive power of the Hellcats’ rockets and machine guns. Taking a photographic party ashore the following day the writer found many of the vehicles destroyed beyond recognition. What had been large armored cars or troop carriers were simply masses of charred and twisted metal. 

In some places there were two or three wrecks piled up together and in one ditch four within 15 yards of each other. Several ammunition trucks which had been overturned by machine gun fire striking in the engine or cab, lay on their sides in the ditch otherwise undamaged. Their deadly cargo-shells, bombs, “potato masher” hand grenades, etc., were strewn unexploded among the grape vines in the adjoining fields. 

The Hellcats had an equal amount of success attacking trains. The squadron destroyed or damaged 23 locomotives and 185 coaches, scored bomb hits on five bridges and made 17 other railroad cuts or blocks. 

On one occasion Bringle noticed what appeared to be a forest moving. Не swooped low and saw it was a 15-coach train covered with branches. The Hellcats attacked and left the troop train smashed and flaming. 

The retreating Germans tried many such camouflage tricks in an attempt to escape notice during the day so they could move at night, but the low-flying Navy fighters detected the branch-covered trains and trucks. One ruse might have fooled them had it not been for the keen eyes of farm-bred Ensign Dale N. Dieterich, USNR, of Clayton, Kansas. 

Flying low over a plowed field, Dieterich was puzzled by something peculiar about the clump of trees and bushes in the center. Then it dawned on him. The plow-furrows ran straight into the clump instead of around it. He called to his mates and down they went-strafing a group of cleverly concealed German cars and trucks! 

The work of the Hellcats against German forces trying to escape from southern France was easily the most spectacular phase of the carrier planes’ activities in the campaign. It was of inestimable importance in slowing down and bottling up the retreating enemy army. 

But this new use of carrier aircraft was not the primary purpose of their inclusion in the south France amphibious operation. In the advance plans for the invasion their principal roles were to provide air protection to the left flank of the landing and to direct the gunfire from the battleships and cruisers in softening up the German shore defenses.

As it turned out, there was little air-opposition to the invasion—and consequently not much need for fighter cover—and a highly important but smaller job of gun-spotting than had been expected. Thus the Hellcats were able to devote much time to profitable attack missions behind the German lines. 

This use of a single type of plane to perform so many functions is new to United States Navy carrier aviation. Normally our big battle carriers contain striking teams composed of Curtiss Hell-divers (dive-bombers), Grumman Avengers (torpedo bombers) and Grumman Hellcat fighters, while “baby flat-tops” usually have a team of Avengers and fighters. The only prior one-type carriers have been ships providing fighter protection for a large carrier task force. 

In introducing a new kind of Naval air “punch”—a small carrier equipped with one type of airplane which is at once a good fighter, gun-spotter, dive-bomber and rocket-firing attack plane—the United States Navy may have devised a weapon of great potential value.

The planes themselves were the new F6F-5’s, which have at least six principle improvements over their predecessors, the F6F-3’s. The engine cowling has been further streamlined, the rough-surfaced paint has been replaced by a waxed mirror-smooth polished aluminum surface, new engine cowlings make it possible to maneuver the plane with greater ease, the new Hellcat has an improved windshield with two metal braces on the old windshield removed for better visibility, the tail and stabilizer surfaces have been strengthened, and a larger sheet of armor-plate has been placed behind the cockpit giving the pilot greater protection. The armament of the two versions is identical. 

The new Navy tactics used in southern France would seem to have a definite place in future amphibious operations, particularly for spotting gunfire during Naval bombardment of the landing area. 

In the latest amphibious operations in Europe—including the landing in Normandy—land-based fighters were used for spotting. In the south France invasion, however, our available land bases were relatively remote from the beaches and the spotting came from aircraft carriers. 

The Navy was ready with such carrier-based fighter-spotters. Lieutenant Commander Bringle’s VOF squadron had been in training for months for an assignment of this nature. The unit was assigned to the U.S.S. Tulagi—one of the Kaiser-built “baby flat-tops.” 

The captain is a Naval Academy graduate of 1921 and has been flying in all types of planes since 1926. A sister ship of the Tulagi—the U.S.S. Kasaan Bay—with a squadron trained in fighter tactics, dive bombing and rocket-firing, though not spotting, also was selected for the operations. 

