Adventures in Brownfield

Long ago and far away I earned my living by flying as a “Cropduster Pilot.” In the fall of 1962, I wound up In Tulsa, Oklahoma after having had a rather bad season of flying. I had about given up earning enough to live on through the winter months.  I had placed an ad in the little flying newspaper called TRADE-A-PLANE to let the crop-dusting world know that I was available as a bug chasing pilot.

Finally, I got a phone call from an ag operator located in Brownfield, Texas. Mr. James Gandy was the fellow's name.  His pilot had quit him and he was desperate to find another one to finish the season. I immediately told him that I would catch the next plane out before the day was out, which I did. When I arrived in the Lubbock airport, he picked me out of a crowd of deplaning people. Having given him no description of myself, I asked him how he knew who I was in that crowd and he grinned and said, "You just looked like a hungry airplane driver."  I laughed and said, "I didn’t know it showed but you are right."

A New Old Plane

Mr. Gandy hustled me into his pickup and we hightailed to Brownfield, about a thirty- or forty-minute drive. He drove directly to his private landing strip and so help me, there was a Stearman spray plane sitting at the loading pit with the engine running. The loading man saw us coming and began pumping chemical into the plane. My usual method if I was going to fly a plane that was new to me, I would first take the plane up and fly it around a bit to familiarize myself with the ship before flying it loaded. James said, "To heck with that. I have farmers lined up and champing at the bit for a spray plane because the bugs are eating their crops up as we speak."

Mr. Gandy was not a pilot himself so he didn’t know that it was good practice to fly the plane a bit before going to work in it.  Anyway, I didn’t argue. I pulled on my crash helmet, buckled myself in and yelled to the ground man to pull the chocks from the wheels. I eased the throttle forward, taxied to the strip. I checked the magnetos, cycled the prop and aimed the ratty old Stearman down the strip. I shoved the throttle open and left mother earth. The plane was sluggish and I had my hands full keeping her in the air.

James had given me directions to the first field to be sprayed, where flagmen were waiting on me. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon when I began and I worked until almost dark. I don’t believe I ever started a job so quickly. The farmers were jumping up and down to get fields sprayed and I needed the money. While working, I familiarized myself with the quirks of the old bird, making a mental note of things that must changed first thing in the morning. I could have filled a page full of notes with things that were wrong with it. But believe it or not, I earned over a hundred dollars before I quit that first evening.

Next morning, I was out at the strip and with tools furnished by Gandy, I did mechanical work on the old worn out plane. There were several farmers on hand as well. To say they were anxious is a huge understatement.  I put in a full day and again flew until visibility was gone.

The next day was a repeat. But come the third day I put my foot down. I told James I was not going to fly the ragged old plane again until several big problems were fixed. James and I and a helper worked until noon to repair what was urgent.  From then on, we would work after dark on the old gal and finally got her flying reasonably well.

Even if it was the worst ag plane I ever had to fly, it was some of the easiest flying otherwise as the fields were very large and had no obstructions of any kind.  In a very short time, I earned enough money to take me through the winter so I didn’t grumble overmuch. Also, James was easy to work with. Several interesting incidents occurred that I recall. 

Not Ready for Solo Flying

One occurrence I thought worth recording was the fact that although James was not a pilot, he bought another airplane, almost by accident. Got it from a friend who knew a friend and the price was dirt cheap. It was a low-wing, two place, open cockpit, nice little Ryan ST Aeroplane with a five-cylinder engine. One day James told me about the plane that he had just bought and wanted me to go get it and fly it back to our strip, which I did. 

He had decided it was time for him to learn to fly. Seeing as how I had an instructors’ license, I would be the instructor, OK?  Right. 

So, one Sunday afternoon I placed him in the front seat and I climbed in the back seat. We took off and I flew around a bit, then let him fly the plane a short while just to get the feel of his new toy. Then I would land and give him instructions as to what we were going to do next.  Because there was no way we could talk to each other in the air, we worked out a number of hand signals so we could communicate while in the air. This went on for a several days until he was able to fly well enough to keep the little ship on an even keel and make turns right and left, climb and descend, etc.

With this bit of experience James, being an impatient sort, begin to pressure me to let him fly solo.  I argued, "James, you are not ready to solo yet."  But he was completely confident he was up to the challenge.

After much arguing I said, "OK, OK, I tell you what, if you can taxi the ship down to the far end of the strip with enough speed to lift the tail off the ground and then stop and turn around and taxi all the way back at the same speed with no problems, I’ll turn you loose."
                 
He was sure he could handle it. He climbed in, took the controls in hand and started down the strip which was lined on each side with three foot tall cotton stalks. As he picked up speed, he pushed the stick forward and lifted the tall wheel off the ground.  From that point on it was a circus. He quickly lost control and swerved out into the cotton. The prop began cutting a path through the three-foot high cotton, slinging cotton stalks and bolls into the air like a huge lawnmower!

After a wild run through the cotton, he finally gained control enough to turn the plane around and get back on the strip. Then the plane went zipping across the strip and plunging into the cotton on the opposite side, making another 180-degree turn. The plane crossed the strip again and plunged back into the cotton on the original side once more.  Finally, he had enough presence of mind to close the throttle. The tail came back to ground and he regained control.

He very slowly taxied back up the strip here I was standing. He shut the engine off and climbed out. Walking up to me with a very determined look on his face, he announced, "I’m going to sell the blankiddy-blank piece of junk," then turned on his heels and stalked off to the office.

He wasn’t kidding. He never set foot in it again and he did sell the cute little Ryan. I guess he thought he was born knowing how to fly an airplane.

Cantankerous Characters

While I am on the subject of flying for James Gandy and company, I might mention that the office of this company was a sort of gathering place for some of Brownfield's strange characters. As an instance, one day we were sitting around not very busy since it was getting close to the end of the season. A pickup pulled up in front of the office and a very big feller came stomping in, walked up in front of James' desk, placed his fists on his hips akimbo and announced in a loud voice, "James, I came here to  whup yore hide!" James looked up at him and said, "Are you serious or just mad?"

"I am serious, and mad too!"

It was sort of funny because James acted as though this was a routine thing and in a matter of fact way said, "Well, if you are serious let's go out back so no one can see us and interfere." The big feller pointed to the door and said, "Be my guest."

They casually walked out back and James said, "Since this is your fight you can throw the first punch."  Whereupon the big guy swung his big fist in a haymaker aimed at James' face. James ducked the fist and caught the big feller with a quick left-handed jab to the chin, which connected with a loud pop and the fight was on. They went at it hook and tong. Trading blows, ducking and dodging, grunting and growling. I could tell right off that this was not James' first fisticuff engagement. 

The big guy swung his oversize fits with a lot of power but just couldn’t seem to connect with a solid blow.  He did land one solid punch and put James on the ground but he was quickly on his feet again and with a hard punch to the belly and a solid blow to the jaw which put the big feller on the ground.  Before the big boy could recover, James kicked him on the side of the head with his boot which seem to stun him and then James kicked him in the crotch which doubled him up in pain. As he tried to get up, James slammed another fierce blow to the temple which put him back on the ground and more or less took most of the fight out of him. He just flopped over on his side and groaned. That was the end of the fight.

They were both breathing heavily. James extended his hand and helped big guy up. He was dazed and his nose was dripping blood and he had several cuts and bruises on his face. James said, "Had enough or shall we continue?"

The big guy grunted and said, in a matter of fact way, "I guess I’m whupped." There was an outdoor faucet and short hose lying close by and James picked it up and washed big guy's face off.  This seemed to revive him and he said, "Maybe I ain’t whupped," and he acted like he wanted to make another go of it but James said, "Naw, Hank you're done.  You might as well go home."
 
