Blowing A Jug in Midair

Several of my emergency landings were the result of engine failure. In my early years of ag-flying, we were flying mostly military surplus airplanes. Some of them were not in good shape to begin with and received very poor maintenance as well. The same went for the engines.

Not only that, but we were running them at well over what was called "METO power" all day long. (METO is short for Maximum Except Take Off.) We also ran them with heavy loads and high manifold pressures and high temperatures all day long. Needless to say the engines didn’t last long. 

They were never designed to be used like that. However, the owners/operators didn’t care because they were cheap and plentiful. When complaining to my employer one day about this engine abuse he nonchalantly growled, “Well don’t hurt yourself.” In other words, “Don’t tell me your troubles, I got troubles of my own.” I found that most owners/operators in that day were not that concerned for the pilot’s safety. In his mind, we were just overpaid farm hands with more guts than brains.

Consequently, from time to time my engine would have a cast-iron fit and fling parts here and there and cease to internally combust. The prop ceased to propel, resulting in a flight interruption which often ruined my day. 

Sometimes there was a warning, sometimes not. 

One day I was spraying rice on the edge of the Gulf of Mexico and the engine went pow-bang-cough-cough and made other vulgar noises. I was pretty certain that I had blown a jug. ("Jug" was slang for a cylinder, so called because of its resemblance to an old-fashioned jug.) I was on my last pass so finished it, pulled up and headed for a county dirt road which I had passed on the way out. I was steadily losing altitude, which I didn’t have an abundance of to begin with. I soon decide I was not going to make the road and would have to put it down in a rice field that was lying fallow. Just to make it interesting and tax my landing skills, the field was muddy and had several levees (some call them terraces) running across my intended landing path.

This was not the first time and I had learned the hard way that I should make a three point landing and hold the stick hard back in my lap, keeping the tail wheel firmly on the muddy ground. Otherwise I would once again find myself dangling from my seat belt/harness in a upside down configuration. 

I touched down at about 60 mph. I was hoping the engine would continue to run until I got it on the ground but when I reduced the throttle, the old Pratt Whitney wheezed and the engine died. Even then it would have been relatively easy, except each time I crossed a levee the plane would jump back up in the air a few feet and the tail would go higher than the previous crossing, then slam down pretty hard. Since I had no power I could not blow the tail down. I repeated this maneuver at each levee. The last one I crossed, the plane had slowed considerably and I was sure that the main gear would sink in the mud. Then the tail would go up and over we would go.

Sure enough the main gear hit the levee, jumped a bit and plowed into mud on the other side of the levee. Up came the tail almost to the point where the prop would strike the ground. It stopped there and remained there a few seconds while I was screeching "NO, NO, NO!"  

It slowly fell back to earth, Kersplat in the mud. Lucky me. 

I climbed out and looked at the engine. My guess was right. The head had popped off a cylinder.

Cotton Chopping with a Ryan PT 22

As you may have noticed, in the banner picture I have my hand on the propeller of a Ryan PT 22 which was the military version of the Ryan ST.  After the war there were many, many trainer types of aircraft that were termed "surplus" and sold to private companies and individuals.  They were usually very cheap and some were in practically new condition.

As you see in the picture, I was admiring this beautifully restored little tail-dragger plane and it reminded me of an incident that made me smile. I went to work as a cropduster in 1960 and as the years went by, I had many little encounters with these surplus aircraft. 

On this particular occasion I was employed by an ag-flying company in West Texas.  My boss and company manager was a non-pilot, but had somehow acquired one of these surplus planes - a Ryan PT 22.  I flew it quite a number of times off of our cropdusting runway which was nothing more than a sandy strip in the middle of a cotton field.  The width of the strip was not much more than the wing span of the planes that were using it. It was a fun little plane to fly - fully aerobatic. A nice toy to play with.

My boss decided one day that he needed to learn to fly the thing.  It just looked so easy and like so much fun.  Being a flight instructor for some years, I agreed to teach him the wonderful and exhilarating skills of flying in my spare time.  After a couple of hours of dual instruction, he informed me he was ready to solo.  The poor guy had never even made a take-off or landing, but was convinced that he could do it.  He had watched his pilots for a number of years and was very sure it wasn't all that complicated.

I did my best to talk him out of this hair-brained idea, but to no avail.  Finally, in desperation I said, "Boss, if you can taxi this little plane down to the end of the strip and go just fast enough to raise the tail wheel off the ground, then chop the power and come to a stop, then turn it around and do the same thing back up the strip to where we are standing, I think you may change your mind."  I knew that like all tail-draggers this little aircraft needed an experienced hand when on the ground.

He quickly put on helmet and goggles and climbed in, muttering more or less to himself, "Piece of cake." He strapped himself in, grabbed the throttle and pointed her down the strip. 

As the tail wheel lifted from the sandy strip, the plane made a quick swerve to the left out into the cotton, which was about thirty inches high.  He was chopping cotton with the prop and throwing it into the air.  He cut the power and quickly came to a stop in the soft sandy soil. 

Then using lots of throttle he managed to get the Ryan turned around and back on the strip, where he repeated the same crazy scenario. Only this time he careened to the right of the strip, chopping cotton to beat the band. 

Back to the strip again. He lined up and pushed the throttle in for more power. The tail came up much faster and he did a full-fledged ground-loop to the left, crossed the runway again, and went ripping out into the cotton on the left side again. 

By this time, with the extra power he had raised a cloud of dust.  Yessir, it was quite a sight!  The air was full of good ole Texas sand, well mixed with cotton bolls and stalks and leaves. 

When he finally wrestled it onto the strip again, he headed back up to the point of departure very slowly so as not to raise the tail wheel. The plane was covered with cotton leaves and stalks and the prop was green with juice.

He climbed out, his face covered with sweat and dirt, and was spewing forth all the cuss words that he could muster.  By this time he had collected quite an audience of ground crewmen and other pilots who were enjoying the show. He seemed to think the whole debacle was entirely my fault and gave me a good cussing too. He stomped into the office swearing and muttering all the way and I heard him say, "I didn't want to fly the ##%@$**& miserable, wretched piece of sky junk anyway!"

Shortly after that, he sold it.