The two carriers, with escorting destroyers and two American-built small British carriers—H.M.S. Hunter and Stalker—were formed into a task group and placed under command of Rear Admiral Calvin T. Durgin, USN, of Palmyra, New Jersey. Admiral Durgin is a veteran sailor and airman. He was graduated from Annapolis in 1916, served on destroyers in the last war and has been flying for 25 years. He commanded the aircraft carrier Ranger in the North Africa landings. 

Another task group of five American-built British baby flat-tops under Rear Admiral Thomas Troubridge, R.N., also joined Vice Admiral H. K. Hewitt’s naval forces for the landing. They were equipped with Supermarine Seafires, American Grumman Wildcats and a few Helldivers. 

When the Naval bombardment preceding the landing began, the carrier-based Navy pilots were over the German fortifications. They stayed over them in the face of heavy flak, directing the warship fire as the coastal guns were knocked out one by one. 

Perhaps the outstanding spotting job was done by Ensign David E. Robinson, USNR, of Chicago. He went out with Lieutenant Commander Sandor on D-plus-5 to direct fire on some guns that were still firing at our ships. Sandor was to do the spotting, with Robinson flying on his wing to watch for flak or fighters, but the former had trouble with his radio so they reversed positions. 

Robinson first located a battery of four medium guns on Cap Sicie. He had the ship on the target in five salvos and the battery was completely destroyed. Then he directed fire from the U.S.S. Nevada’s 14-inch guns on a six-gun battery in a concrete revetment. An intense anti- aircraft barrage was put up against the two American planes but Robinson spotted the target for the battleship until it was destroyed.

Then they tackled a third target—six or seven heavy guns on Cap Capet. They were well-camouflaged and visibility was none too good. Robinson could not see them from the altitude he had been flying—1,000 to 3,500 feet—so he dropped down to 100 feet. He located the guns and directed the ship’s batteries on them until they were silenced. 

“Robinson put on the finest exhibition of spotting I have ever seen,” said Sandor on returning to the ship. “At the complete disregard of his own personal safety he flew right down to the targets to make his observations. His spots were faultless.” 

Sometimes, however, enemy guns would keep on firing despite the heavy bombardment. Then Hellcats loaded with rockets and bombs went into action. 

There was one fort on Port Cros, a small island oft the coast, that kept shooting at our troops landing on the beaches despite every attempt to knock it out. An eight-plane flight led by Lieutenant Commander Sandor attacked the fort, dive-bombing from 7,000 feet out of the sun. Two runs were made with depth bombs and rockets and many hits were scored. Planes from the Kasaan Bay and Seafires from the British carrier followed up the assault. The fort surrendered in a couple of hours. 

During the landings and the fighting to secure our beachheads there was little opposition from the Luftwaffe. But although the Navy fighter pilots failed to encounter any Nazi aircraft while spotting or flying air cover over beaches and fleet, they did not go scoreless in operation. 

They had to fly nearly 150 miles inland to find enemy planes but they got them. 

On a reconnaissance mission over Lyons, a group of the Hellcats ran into three Heinkel He-111’s. Lieutenant Commander Sandor and Ensign Robinson tackled one. The latter got in the first burst with a full deflection shot and then both pilots followed the enemy bomber down and finished destroying it. 

Lieutenant Rene E. Poucel, USNR, of New York City, whose parents were born in the area over which he was flying, and Ensign Alfred R. Wood, USNR, of Yonkers, jumped the second plane and quickly sent it down in flames. Wood got the third Heinkel with one burst of his machine guns. 

Later, Lieutenant (J.G.) Edward W. Olsewski, USNR, of Richmond Heights, Missouri, and Ensign Richard V. Yentzer, USNR, of Sheridan, Wyoming, ran into three Junkers Ju-52’s over the Rhone River. Both American planes had previously been damaged by flak in attacks on Nazi motor columns and had used up most of their ammunition. Olsewski had only one of his six guns firing but he shot down two of the enemy planes and Yentzer got the other. 