Big Guy said, "Yeah, guess you are right," as he crawled into his truck. He then stuck his head out the window and said, "James I want you to know that this ain’t over." James said, "Well, when you think you need some more persuading, I’m ready day or night."  The Big Guy drove off. James turned to me and said, "What's funny is I don’t know what he was ticked off about.  He never said and I didn’t ask."

For all I knew, they were once good friends.

Hammer Head Into the Ground

Another interesting event while I was in Brownfield, I thought I would mention. There were several other crop-dusting operators working in the area and we pilots would usually eat morning and evening meals at the same restaurant. As usual when pilots get together there is a lot of lying and bragging and swapping yarns, etc.  One of the pilots who was called Morse was known for flying low and fast and making very quick turn-arounds at the end of each swath. 

This type of turn was generally known as “Hammer Head” turn. The method was to pull straight up at the end of the swath until the airplane was basically hanging on the prop, and on the ragged edge of a stall the pilot shoves in full rudder and the plane tend to slide sideways until it is headed straight down and plunges earthward until the pilot  pulls back on the stick as the plane pick up enough speed to recover flight but headed in the opposite direction.  If done correctly, it was a very quick way to reverse directions.  Needless to say, it must be done exactly right or bad things happen - like colliding with planet earth, nose first.  I myself could do this but knowing it was cutting things pretty close I seldom did it unless I was showing off.

Well Morse, was quite pleased with himself because he was known for doing this on a regular basis and couldn’t help doing a bit of bragging now and then. Several of us pilots warned him that he was going to make a misstep one of these days and end up on the wrong side of the grass. He would just laugh and make some idiotic statement about his wonderful flying ability.

Sure, enough he was working a field about a half mile from the one I was on and about his second or third pass he drove his nice blue painted plane into the ground at a very acute angle which was almost straight down.  I didn’t actually see him crash but as I made my next pass I saw a small cloud of dust arising from the cotton at the edge of the field, and as I looked closer I saw the blue tail of the plane sticking skyward in the middle of the dust cloud. I pulled up and flew over to the crash site and Morse was climbing out of the wreckage.  He was walking around so I figured he wasn't hurt too bad. Also, there were several ground vehicles racing to him so I continued my work. 

Morse didn’t show up for evening meal and some of the other pilots thought he might be in the hospital.  Next morning, he was at the breakfast table and was complaining of a great deal of soreness here and there on his body. The word got around that the plane was a total loss and Morse was not with us anymore.  Probably fired.

Night Flying

Having been an ag-pilot or "cropduster" for many years, I met many different types of pilots and ag-operators. Some good people, some bad, some honest and some dishonest, some smart, some dumb - in other words, much like the general population. 

Then there were the odd ball types that would not fit in any category. It seems to me that this type of flying attracted more than our share of this sort. I would place Shorty Biggers in this group.  When we would go to a café for breakfast, lunch or dinner (supper if you prefer) he always ordered fried chicken.

No bread, no salad, no anything else - just fried chicken. He would clean the bones and then pile them up beside his plate.  A bit odd wouldn’t you say?

Then there was Slick Callahan. I guess he was called Slick because he always wet his hair in the morning and slicked it straight back. Slick was absolutely sure that he was the best ag-pilot that ever climbed in an airplane. Whatever was to be done he could do it better than anyone and no doubt about it. We worked for the same operator in North Idaho for one season and then it struck James that he ought to start his own business. He bought an ag-plane and other equipment and set up shop near a small town in south Idaho.

Night Flying

Now in this area most of the ag-type flying was done at night. That’s right, at night. There was a reason for this insanity. You see most of the crops in this part of the world were "Seed Crops," meaning the crops were raised just for the seeds. Now I am not talking about wheat, rye, barley, or oats, the usual seed crops.  I’m talking turnips, carrots, onions, cabbages, parsnips and other vegetables type crops. To make good seeds the crops had to be pollinated. The best pollinator for this purpose was a creature called a "leaf-cutter" bee. 

These bees like most bees did their beesness during the daylight hours - from first light in the morning until dark-thirty in the evening. The seed-crop farmer had to import these little critters and they were very expensive.  Some said worth a dollar or more each. Consequently, the seed-crop farmers made bee-boards by drilling hundreds of small holes in a 4" X 6" around four feet long, fasten these together and placed them all over his fields as homes for his bees.  Yes sir, he took very good care of his bees and he sure did not want them harmed in anyway, especially by cropduster-types spraying insecticide. 

However, his vegetables had to be sprayed every so often for other types of predatory insects that would attack and devour his precious turnips, carrots, cabbages, onions and other stuff. This posed a problem. So, the solution was to have the ag-type flyers do their insect killing spraying at night when his dang leaf-cutting pollinating little worker bees were all at home and asleep in their cozy little holes in the bee-boards. 

My friend and fellow aviator Slick Callahan (his real name was James) called me one fine day and he sayeth unto me, "Roberts, I need for you to come down here and work for me. The pay is good, the food is excellent, the flying at night is fun, and I’m sure you will like it."

Well gullible and broke that I happened to be at the time, I packed my carpet-bag and appeared at his door forthwith.

James showed me around and introduced me to his ground crew and the CallAir-type aeroplane I would be flying.  The plane was modified somewhat for night flying, such as having large one-million-candle-power light under each wing with the light beam directed straight ahead.  On each wing tip was a smaller light attached at an angle which helped to make a turn at low altitude safer by directing the beam toward the ground. On the control stick in the cockpit was a cluster of switches that controlled theses lights. The forward lights were powerful enough to light up the area in the path of the plane for at least a half mile. 

His ground crew included two female women-types for flagmen, or should I say flagwomen.  These persons carried a strong flashlight and when the pilot was lining up for swath at low altitude they would shine their lights directly at him. It all sounded like it was well planned and might even work.
"You are going to love this type of flying," he repeated over and over. "The air is lots smoother at night. You’ll have the whole sky to yourself. No one to complain about your low flying 'cause they can't see you - heh heh heh. You don’t have to worry about killing someone's bees. Yeah, yer gonna love it."

So, after being briefed on the operation James took me on a tour during the daylight hours of the fields I would be spraying during the following nights. So began my career as a night flying ag-pilot.

Night Flying Newbie

I don’t mind telling that I was a bit nervous as I loaded up my plane and took off into the pitch-black night. First off, I was a stranger to the area and it took me some time just to find the field that I was to spray. As I climbed up to about three or four hundred feet and looked around there were lights everywhere. Every farm house, every chicken house, every barn, every vehicle had lights.

I had to fly around for half an hour looking for those two flag-women with what I thought would be strong lights. Finally, I spotted lights that were blinking on and off and realized it was the women standing at each end of the target field. Their flash lights were not strong at all. They looked like tiny little pin lights. Nevertheless, I lined up on them and swooped into the field for my first swath. As lined up I hit the button that turned on my flood lights.

Now these lights were definitely powerful. They lit things up for at least a half mile which was about the length of the field. I made my first pass pulled up at the end of the field, clicked off my flood lights, clicked on the right-hand wingtip light as I turned forty-five degrees to the right. 

I could see the ground on the right side just fine. I rolled to the left to make my turnaround as I clicked off the right-hand light and clicked on the left-hand tip light.  Bringing the plane around I saw my flagwomen flashing their lights at me. I lined up and clicked off the wingtip light and clicked on my flood lights. I made another pass and then repeated the operation until this field was covered with a coating of insecticide and by George, I didn’t kill any of the danged leaf-cutters.

As I made the last swath and headed back to the strip I could not find it. I wandered around in the darkness thinking, "Slick, ma frien, I'm not enjoying this here night flying very much."

Finally, I spotted the strip with the help of the loading crewman. He flashed his truck lights on and off till I noticed him. After a few trips I began to feel slightly more confident and soon fell into the usual routine familiar to all ag-pilots.  Back and forth, to and fro, up and down. I worked for about eight hours and headed back to the home base which I had a bit of trouble finding among all those blasted lights. 

One other item I need to mention was the fact that I had a CB radio in the cockpit and was in contact with my boss who was driving around in his pickup talking to farmers and hustling up business. This was the time of the advent of CB (Citizens Band) radio when radio contact with common folks was a novel thing, especially between truckers and other types who were always chattering away in their peculiar lingo. It was "Hey, good buddy what's yer twenty?  Have we got a clear shot with no smoky bears to worry about? Are yew my front door or back door? I’m nearing Denver town, good buddy. Jabber jabber jabber."

Bossman James had picked up this stupid lingo and it was, "How’s it goin' good buddy? What’s yer twenty, good buddy.  I’ll see you at the strip good buddy. Etc etc." James was a talker and talk he did to the point I want to tell him to "Shut the h--- up, Good buddy!!"  But he was my boss, so I didn't.

Night Flying Problems

Anyways, I eventually I was able to find my way around at night and was beginning to get comfortable in the CallAir, but I found I could not sleep during the day. Most every evening I went to work very sleepy. Not good. 

I also found that I could not see power lines very well at night. I would be down in the field with an altitude of three or four feet, doing about one hundred and twenty miles per hour approaching a power line at the opposite end of the field. It was danged difficult to tell just when to pull up to clear the line. One time I would pull up convinced I was close enough only to find I was still some distance from the power line. The next time I would pull up and just miss hitting the line by  inches. A real heart stopper.  Actually I could see the lines alright because they were shiny reflecting my flood lights but my depth perception was not very consistent. NOT GOOD.

Another problem I encountered that was not only irksome but dangerous - I felt I needed to go out to the fields that I was to spray and look them over in the day time noting any and all obstructions such as trees, posts, power lines telephone lines etc. Then at night I was familiar with the location and there would not be any last-minute surprises. After I had been on the job for a few weeks I would be working a field that I had surveyed in daylight hours. Bossman James would be on the ground visiting with the owner of the field. He would call me on the radio and say, "Hey good buddy, the farmer is here with me and has decided he would have you do another field nearby while you were here." Which would be fine in day time, but I had not looked that field over the day before. I didn't like to fall into a field that I had not had a chance to look over and I had complained to him several times about this.  He assured me he would always let me know if there were any obstructions. 

Another irritation was a mechanical one. On occasion when I would be entering a field I would click the button on my stick to turn on the flood lights and the blasted lights didn’t come on. It was like diving into a black pit expecting it to be lit up and I was totally blind. My reaction was to quickly pull up while frantically punching the danged button. The lights usually came on after a half dozen tries.  But in those few seconds of blindness at low altitude all sorts of things could happen and all of them bad. The same goes for the wingtip lights. Especially scary on a cloudy night with no moon or starlight and no visual horizon.

When I got back to the landing strip I would heatedly express my opinion of the lights switches. James would work the electrical gadgets over and it would work fine for a while but then it would happen again.

I was getting weary of these adrenaline rushes and began to talk about quitting this insane aviation stuff at night.  James would talk me out of it, saying, "Aw, you will get used to it and you will like it better than daylight flying."

Night Flying Adventure

Then one night I was working a field and good buddy James put me in another nearby patch of vegetables. He said, "The only obstruction is an electrical line running down the east side fence and a cattle feeder pen at the south end, but it is not very close."

"O.K.," I growled, "but I don’t like it."

I decide I would start to work on the east side next to the fence and the power line and that way I would be working further away with each pass. I made my first pass going north just fine. Pulled up and turned around came back into the field going south toward the feeder pens. About half way across the field my eye caught the glint of a power line directly over me, running the same direction as I was going. I saw that the line going down the east side did not go straight down that side but after a few yards along that side it angled across the corner of the field and went into the middle of the feeder pens. I suddenly realized I had gone under that wire on my first pass without even seeing it!!!

 Now I was under it going the same direction. In a fraction of a second, I knew if I pulled up I would become entangled with that wire and it would drag me down into those pens. I was too low to the ground to bank to either side without the wing tip hitting the ground.  My only chance was to hit the rudder hard and make a skidding change of direction to the right side, which I did. 

The feeder pens were coming up fast as I stood up on the rudder pedal and hoped to high heaven that I would pass out from under the wire with room to pull up over the feeder pens. Around the perimeter of the pens were several tall poles with lights on them. In a flash I got out from under the wire and missed the feeder pen fence and sailed between the tall poles missing the overhead wire, the fence and the poles just by inches. 

I leveled off shaking so badly I could hardly keep my feet on the rudder pedals. My heart was pounding hard. I thought I could hear it over the roar of the engine. I shut off the spray boom, headed toward the home base and called my boss.  “HEY GOOD BUDDIE, I AM HEADED FOR THE HOME STRIP AND I WANT YOU TO BE THERE WITH MY FINAL PAYCHECK IN YOUR GOOD BUDDIE HAND."

James happened to see the whole thing and it scared him too. When he arrived back at the base he took one look at me and didn’t even try to talk me out of quitting 'cause he was afraid if he said anything he might get punched in his good buddie chops.

So ended my night flying career. I just wasn't cut out fer 'at sort of flyin'. And seeing as to how I had to sleep sometime I just as soon it be at night.

The Nefarious Pea-Killer

Many farmers had fields of peas alongside a field of wheat. They were always nervous when an ag-plane was spraying the wheat for weeds because the chemicals that were used to kill weeds in the wheat would also kill peas. If the wind happened to be blowing from the wheat field toward the pea field, the drifting over-spray could do a lot of damage to the peas.

One day my friend Buck Erickson was spraying a wheat field with a chemical, carbine, that would kill wild oats. Now carbine will not harm peas. The wheat field that Buck was spraying lay alongside a field of peas. The farmer who owned the pea field, thinking that Buck was applying the common weed killer called 24D, became concerned that the overspray would drift over on his peas.

Mr. Farmer ran out into his field of peas and began trying to wave Buck off. Of course, Buck paid him no mind because he knew the carbine wasn’t going to harm the peas. In desperation, the farmer ran back to his house to call the headquarters of the spray company that Buck worked for to tell them to stop him.

By sheer coincidence Buck accidently struck the telephone line which ran to the farmer’s house, cutting it down. The farmer was so enraged that he jumped in his pickup and raced to the airport to blast the company.  

He stormed into the office and yelled that not only he could not wave the blanky-de-blank pilot off but the blanky-de-blank pilot cut his phone line down so he couldn’t call the office to stop him!

Don't Meet in the Middle

I was working for Arrow Aviation, east of Lewiston, Idaho, applying dry fertilizer to winter wheat. About 2 miles away on another make-shift air strip two of my friends were doing the same thing for a competitor.

I guess I should change the names to protect the guilty. One friend was Fats Hughes and the other was named Germania Gene.

When flying on dry fertilizer it only takes a few minutes to apply a full load of fertilizer if the field you are fertilizing is close by. So it was this day for my friends. As one pilot was out applying his load to the field, the other one was on the ground being loaded. As soon as the load was pumped into the plane on the ground, the pilot quickly swung the plane around and headed down the strip for a takeoff. Shortly after he was airborne he would head for the field being treated and usually pass the other plane returning for his next load. 

Nothing complicated about this, most crop-dusting crews did this regularly. Generally, you would hit the ground about every 15 or 20 minutes. Very monotonous. Up and down, back and forth, get a load, takeoff, fly it on the field and return for the next load, all day long.

The strip that my friends were working off was located in the middle of a pea field. It had a sizeable hump in the middle so much so that when you started your takeoff run you could not see the opposite end of the strip until you topped this hump. Still, it was a smooth strip and the hump presented no problem to experienced pilots. 

You started your takeoff going up-hill, you topped the hill and started downhill and were soon airborne. Same thing in reverse when landing. It was a steady rhythm. 

For some reason, Fats Hughes had a problem and came back to the strip early. He landed on the down-hill side of the hump. Germania Gene didn’t see Fats land. He received his load, swung around, and poured on the coals to the old Pratt Whitney and went roaring up-hill for his takeoff. 