This made a total of six enemy planes for the squadron—all they saw in the air during the entire operation. 

But though, the Luftwaffe gave them little trouble, the antiaircraft fire was something else. Planes going out on spotting or attack missions a large portion of the time returned with flak holes in them. Some of them did not return, although in all but one or two instances the pilots parachuted safely. 

A veteran Fighting French pilot taking part in the operation declared that the ack-ack over Toulon was the heaviest he had ever seen, and he had flown over Berlin and many other targets in Germany. 

The beating the Hellcats took from flak and yet kept flying was a tribute both to the ruggedness of the airplane and the job done by the Tulagi’s plane maintenance crews. 

The “mechs” and other plane repairmen under Lieutenant Edward O. Hudson, Jr., USNR, of Mexia, Texas, would grab the shot-up planes as they came down on the Tulagi’s elevators and work on them all night. Almost invariably the damaged planes would be ready for operations the next day. 

Once a Hellcat received a 20-mm. shell hit in its engine, the missile going through three cylinders. The plane was flown back to the ship and made a normal landing. The next day it was back in service. 

Besides proving the ruggedness of the Hellcat, the campaign also demonstrated that the fighter plane was an admirable dive bomber and rocket-firing attack plane. The rockets caused terrific damage to most any sort of target. 

One of the most effective weapons used by the Hellcats was an anti-submarine depth charge equipped with a contact fuse. They were the only bombs available after the planes had been slugging the Nazi trains and trucks west of the Rhone for several days. But the missiles—with their tremendous blast effect—proved admirable for dropping within forts or on motor columns. 

The unexpected expenditures of bombs against so many targets in the fighter-bomber sweeps gave rise to another expedient. A considerable quantity of British bombs was obtained but they would not fit into our bomb-racks. 

Ordnance officers Lieutenant Ralph K. Andrist, USNR, of Minneapolis, and Ensign Edward F. O’Brien, USNR, of Rockford, Illinois, met the problem by grinding the lugs on the bombs to fit—while everyone on the ship got as far from the ordnance shops as their duties would allow. 

Other divisions of the Tulagi’s air department, headed by Lieutenant Commander Adrian H. Perry, USN, of Pasadena, California, as well as the entire ship’s company did their part of the team job necessary to get the Hellcats on the target. 

The landing deck crew under Lieutenant Leonard L. Brannan, USNR, of Auburn, Washington, smashed their own speed marks in getting the Hellcats into the air and down again. Brannan claims an all-Navy record for catapulting planes. 

After the destruction or surrender of the last of the enemy coastal defenses and the retreat of the German armies to central France, there was little left for Admiral Durgin’s force to do and orders were received to withdraw from south France area. 

Before we left, however, General Saville made a personal visit to this ship to thank for Admiral Durgin and his airmen for their support. Accompanying him was General Bouscat, commanding general of the French Air Force. 

General Saville also sent a dispatch to Admiral Hewitt commending the carrier task group for its work. 

“I would like to express my appreciation,” he stated, “of the outstanding work they have done and of their perfect cooperation. I consider the relationship and cooperation of the force to be a model of perfection and a severe standard for future operations”.

As the smoke cleared over Southern France, the Hellcats had not only proven their mettle but had also reshaped naval aviation tactics forever. With their combination of speed, firepower, and adaptability, these planes played a vital role in securing victory for the Allies. Their story is one of relentless determination and innovation—a testament to the courage of the men who flew them and the ingenuity of those who built them. Stay tuned as I continue to explore the untold stories of aviation history that shaped the outcome of World War II. You won’t want to miss what’s coming next!

I’ll see you in the next one!

The post Tony’s Short Stories: Hellcats over France appeared first on Buffalo Air-Park.

Welcome to a journey back in time to the Pacific Theater of World War II, where the fate of nations was shaped in the skies. In today’s episode of Tony’s Short Stories, we’re exploring a saga of resilience and legacy—the Douglas Dauntless, a dive bomber that defied obsolescence and became one of the most effective aerial weapons in history. Known affectionately by its pilots as “The Clunk,” this aircraft proved its worth in some of the most critical battles, from the Coral Sea to Midway, helping to turn the tide of war. Stay with me as I dive into the legacy of this underestimated war machine and uncover how it earned a place in history as one of the Navy’s most revered planes.