You guessed it. They met at the top of the hump. 

Fortunately, each was off center of the strip, each was a little to his right. They passed each other and sheared off the upper and lower wings on the left side of both Stearman biplanes. Gene said they passed close enough that he could have reached out and slapped Fats as he went by.

Of course, they filled the air with the debris of chopped up airplane wings. Gene, who was taking off, had up a head of steam as they collided. His plane was going fast and before he could shut it down, it careened around to the left, making an wide circular path out through the pea field, and headed back toward Fat’s plane. 

Fats’s plane slewed around, went off the strip, and quickly came to a stop. Whereupon Fats, seeing the other plane circling and coming back in his direction, bailed out and started running. 

Later he explained, "Well, h***, he made one pass at me and I shore wasn’t gonna sit there and let him make another one." 

Fats was a tobacco-chewing feller and said it was enough to make him swaller his chaw!

Fog vs the Bossman

Back around 1963 or so, I was flying for American Dusting Company of Chickasha, Oklahoma. My unit was based in the town of Pecan Gap Texas. Pecan Gap consisted of a small restaurant, a service station, a feed store and about fifteen private residences. The town was surrounded by thousands of acres of cotton fields. 

My airport was owned and operated by a man named Weldon Briscoe who was also my boss. The landing strip was in the middle of his 160-acre place. Being a carpenter in the off season Briscoe asked me to build a hanger for him, which I did. It was large enough to hanger two planes - both Stearman biplanes that were once military trainers and had been converted to ag aircraft.

For the benefit of the unlearned, commercial aircraft, even crop-duster types, have to be inspected every 100 hours of flying time by a federal authorized mechanic. To get this inspection each time I reached one hundred hours, I had to fly to Chickasha where American had their headquarters and did all the maintenance on the planes.

One morning Boss Briscoe said, "Roberts, your time is up. Take the plane to headquarters and get the danged inspection."  Whereupon I looked all around and observed that there was pretty heavy fog enveloping us. Briscoe allowed that we were located only a few miles from the Red River, and fog forms along the river at this time of year. "If you can take off, you will be out of the fog very shortly since it just hangs along the river area."

The fog wasn’t very thick, I noticed, because I could see the big red ball of the early morning sun through the fog.

So I mounted my trusty steed and, keeping my eye on that big red ball, departed for Oklahoma. Sure enough, I soon came out of the ground-hugging layers of fog and viola! It was a beautiful clear day on top of the fog. 

I continued to climb, thinking if I got high enough I could probably see that the fog was just local. I climbed and climbed and climbed. At ten thousand feet all I could see in all directions was the brilliantly white cottony fog; no holes, no openings anywhere.

I wasn’t too worried though, I figured I would take up a heading to Chickasha and no doubt would leave the fog behind after a bit. As I said, it was a beautiful spring morning and I was enjoying the flight thinking how lucky I was to be flying on such a glorious day. 

I flew for about an hour and very slowly two thing began to crowd into my consciousness. One, the fog was not any local thing at all and two, my fuel gauge was getting nearer and nearer to the empty point. The fuel tank located in the top wing of the biplane directly in the middle of the center-section. The fuel gauge was a glass tube attached to the bottom of the tank directly in front of my eyes. It was placed there for a reason.

This airplane was originally designed for a 225 hp Lycoming engine which consumed about 10 or 12 gallons per hour. The tank held about 46 gallons of fuel which would give one about three and a half hours of flight. But...when the plane was converted to crop-dusting configuration a 450 hp Pratt Whitney engine was added. This engine burned about 20 gallons of fuel per hour of flight, meaning I only had about 30 more minutes of flight before I ran out of fuel. 

Still no sign of the ground anywhere. I became alarmed and began to make desperate plans.

I decided I would have to go down through the fog. I would slow the plane to the slowest speed that it would fly and still have control, and take whatever came, be it good or bad. Just before I did this suddenly I saw a small hole in the white layer below me.

As I circled the hole I could see the ground and there was a strange pattern on the earth. I could not imagine what it was. Whatever it was, I was about to find out. 

I rolled into a tight turn and cut my engine back, beginning a corkscrew descent into this cloudy well of an opening. Nearer and nearer came the ground. When the altimeter showed that I was only about a hundred or so feet above the surface suddenly - I was in the clear. Thank God, there was a clear space between the bottom of the fog and the earth! 

The strange pattern I had seen was a fish hatchery. It was a small lake with dikes running parallel across it, spaced about twenty feet apart. I had not remembered this landmark though I had flown this way several times in the past.

Of course, I rolled out of my tight turn into level flight and stopped my descent. However, I was still as lost as a goose. I took up a heading to the northwest anyway and figured, "At least I can land in a pasture or field."  

Then I suddenly came to a highway. "That is where I will put this flying machine down," I determined. I turned so I was flying along parallel to the pavement, expecting to hear the engine stop any moment. Then up came a sign that said "Duncan 10 miles." This was going to be my first fuel stop. Within minutes I was on the runway and taxing into the gas pit.

I pull up to the fuel pump and shut the engine down. Needless to say I was a bit sweaty. The small airport fuel boy came sauntering out and looked at me and then up at the low ceiling, shook his head and said "What in God’s name are you doing flying in this stuff?" I wondered the same thing.

The gas boy filled my tank and it took 45 1/2 gallons. As I said, the tank was a 46 gallon tank. 

Moral: I was stupid for taking off in the fog no matter what the bossman sez.

Soldiers of Fortune: Downed on the Beach

When I first entered the strange world of agricultural flying, better known as cropdusting, I soon learned that it was peopled with some very odd, interesting and often very peculiar-type pilots. At that time a good many of them were more or less soldiers of fortune, each having his own personal value system. Here is a glimpse of one of them. 

Ken Nighting was a Texan, an ex-military pilot, ex-airline pilot, ex-company pilot, and quite a few other "exes." Before we met he had been flying for an ag-company that, after finishing the season in Texas, flew their planes down to Nicaragua and worked there until that season was over as well.

The first time Ken was to fly his Stearman to Nicaragua, he was to go with two other pilots in their planes. One of these pilots whom I will call Smutch, had made the trip several times before and knew the way. The other pilot whose nick-name was Drunken-Duncan, like Ken, had not made the trip before. Ken and Duncan had no maps, no radio for communication, and since neither had made this trip before, the plan was for them to follow Smutch. 

Sounds like a good plan, right? What could possibly go wrong?

They did just fine until they got into a bit of cloudy weather over lower Mexico. Smutch's plane was a wee bit faster than Ken's and Duncan's and he slowly moved off into the misty haze and left them. As Ken told me, all he knew for sure was that he was somewhere over southern Mexico. 

Not knowing where the next refueling stop was he decided to turn toward the coast, knowing that the lower part of the country was relatively narrow. So he turned eastward and hoped he could find some stretch of beach to land on before he ran out of fuel. He reached the coastline... but no beaches. He turned south along the coast and hoped. All he could see was jungle with no clearings at all. All this time he thought Drunken-Duncan was following him but no... he was not. Drunken-Duncan had too disappeared.

As Ken anxiously watched his fuel gauge creep closer and closer to empty he noticed several miles off shore was what appeared to be some islands. He headed in that direction hoping to find a beach to land on. He reached the islands and spotted a stretch of beach just as his engine quit for lack of fuel. He landed dead-stick and rolled to a stop.

Of course he was very glad to be on the ground in one piece. He hardly got his seat belt unfastened when beside his plane appeared two Indian men and a kid or two. They had come out of the jungle to greet him. They didn’t speak English but fortunately Ken was fluent in Spanish which the Indians spoke as well. They welcomed him to their village and treated him as a special guest.