“The Dauntless”, by Gaither Littrell, Western Editor of Flying, published in the January 1945 issue of Flying magazine.

Obsolescent when war began, the Dauntless carried, with honor, the brunt of the early Pacific battles.

“Only development of planes with greater speed and range induced the Navy to cease production of what probably was the most destructive single air weapon in its arsenal. (Signed) James Forrestal, Secretary of the Navy.” 

This high tribute from the Secretary of the Navy has just been given, an airplane that generally is credited by Naval aviation with paving the way for winning the Pacific war. 

Yet this “most destructive single air weapon” was obsolescent when it was making these great victories possible! 

Affectionately known to pilots as “The Clunk,” this outdated plane, whose production has just been 5,936 built, is completed with the Douglas SBD dive bomber-the Douglas Dauntless. 

As long as men discuss the great battles of the Pacific, the story of the Dauntless will be told. It will go something like this: 

From December 7, 1941, to the summer of 1944, Dauntlesses had flown more than 1,190,000 operational hours. Twenty-five per cent of all operational hours flown off aircraft carriers were by the Dauntless. This also includes the time accumulated by other type planes operating from small carriers that do not carry Dauntlesses. The plane has run up 26 per cent of all Marine Corps operational flying hours. 

In a recount of their part in the war, the Dauntlesses will be remembered most vividly for their work in the great holding battles from the Coral Sea engagement, May, 1942, up to the last big Japanese strike against Guadalcanal in November, 1942. 

In that seven-month period, Dauntlesses are officially credited as follows:

Sinking of 14 enemy aircraft carriers, 14 enemy cruisers, six enemy destroyers, 15 transports and cargo ships, and scores of smaller craft. Additionally, in co-operation with Grumman Avengers, surface gunfire and submarines, they destroyed two more carriers, one patrol ship, damaged three other carriers, five patrol ships, 11 cruisers and five transport and cargo ships. 

Throughout all their missions-from the attack on Pearl Harbor to the recent retaking of Guam-the Dauntlesses are revealed by the Navy to have maintained a lower ratio of losses per mission than any other carrier-based plane. 

Dauntlesses mixed it up with Zeros the first day that Japan became an armed enemy of the United States. One Dauntless operating from the U.S.S. Enterprise, which was in the proximity of Hawaii at the time, is credited with destroying the first enemy plane of the war. 

With the Grumman Wildcats and Douglas Devastator torpedo planes, the Dauntlesses were given the task of delaying the onrushing Japanese drive until our aerial military might could be revived with new, better planes. 

First offensive venture of the Dauntlesses came only three months after Pearl Harbor, when Admiral William F. (“Bull”) Halsey, Jr., took a small task force into the Marshall and Gilbert Islands in February, 1942. 

From the decks of the “Big E,” squadrons of Dauntlesses climbed to rendezvous, approached their targets and peeled off one by one, hitting Japanese ships, hangars, airstrips and troop bivouacs with 1,000-pound bombs. 

The same force hit Marcus and Wake Islands in March, 1942. Admiral Halsey received a Presidential citation for that brave, boldly-executed operation. With the entire ship’s crew mustered top-side, the Admiral was presented with the decoration. 

About this time all was not going well at Naval air stations on the mainland. The Navy needed dive bomber pilots but not enough Dauntlesses could be spared from combat. 

At San Diego, pilots assigned to the fleet were in their last stages of advanced training. They needed to familiarize themselves with the Dauntlesses but none were available. Then one morning the air station field was dotted with 18 battleworn SBD’s flown in during the night. And for two weeks the new pilots had a chance to gain a few minutes flying time in these planes until a carrier heading for the Pacific battle area stopped by San Diego, picked up the 18 planes and headed to sea. 

Production of the Dauntless had begun again at the Douglas El Segundo plant, however, and, in late March, 1942, the first new batch of Dauntlesses were coming off the line. Training caught up to schedule soon thereafter and new squadrons were sent to the war zones. 