Ken lived with these sea-fairing Indians for two weeks. He said their main diet was turtle eggs and goat curd cheese. He said he insisted on boiling his eggs but after a while he was eating them as the natives did: open the leathery shell, throw your head back and empty the content into your mouth and swallowed them raw. (gag)

Meantime the two pilots were missed by the company but no one knew where either one was. The company was sending more planes down there a couple of weeks later and the pilots were told to keep an eye out for the missing planes. One of these pilots whom I’ll call Hershel was instructed to fly along the coast because the company figured that was probably the most like route the lost pilots would follow.  

Sure enough, Hershel spotted Ken's plane sitting on the beach of one of the islands. He landed beside the fuel-less plane. Of course Ken was more than happy to see him. Ken looked pretty bad, with two weeks growth of beard and no change of clothes - and he smelled of turtle eggs and cheese. After greeting Ken, Hershel climbed back into his one-seater cropduster and said, "Well at least we know where you are, Ken. I’ll send someone back here to pick you up."

Ken later told me, "I hopped up on the wing walk and shoved my .357 revolver up under Hershel's nose and said, "It's like this Hershel, ole buddy—You ain't leaving here without me." Hershel looked at the pistol and then saw the look in Ken's eye and decided, "Maybe we can toss the seat cushions out and you sit in the seat and I will sit in your lap and fly the plane." 

Thus they made it back to civilization.

It was some three months before they found Drunken-Dunkin. He had found a small village with a small clearing in the jungle and tried to land in it. He wrecked his plane but was not injured, so not to worry. 

Duncan was a very adaptable individual. He liked living with the Indians, especially after taking up with one of the women, and they had plenty of cerveza and frijoles. He decided he liked the simple life, to heck with flying. 

I do not know for sure how it came to pass that Duncan was rescued. I saw Duncan some time later at an ag-meeting, so I know he made it home. Some of the pilots I knew said that the company sent an expedition down there and got him drunk. While he was drunk they tossed him in a vehicle and brought him home. Maybe...who knows? 

With cropdusters, one is never sure and the truth is often stranger than fiction, as they say. I got the story straight from Ken and two other pilots, so am pretty sure it was true.

Shenanigans in the Air

Surprise In A Fishing Boat

Sometimes the urge to play while flying is irresistible, especially on a beautiful day when one is young and feeling frisky. 

Joe Carter and I were flying our Pawnees over the croplands of central Washington around the town of Royal City.  We were spraying potatoes for evil little bugs intent on destroying this good farmer’s crop. We had covered the field with insecticide and were returning with empty hoppers to our airstrip. 

It so happened we had to fly near a lake of very blue water. Mean fellow that he was, Joe flew up close and pointed to the lake and with strange hand signals motioned for me to follow. I knew he was up to some mischief which might prove interesting. I tacked on his left wing and played along.  He flew lower and lower until his wheels were actually touching the smooth surface of the lake.  I had never attempted this but figured if the water would support his airplane it should do the same for mine. 

I was surprised to find the water smooth and solid.  We were actually water skiing along as nice as you please. Fun fun fun! We went sailing by the point of a small peninsula which protruded out into the lake. This bit of land was covered in large trees. As we hurtled by this projection I suddenly realized there was a boat on the opposite side. In the boat were two men who were obviously fishing. Our sudden appearance no doubt was quite startling to these sportsmen.  

One of them made the quick but wrong decision to leap to his feet.  In one hand was his fishing rod, in the other was a bottle; quite possibly an alcoholic beverage.  As he leaped up the boat rocked to the left and then to the right at which time he lost his balance and fell into the water.  The other fellow didn’t jump up but dropped his pole and quickly made a grab for it, coming very near capsizing the boat. Joe and I laughed like to evil little kids. I was glad that we departed as quickly as we appeared.  I am sure there was some foul and abusive language drifting across the waters of the lake.

Sad Ending

That reminds me of my former boss, a big German named Don Schumacher. He came upon a similar situation, but with a very tragic ending. A small pond, two fellows fishing.  Don wasn’t buzzing them, just flying by. 

He noticed of them one had fallen in the water and was thrashing around. Schumacher suddenly realized the man was drowning. He hastily surveyed the situation and decided to land in a nearby alfalfa field. As quickly as possible he put the plane down and made a run for the lake as he shed his shirt and shoes. He dived in to the water but the man was already under water. 

He dragged him out and desperately applied artificial respiration. Don was an ex-marine, a strong swimmer and knew the drill.  But in spite of his best efforts the man was dead. The other man in the boat was an older fellow who did not know how to swim.  Foolishly, they had no floatation gear.  When I landed a bit later, Don was quite beside himself because he failed to save the man. 

The Super Safe Pilot

One other tale.  One of my fellow pilots, whom I will call Jim had attended a state wide ag-pilots meeting. While there, he was awarded a certificate and a impressive medal for his safe flying record.  He had flown some 15 years, if I remember correctly, without an accident.  

Jim loved to laugh and kid folks and he never missed an opportunity to more or less rub it in that now he had a safe flying medal and I had none: neener-neener-neener!

A short time later Jim spayed a field of wheat and somehow struck a fence along the boundary as he entered the field for the last pass. One wing was ripped off. The plane rolled over and hit the ground upside down, skidded along and came to rest inverted.  

Jim wasn’t hurt much but this was one time he was not wearing his crash- helmet. He had on a “gimme” cap so he could pin his safe-flying metal on the front of it. This is the gospel truth. That small pin had cut a little trench across his forehead,starting just above his eyebrows and on up into his hairline.

Needless to say I heard no more about his award. Of course, I couldn't help smirking and kidding him just a wee bit. Heh heh heh.

High Wind

There are times when an agricultural pilot must make instant decisions. Sometimes he makes the right decision and sometimes it is definitely the wrong decision. These quick wrong choices can result in bad stuff happening. Here is an example of a quick wrong decision.

I was working for an ag-operator in the state of Washington. The owner, whom I will call Watkins, was a pilot himself. He would take a hired hand with him in his Cub-type aircraft and fly out to a field that was to be fertilized. He would land in the field if it was not muddy and they would then walk to each end and commence to flag for the planes that were sprinkling the dry fertilizer pellets on the field.

The terrain was not at all level but more like rolling hills and swales. Watkins had parked his plane on top of one of these smooth rolling hills. He walked about 150 yards to his end of the field and began waving his flag. While this operation was going on as planned, suddenly a weather frontal boundary struck. The wind switched to the north and began to blow with increasing velocity. 

Watkins could see his Cub on the next small hill as the wind rocked it, making it bounce rather more than was safe. Watkins dropped his flag and began making tracks to his plane. He was a short man, maybe five foot five or six and a little on the beefy side in weight. As he was running and puffing toward the plane, the wind was rapidly increasing. When he finally reached it, the ship was actually leaving the ground with each big puff. He had set the parking brake before he left so he quickly set the throttle and went to the front of the plane to swing the propeller to start the engine.

The engine started on the first swing and he ran around to the right side of the Cub to climb in. Just as he was climbing in, the wind made a mighty blast and the little plane left the ground. He was half in and half out when he made the quick decision to grab the throttle and open it, hoping it would help stabilize the airborne machine. 

The reverse happened. With the high wind and the thrust of the engine the plane rose straight up vertically and then suddenly fell over on it’s back - kerblam! 

Watkins was thrown out on the wing which was now lying upside down on the ground. Somehow he landed on his feet. Both feet burst through the fabric covering.

When the other pilots doing the fertilizer flew over and saw he wasn’t injured, they burst out in gales of wild laughter. Watkins stood there knee deep in his upside down airplane, shaking his fist at them. He couldn’t hear the laughter but he could see the grins on their faces.

The Thunder God

As a commercial pilot, I've encountered some peculiar happenings that aren’t likely to be experienced by the ground bound. For instance, being caught in stormy weather in an open cockpit.