In May came the Coral Sea battle, where the Dauntlesses sank one Japanese carrier, badly damaged several others and scored hits and near misses on other shipping. Tulagi Harbor was the next surprise action of Dauntlesses, flown from the U.S.S. Yorktown. Dive bomber pilots and their gunners here taught the Japanese that Dauntlesses were also tough babies in a dog-fight. Their guns shot down several Zeros in this engagement. 

Then came the Battle of Midway. It was a triumph for the Dauntless. In that historic engagement of June, 1942, Dauntless planes operating off the Enterprise, the Hornet and the Yorktown dive-bombed and sank at least four enemy carriers and damaged many other warships of the Japanese fleet. Never before had one type of aircraft done so much damage to capital warships. 

Dauntlesses which had fought their way through the violent fighter and antiaircraft opposition were returned to Pearl Harbor after the battle. Here the pilots and ground crews became aware of the sturdiness of the Dauntless. Many had gaping wounds in their wings, fuselages and tail surfaces. It seemed incredible that an airplane could absorb such punishment and still manage to return to the carrier for a landing. 

In the summer of 1942 the carrier fleet moved into the South Pacific. There the Dauntlesses carried on the tedious work of flying long search patrols ahead of the fleet and hovering in protection over the task forces hour after hour. The Dauntless bore the flying burden. 

In the fall of 1942, the U.S. Marines landed on Guadalcanal, with Dauntlesses spearheading the attack. When Henderson Field was secured, Dauntlesses landed and began operations as shore-based bombers and patrol planes. Marine Corps pilots put them to work in as trying a test as any aircraft has undergone. 

With only a few Dauntlesses, the Marine flyers covered the long stretches northwest of Guadalcanal, flying night and day to spot the “Tokyo Express,” the enemy’s fast-moving cruiser and destroyer forces which attempted to carry replacements almost daily from Bougainville to Guadalcanal. 

Usual procedure followed by Dauntless Marine pilots was to take off in the afternoon from Henderson Field and attack the “Tokyo Express” in clear daylight. At night they would attack docks where the ships that had withstood the afternoon bombings were unloading troops. And then in the mornings the Dauntlesses would fly out to attack the Japanese ships as they headed back to Bougainville. 

This ‘round-the-clock operation permitted only the barest minimum of upkeep. The worst days for the Dauntlesses were over by the end of 1942, when more and more planes of different types were poured into the Pacific area. The Dauntless no longer had to carry the terrific load virtually alone. 

The Dauntlesses still had an active part to take, though. When the drive started up the Solomons chain, these planes were given the hazardous job of pinpoint objective bombing, such as gun emplacements, barges, fortifications, radio communication centers and stubborn points of resistance. As the Marines continued to advance, so did the Dauntlesses, operating from one new landing field after the other. 

When the carrier offensive was renewed in the summer of 1943, Dauntlesses were the old reliables once again. But this time they were strictly on the offensive in the Central Pacific. They took part in the first small-scale carrier strike at Marcus Island on September 1, right up on and through the attacks on Wake, the Gilberts, the Marshalls, Truk, Rabaul, Palau, Hollandia, Saipan and Guam. 

And the Dauntless was considered obsolete! No one knows that better than E. H. Heinemann, Dauntless project engineer and currently chief engineer of the Douglas El Segundo (California) plant, where the last Dauntless was just completed. He says: 

“The Dauntless was a pre-war combat plane and has been repeatedly considered obsolescent. As late as June, 1941, it was stated by high-ranking officers that it was dead and that there would be no further orders. While it is true that performance is not all that is desired, it still is the only unrestricted dive bomber in service in this country.” 

The Dauntless was conceived back in 1934. At that time John K. Northrop, one of the leading aeronautical geniuses of the nation, headed the Northrop Aircraft Company, Inc. (this later became Douglas’ El Segundo division and is not to be confused with Northrop Aircraft, Inc., now in operation at Hawthorne, California). Northrop was personally in charge of the engineering department and shop. Associated with him was Ed Heinemann. 

That year the company received an invitation from the Navy Department, Bureau of Aeronautics, to bid on a dive bomber. The company also was in the throes of developing a plane for the U.S. Army which later became known as the A-17A. 

Northrop selected Heinemann as project engineer on the Navy job and Heinemann prepared the initial drawings and bid. Those were tense, exciting 18-hour working days for Northrop and Heinemann. The dive bomber bid was on a competitive basis, with Northrop arrayed against the engineering talents of Brewster, Vought, Curtiss and Great Lakes aviation companies. 

It was a gratifying triumph for these men when the Navy Department accepted their bid and awarded Northrop a contract for one experimental XBT-1 dive bomber. Engineering work and the experimental model were completed in 1934 and 1935. After six months of tests and incorporation the into the plane of Heinemann-designed perforated, or “Swiss cheese” type dive flaps, the first XBT-1 was delivered to the Navy at Anacostia in December, 1935. 

Meanwhile the other companies were eliminated because the Brewster was late in completion and developed so many difficulties that only a few were built, although it was reported faster than other planes designed. The Great Lakes design was a biplane which was eliminated because it was of much less advanced design. The Vought had the best performance but was seriously handicapped in diving because it relied upon the propeller as a dive brake. This was a constant source of trouble and required that the plane be operated under serious restrictions. The Curtiss was also a bi-plane which had been under construction in earlier design for several years. It was purchased in moderate quantity but was discontinued because of obsolescence. 

“The difficulties of designing a successful dive bomber can be understood,” explains Heinemann, “when it is considered that of the five original competition contenders only the Dauntless was sufficiently successful and rugged enough to endure this length of time. Furthermore, the famous Curtiss Helldiver, the result of a design competition held in the summer of 1939, has only recently come into service.” 

After conducting its own tests on the XBT-1 for two months, the Navy accepted it as a satisfactory service type and a contract for 54 BT-1’s was awarded in 1936. 

“I remember how our small company was striving for business at that time,” Northrop recalls, “and what a tremendous boost it gave all of us when the contract was awarded. Why, 50 airplanes then was comparable to an order for 500 today!”

Although it was not the same airplane, the BT-1 was similar in many respects to the A-17A and the engineering done in advance on the A-17A served as a guide in the construction of the BT-1. Both were of multi-cellular monocoque structure; had the same aerodynamic characteristics and airfoil sections; the same engines, and similar flaps, although the BT-1 incorporated improved flaps which served as dive brakes. 

The A-17A’s had a wing spread of 48 feet, whereas the BT-1 had a span of 41½ feet, the wings purposely shortened for carrier operation. Other dimensions differed correspondingly. 

During 1937, while the delivery of BT-1’s was being delayed by a company strike, engineering was begun to convert the BT-1 into a new model designated the XBT-2. This airplane had a fully retractable landing gear and a Wright Cyclone engine instead of the Pratt & Whitney engine installed in the BT-1’s. It was flown in April, 1938, and delivered to the Navy for trials. It is interesting to note that, in 1938, experiments with a BT-1 carrying a tricycle landing gear were conducted. The gear was abandoned as unsuitable shortly after. 

Northrop assisted in the development of the XBT-2, but in the latter part of 1937, he sold his stock in the Northrop Company to Donald Douglas, who turned the plant into what is today, the El Segundo division of the Douglas Aircraft Company, where all Dauntlesses were produced. Northrop left Douglas on January 1, 1938. 

A contract was obtained for a production quantity of BT-2 airplanes in February, 1939. With this order came a change in the Navy designation. The plane became the SBD-1, forerunner of the current SBD series. It meant “scout bomber, Douglas.” 

As the result of operating experience and tests conducted with BT-1’s, new stability and control specifications were established, making it necessary to redesign all control surfaces of the Dauntless in 1939. Many airplanes under partial construction were affected. It was necessary under this new requirement for the company to run exhaustive fight test programs, during which 21 different sets of tail surfaces and 12 sets of lateral control surfaces were constructed and tested. 

These tests resulted in the Dauntless becoming a criterion for stability and control for this type of craft, but it caused a considerable delay in production. Deliveries were not started until May, 1940. 

Success of this model resulted in contracts being awarded for the SBD-2, SBD-3, SBD-4, SBD-5 and the SBD-6. Changes in the model numbers can be accounted for by such relatively minor changes as voltage of the electrical system, increased power in the power plant, additional fuel tanks, etc. 