Once I was flying cross country en route form my maintenance base in Oklahoma to my home base in East Texas. I was caught in a tremendous line of heavy thunder storms. My Stearman was not equipped for flying by instruments. I was strictly VFR (visual flight rules) with only a magnet compass, and that very untrustworthy. I was navigating by landmarks, having flown the route a number of times before. 

As the sky darkened I was forced to fly quite low to stay clear of lowering stormy looking clouds. It began to rain and lightning began to flash. Thunder claps were loud enough that I could hear them over the roar of my Pratt Whitney engine. The rain became heavy to the point that my forward visibility was limited to about a half mile or less. I was a bit worried and was reminded of a poem I had written some years back.

THE THUNDER GOD

The thunder god rears his awesome head
And rumbles his warning dark and dread.
No prudent airman dares to tread
Too near this angered giant.

On convective energy he mounts the sky
‘Till his anvil head is five miles high
With an electric flickering in his evil eye
He mutters and rumbles and threatens - Defiant.

His approach is announced by ominous sound
With throaty booms that shiver the ground.
Menacingly he gathers his storm all ‘round
And the air grows sultry and still.

Scowling and growling, his fury grows.
The heavens darken and creation knows
With malevolent intent he glowers at those
Who would dare to resist his will.

There he sits astride my path,
A meteorological tower of rage and wrath
Nature’s cumulo-psychopath,
Maddened because I’ve invaded his sacred sky

I’m cautious and careful and it has served me well
So I change course and it seems I can tell
As I circumnavigate this flickering hell
Of all men, he hates most those that can fly.

So I am threading my way underneath these angry giants, hunkered down behind the small windshield, hoping to stay dry. It’s a losing battle though - soon I’m sopping wet. The giants are hurling thunderbolts at me but so far they have missed. 

The rain gets heavier with small hail mixed in. If the hail gets larger, I will be forced to land some place like a pasture or a country road. After about an hour I can see my home town and then my home base runway. I put the wheels down ever so gently. Actually I am water skiing until the ship slows down and the tires touch the ground. Sheets of water are sent out each side. I slow down and turn off the runway and taxi into the hanger. My boots are full of water and I am soaked to the bone.

My brother, also a pilot, is in the hanger to greet me. I climb out and he gives me a look of disgust and says, "Brother Dale, I would have thought you had better sense than to be flying in weather like this."

I agreed with him. It was foolish but at least I was home.

Stealth Cropdusters

Many years ago I was employed by an ag-flying company or as some would call it, an agricultural-air application company, based in Oklahoma called "American Dusting Company."  It was quite a large company with dozens of planes and pilots, one of the largest in the U.S. The company divided its planes and pilots up into units of two, three, or more. Each unit had a manager and these units were scattered all over the southwest. The main base and maintenance shop was in Chickasaw, Oklahoma. I became acquainted with many of the pilots during the three years that I flew for American.

Of course all pilots have flying stories: Some true, some true but "embellished," and some out-right LIES. One of the true ones I shall pass along because I thought it very interesting. This story I believe to be authentic because it came to me from several different sources and they all told the same tale.

Back in the middle 20th century there was an outbreak of a certain kind of beetle that infested very large areas of forests of the northeastern states of the U.S. A group of companies got their heads together and made plans to gather up as many ag-planes and pilots as they could lay hands on and get them organized and attack the devilish little creatures that were doing great damage to the forests.

The word went out all across the fruited plains of agricultural America that there was much money to be made by this armada of bug-fighting flyers. American Dusting Company was contacted and agreed to send six of their choice birdmen to join this effort. This detachment was to be led by one of the owners, Mr. Bob Smith (not his real name), who was a former Lt. Colonel in the U.S. Air Force and was still a member of the reserve.

The planes to be sent were PT 17 Stearmans converted to ag-plane configuration, including a 450 hp Pratt Whitney engine. I might also add that none were equipped with a full panel of flight instruments, just the bare bones of a primary panel which had a magnetic compass, an altimeter, an airspeed indicator and engine instruments such as RPM gauge, manifold pressure gauge, oil pressure gauge and possibly a engine temperature gauge. If you were lucky some of these still worked. At cruise speed the Pratt Whitney burned around 20 gallons an hour and the gas tank held 46 gallons, which gave approximately two hours of safe flying between refills.

Plans were made, routes were selected, bags were packed, and one fine morning the intrepid gaggle of beetle battlers left Chickasaw for the great state of Maine. Oh, did I mention - the planes had no radios for communication. All would be following their fearless leader Mr. Bob. Oh, and did I also mention - the planes had no running lights or any other kind of lights either.

Of course many fuel stops were made along the way which made for slow progress across the country. Nevertheless they made their way without mishap to the state of Maine where weather began to be a factor. It was getting late in the day and the overcast was getting lower and lower. Their next gas stop was a small town airport. The pilots began to get uneasy because dark was fast approaching. Eventually the only way they could see each other was by keeping in sight of the long blue blaze of flame from the exhaust pipe. Of course they were over strange country and one could not even see their maps. They were just following Mr. Bob, who was reading his map by flash light.

Then when it seemed that disaster was steadily gaining on them they saw some very strong lights on the horizon. As they got nearer they could make out that it was runway lights at an airport. Each pilot was thinking, "I don’t care what Mr. Bob or any of the other pilots do, I am going to land at this airport, come hell or high water."

And so they did.

One by one, Mr. Bob and all the pilots landed on the big, wide, long runway and breathed a sigh of relief as they taxied into a tie-down area on one side of the field. It seemed there was a airport terminal on one side and what appeared to be a military base on the other side. Anyway, they all got out of their planes and were laughing and congratulating themselves on their good fortune as they strolled inside the terminal building.

When they entered the building the clerks behind the desk looked at them in surprise and then all hell broke loose, as one pilot told me later. A clerk picked up a telephone and they noticed he was wearing an Air Force uniform. 

Within minutes a military vehicle pulled up to the door and half a dozen soldiers with submachine guns came charging into the room. They were quickly hustled into an adjoining room, searched and told to stand against a wall. Of course this was all a big surprise and they could not imagine what was going on. Mr. Bob approached the officer in charge of the soldiers and demanded an explanation. When the officer heard that Mr. Bob was a reserve officer in Air Force his attitude immediately changed.

The officer explained that this was a SAC (Strategic Air Command) base and on this night they were on a practice high alert. Suddenly it all came clear. This group of cropdusters had inadvertently stumbled in to a bad situation. The base was on alert and yet six low-flying aircraft with no lights had managed to land unseen on the base. They were flying too low for the radar to pick them up. They had taxied in the dark to a tie-down area, parked their planes and entered the terminal - all totally unseen until the a clerk saw them and wondered what the sam hill was going on.

The men at the base knew that General Curtis Lemay, who was the overall commander of the Strategic Air Command, many times did such things as this to test the base’s security operations. They were sure this was another of those tests.

It took a lot of explaining but finally the officer in charge of security became convinced that it was just a weird happenstance. However, he knew that if the story got out that a flight of six airplanes had snuck into his base without detection, his job would be on the line. His main aim was to prevent this. 

Consequently he had the unlucky cropdusters placed in a military truck and escorted under guard to a hotel where they spent the night. No one was allowed to talk to them. The next morning they were returned to the airbase and their planes were fueled. The officer in charge said, "Now, you boys get in your planes and get the h--- out of here and DO NOT SAY A WORD ABOUT THIS TO ANYONE OR I WILL HAVE YOU UP ON MORE CHARGES THAN YOU CAN POSSIBLY IMAGINE."

The American Dusting company pilots did as ordered and that was pretty much the end of the story, as far as the Air Force was concerned. The pilots proceeded on to New Brunswick and fought blister rust beetles until the outbreak was under control.

But there's no way a story like that can be kept completely secret. One of the pilots in this group was a friend I knew well and he was the first to tell me, under a request of secrecy of course. I've honored his request and changed the names to protect the "guilty."

Wires

When aerial crop dusting and spraying first began to be widely accepted by farmers, there were no airplanes designed for this purpose. Consequently the earlier cropdusting airplanes were highly modified planes designed for other purposes such as passenger ships, cargo ships, training planes, mail carriers, and military planes etc.

Prior to the Second World War there was very little aerial application of dust and chemicals to crops. A cropduster pilot had the whole sky pretty much to himself since all other aircraft were scarce and flying high above the earth. His greatest concerns were to keep his ship on an even keel on the proper heading, maintaining his altitude of a few feet above the crop, keeping his propeller turning in the right directions and being careful not to collide with obstacles on the ground. 

These obstacles came in all shapes and sizes: trees, posts, buildings, farm equipment, towers of various kinds, vehicles, and last but not least, telephone and electrical lines and poles. In the earlier days these power and telephone lines were not so plentiful, so were of little concern. As time passed, the cropdusting planes became bigger and better and more numerous and so did the power lines. That is the subject of my present dissertation.

Wire Hazards
By the time I entered the scene these blasted lines were everywhere. Along the roads, highways, railroads, canals and fields of croplands. Some fields were bordered on all sides with these wires and many times they ran across the field at various angles. 

The size or thickness of these wires varied - a thin telephone wire the diameter of a pencil lead to huge cables with a diameter of an inch or more. Also there were brace-cables often called guy wires attached to the power line poles and towers. The size or thickness of these was usually about a half inch or so - strong enough lift a truck or tractor.

I believe that lines were the ag pilot’s most pervasive headache. One of the first things a new ag pilot had to learn was how to fly along, around, amongst and under these devilish and sometime lethal wires. A field that had multiple wires across was generally referred to by ag pilots as a wire-orchard. No matter how large an overhead cable might be, ag pilots called them “wires.”

I lost several friends and a brother because of an encounter with these wretched wires. My first mishap involving a wire happened in a cotton field in East Texas. I was still young but had two seasons under my belt and up to now had no wire problems. So I felt I was a fine ag pilot. 

I was flying a newly rebuilt Stearman with a 450 hp. Pratt-Whitney up front. It had been a long day beginning at first light and now the sun had dropped below the horizon. I was spraying bug control chemical on a field of cotton, making my runs across the field going north and south, back and forth. A power line ran across the south end of the field leaving me just enough space to fly under it. Beginning on the east side I worked my way, swath by swath across the field until I only lacked about five or six more swath to finish the field. It was getting close to dusky-dark and I was hurrying to finish the field before it got too dark to see.

I was flying south and approaching the power line that I had been flying under with no problem. When I reached a point too close to pull up and go over the line I suddenly spotted ahead of me -directly in my flight path - two old fence post protruding about two feet above the cotton. It was too late to pull up and go over the line but I didn’t want to hit those sturdy looking posts. I had a split second to make up my mind. I lifted the plane up about two feet above the posts and Wham! My upper wing struck the lower power line. 

In a flash the line broke first at the nearest pole on my right and the loose end in a fraction of a second wrapped itself around the N strut between the upper and lower wings on the right side - and hung on. It stretched the line on the left side till it too broke. That end of the broken wire on the left side then whipped completely around the rear of the plane and then came forward striking the back of my crash-helmet. Sounding like a rifle shot, it whipped on forward smashing my windshield. 

All that happened in the blink of an eye. I pulled up quickly. Looking the plane over I saw nothing was damaged except the shattered windshield. I was carrying a length of wire tied fast to the right-hand N strut and draped over the rear of the fuselage just ahead of the vertical rudder fin. 

I headed for the base and landed in the dim light just before dark. It had been a long hard day with a hair raising ending. I pulled into the hanger and shut the Pratt-Whitney down. Leaning back with a sigh I finally relaxed. I thanked the Lord for his protection. If that wire had struck my helmet three inches lower it would have taken my head off.

My boss, Mr. Weldon Briscoe, walked out and saw the prop spinner was messed up and a long piece of power line draped around the plane. I figured I was about to get a real chewing out because after all it was a new airplane. He looked at me and then the windshield and made a sort of whistling sound through his teeth. I could tell he wasn’t all that pleased but all he said was, "Son, you cut it pretty darn close. Just don’t make a habit of it. Next time you may not be so lucky."

During my 35 years of chasing the bugs I tore down enough wire that one of my employers said with a worried look on his face. "Roberts I do believe you are going to run the power companies out of wire if you don’t hang yourself first."

The Never-Fail Turbo-Prop

Aircraft engines made a radical change with the advent of the turbo-prop engine. The old engines were classified as reciprocating engines, similar to what we have in automobiles. The turbo-prop engine worked completely differently. It had a small turbine as the power generating source, similar to a jet engine, except the turbine turned a propeller. These new engines were smaller, lighter, had more horsepower and were supposedly much more reliable.

We ag-pilots were anxious to try one of these new-fangled engines because with the light weight and extra power we could increase the "payload" and thereby do more work in a given time. Plus we liked that the engines were said to be much less likely to fail.

My first opportunity to fly an ag-plane with this type of power plant came when I hired out to an ag-operator located in the Gulf Coast. It was in rice growing country near the small town of Katy, Texas.  

Before I was cleared to aviate with a turbo-prop at the pointy end of the airplane, the insurance company insisted that I be sent to school so as to know how to handle this here highly complicated and tremenjusly complex apparatus. Even though I had years and years of experience and thousands and thousands of hours flying back and forth over the vegetables, it made no difference to them. 

So they sent me to Hartford, Connecticuty, where the Pratt-Whitney Aircraft Co. had a school for beginners to be learnt about these jet fuel burning engines. I spent a week in classrooms listening to some young, self-important individual spout off, displaying his vast knowledge of turbo-prop aircraft engine. Mostly his talk was giving high praise of the reliability of the PT6-E turbo-prop engine. He assured us that our days of engine failure were over. THIS ENGINE DOES NOT FAIL. IT WILL GO 6000 HRS BETWEEN OVERHAULS. THIS ENGINE DOES NOT FAIL.

I came back to Katy with about the same amount of knowledge that I left with, except I knew that the turbo-prop engine DID NOT FAIL. Yeah, I had that phrase ringing in my ears. Me and my partner went to work and I was enjoying flying with the comforting new knowledge that there would be no more flight interruptions due to engine failure. I had launched myself into the future of ag-aviation feeling safe and secure. 

About the third week and somewhere around 80 hours on the new engine, I was working off a dirt strip surrounded by rice fields - some dry, some flooded. I had a hopper full of liquid fertilizer, about 300 gallons as I recall. I had just broken ground when I noticed that a couple of puffs of smoke came out the exhaust pipe on the left side. 

At the next instant I noted that my engine rpm was decreasing and I could feel the loss of power. I reached the end of the strip and slapped the dump gate lever open and the load was dumped instantaneously. Lighter of wing, I swung the Ag-Cat out to the right with the intention of making a 180-degree turn to the left and landing back on my landing strip. Nothing around me looked favorable for an emergency landing.

The engine continued to lose power (a new word - "unspooling" it was called). About half-way around the turn I realized I wasn’t going to make it. I leveled the wings and prepared to make contact with a newly plowed rice field. I sat it down as smoothly as possible and held the stick back so hard that the tail wheel touched first. As soon as the weight of the Ag-Cat settled on to the main landing gear, the wheels quickly sank into the soft powdery dirt of the recently plowed field. Up came the tail and down went the new engine into the soft dirt and over the plane went on its back. I slammed down hard upside down. Thankfully, the Ag-Cat being a bi-plane, the upper wing held the fuselage off the ground high enough that the cockpit enclosure wasn’t crushed.

It is very disconcerting to find oneself upside down even though strapped securely in the seat. Believe it or not the danged engine was still running. Of course the prop was not turning. The blades were bent back at a 90 degree angle. But since in this particular type engine there was no mechanical connection between the power section and the propeller, the turbine was still going. How strange. 