Meanwhile, the Army had become interested and had placed an order for several hundred A-24 attack bombers, which were SBD’s all over again with the exception of the landing hook needed by Dauntlesses for landings on aircraft carriers. These orders were filled at the Douglas plant in Tulsa, Oklahoma. 

The Dauntless today is a low-wing monoplane arrangement with aluminum alloy semi-monocoque construction. Its span is 41 ft. 6 3/8 in.; length is 33 ft. 1 1/4in.; and height is 15 ft. 7 in. Wing area is 325 sq. ft., loading is 29.3 lbs. per sq. ft. It has two-place tandem cockpits provided with sliding transparent enclosures. Self-sealing fuel tanks are carried in both center and outer wings. 

Gross weight of the Dauntless is 9,288 pounds, whereas the BT-1’s were 6,830 pounds. Dauntlesses are equipped with a Wright R-1820-60 Cyclone engine, developing 1,200 horsepower, while the BT-1’s carried an R-1535 Pratt & Whitney engine developing 750 horsepower. 

Top speed of the Dauntless is more than 230 m.p.h., compared with 219 m.p.h. of the BT-1. Terminal velocity of the Dauntless without dive brakes is over 400 m.p.h., while the use of dive brakes (one on the upper and one on the lower surface of the wing) reduces the velocity to under 300 m.p.h., thus improving dive-bombing accuracy and permitting closer approaches to moving targets. Rate of climb is over 1,400 ft. per min., cruising speed is 185 m.p.h. at 14,000 feet. 

A bomb rack and displacing gear are provided under the fuselage for carrying and displacing either one 500-pound, or one 1,000-pound bomb in vertical dives; one rack also is provided on each outer wing for bombs in all sizes from 100 to 500 pounds, as well as depth charges and chemical tanks. 

Two .50-caliber fixed machine guns are mounted in front of the pilot, one on each side of the instrument board and synchronized to fire between propeller blades. Two .30-caliber flexible machine guns are mounted in the rear cockpit, with both pilot and gunner protected by armor plate. The BT-1’s mounted only one flexible .50-caliber machine gun. 

Handling characteristics of the Dauntless are outstanding. Because of their high maneuverability they have been used on occasion as fighters against attacking Japanese planes. Stability and control is maintained down to within five m.p.h. of the stalling speed, which is 78 m.p.h. There are few combat planes in which this rare condition exists. 

The Dauntless series is the first upon which perforated dive flaps were used. The purpose of the holes in the flaps is to break up the eddys that flow off the trailing edge of flaps in order not to cause excessive tail buffeting. Fixed leading edge wing slots are provided to obtain aileron control after a wing stall. 

Range of the Dauntless fully loaded is over 1,000 miles, while the service ceiling is 25,200 feet. Wing loading is 29.3 pounds. 

To show how cost declines in aircraft building with volume production, it is revealed that it cost more than $85,000 to produce the XBT-1, while the 5,936th—and final—Dauntless to come off the line cost approximately $29,000. 

Now that the Dauntlesses have more than fulfilled their purpose and are being replaced aboard carriers by newer and better aircraft, Heinemann and other Douglas engineers are engaged in designing more advanced craft for the Navy. They thought a short time back they had the answer in what was designated the BTD—bomber torpedo Douglas—but the Navy contract on the gull-wing, bomber—torpedo plane was cancelled after a few were constructed because too much time would elapse before they could be taken into combat in sufficient numbers. 

There is one thing that is almost a certainty, though. And that is that no other plane in our aerial arsenal will store up so many surprises for the enemy as did the Dauntless.

As the last of the Dauntlesses rolled off the production line, few could have predicted the lasting impact this aircraft would have on the course of history. Obsolete when war began, the Dauntless defied expectations, becoming the unsung hero of the Pacific. From its nail-biting dives to its dogfights against enemy Zeros, the Dauntless not only survived but thrived in the most intense combat environments. I hope today’s episode gave you a glimpse into why this aircraft is remembered with such reverence. Thank you for joining me on this flight into history—tune in next time as I uncover more fascinating stories of aviation’s past.

Thanks again, and I’ll see you in the next one!

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