I had to shut it down. I unbuckled my seat harness and as I had done at other times, fell on my head. I managed to open the exit window/door and wiggle out on to the powdery earth. I wasn’t injured in any way, but my poor engine didn’t fare so well. Black smoke began to issue forth because the oil in the engine was draining into the hot combustion chamber. There wasn’t much chance of a fire,but it did put up a nice plume of black smoke. I had to hand it to the Pratt-Whitney person who said the engine didn’t fail. Even after it had quit producing power, it was still running!

To make a long involved story shorter, the Pratt-Whitney Co. sent a tech-rep out to collect the engine and take it back to some place in Canada where they analyzed it and pronounced the cause of the engine failure was fuel contamination. Sure, sure. Fuel contamination is the only thing that wasn’t covered in the warranty.

Whatever the cause, it ruined my day and demolished my confidence in turbo-prop engines. My conclusion was that any mechanical contraption can fail PERIOD! 

Someone who saw the plane go down and start smoking called the fire department who then called for ambulances. And along the way a crowd collected of (I'm guessing) newscasters, TV reporters, environmentalists, save-the-whales folks, vegetarians, a couple of couple of local preachers, a pair of politicians, and the county sheriff.

Fortunately, there was a farmhouse nearby. I walked over there and even though I was a bit dirty, they welcomed me in, gave me a cup of coffee and a piece of fresh baked pie, and promised not to tell a soul where I was. I managed to hide out until my boss came looking for me. How he found me, I don’t know. 

Here is a picture of my dead AG-Cat lying on its back with its feet in the air... but as you will notice, I am not in it.

Forest Fire Flying

The Northwestern part of the U.S. has thousands upon thousands of acres of forest lands that are managed and cared for by the U.S. Forest Service. This is timber-covered country whose mountains reach to ten thousand feet or more in elevation.

In my day, the Forest Service relied heavily on various types of aircraft to service these great forests lands. Though they actually owned few planes of their own, they contracted with privately owned air-service companies to furnish planes and qualified pilots to do their flying. This type of back country flying included fire-suppression tanker planes, fire patrol planes, utility and cargo planes, and planes suited for dropping fire fighters by parachute (which are better known as smoke-jumpers).

The Forest Service has created and maintained numerous landing strips scattered over this huge section of the Northwest. Many of these strips were located in deep canyons along streams, creeks and rivers. They were usually short, sometimes rough, and often were what was called “one way strips,” meaning you had to land in one direction only and no going around for a second shot if you missed the first one. It was well known that over the years quite a number of pilots and their passengers had been injured or killed trying to use these strips. Most of the strips required pilots with mountain flying experience to safely negotiate them.

My first experience with this type of flying with the Forest Service was as a fire patrol plane pilot for an air-service operator in Grangeville Idaho. On a typical patrol, I would report into the office in the early morning and be assigned a plane to fly, usually a Cessna 180 or 185 or a Cessna 206. I would be given a briefing on the route I would fly and introduced to a Forest Service person who would accompany me as an observer and radio operator. The observer was a man familiar with the route and he would occupy the right front seat beside me. In his lap he would have large map grid of the area with the route and all the lookout towers depicted on it. He would have ear phones and a boom mike on his head for easy and continuous communication with the dispatch office at the home base. Also he would be contacting each of the lookout towers along our route as we flew by them.

This particular season I was hired to fly a Cessna 206, which was a six-place machine. The 4 rear seats were removed and a few modifications installed. I would be flying patrol but with two smoke jumpers and a jump-master on board. Each jumper also had a fire pack to be dropped separately. These contained most of his necessary equipment, a sleeping bag, food supplies, etc. If a fire was spotted, the jumpers were deployed so as to land in a nearby clearing if possible.

As soon as they hit the ground I would make a low pass over them and the jump-master would shove the fire-packs out. This was a bit tricky. Each pack had its own small parachute. As I made the low pass I had to signal the jump-master the exact moment to shove them out so as to land in the clearing where the fellows on the ground were. As a general rule I managed to drop them on the spot or very close. I had done this many times.

It was late in the season. The nights were getting cold in the high elevations and the packs were important to the men I had just dropped. On the first low pass I yelled, "Let ‘er go!" and the jump-master shoved out pack number one. I pulled up in a tight turn so I could observe where the little chute and pack would land. There was one lone, very tall pine tree in the middle of the clearing and... you guessed it.

The blasted chute settled directly over the tip top of the tree. I made the second pass and again at the right instant yelled, "Let ‘er go!" As I pulled up and turned to watch, the second little chute was caught up in some sort of wind gust and started floating slowly away from the clearing. On and on...and on... it went on down the canyon. I don’t know where it landed, but it definitely was not in the reach of the poor jumpers on the ground. There was nothing else I could do so I headed home, knowing that those men were going to spend a long cold night and maybe several days without sleeping bags, blankets, tools and food.

About five days later I was out at the airport servicing my plane when two very large men walked up to me. I recognized the biggest of the two was one of the jumpers I had marooned up in the mountains. He walked straight up to me with a serious look on his face, reached out with his huge hand and grasped the front of my shirt. He pulled me up close and in a low controlled growl said, "Dale, I want to explain to you what it's like to spend two days and three nights at about eight thousand feet in these here mountains without anything to eat but some candy bars. No sleeping bags, no saw, no ax, no nothing. I OUGHT TO WRING YORE NECK."

What could I say but, "Yes sir, yes sir, no sir, yes sir." He then let go of my shirt and stomped off. Whew. I was very happy that the boss had told me that the season was over and I could go home for the winter. I sure didn’t want to have that dude in my care again!

Barnyard Landing

One day I left the landing strip with a full load on board this old battered and beat-up Stearman. I was flying about the average ferry altitude of a couple of hundred feet, headed out to spray a field of cotton. The tired old engine made a muffled cough, backfired and quit cold. 

 Now a loaded Stearman without power has a glide angle like a brick with a feather tied to it. Within 10 or 12 seconds I was on the ground. I didn’t even have time to turn parallel with the furrows. I hit the hard dry dirt doing about 85 mph across the furrows of a newly harvested maize field. Bumpity, bumpity bumptiy, enough to rattle your teeth. It seems that the engine had decided it didn’t like the impure fuel we were using.

Not all my flight interruptions were caused by engine problems though. Sometimes there were other causes. About four days later while flying for the same operator near small town of Brownfield, Texas I took off at dawn and headed for my assigned field when I noticed the tips of my propeller was making little contrail rings. 

It was early fall. We had had a cool air mass move in the night before and this was a warning that temperature and dew-point were getting too close together, but I figured I would at least have time to get my load out. 

I arrived at my field and made several passes across it when fog began to form around me. I thought, "Uh-oh, I had better get this bag of rags on the ground pretty soon."  I pulled up and headed back to the strip, but before I got there I found fog banks closing in on me all around. 

I saw a newly mowed alfalfa field directly in front of me. I quickly decided to put the plane on the ground - and just in time. Before I could bring her to a stop I entered a thick fog bank. I rolled to a stop and I kicked the tail around.

As I peered into the mist I discovered that I had stopped about 15 feet from a small barn or tool shed. I shut the engine down and just as I did so a back door on the shed flew open and a Mexican hired hand stepped out. When he saw me his eyes bugged out and he threw the hoe he was carrying up in the air and lit out like the devil was after him. I had to laugh but can’t say as I blamed him. Who would expect to step out of the barn and suddenly see this big biplane rolling toward you out of the fog?

I was very pleased to be on the ground. Eventually I was able to hitch a ride with a passing farmer and he took me back to my base. 

When I walked in, my bosses eyes got as big as the Mexican’s and he said, "Roberts, this is the second time within week you have returned without you airplane." He was vastly relieved to learn that his plane wasn’t damaged and admitted, "I’m pleased though that you are on the ground and not on top of this pea soup milling around up there looking for some place to land."

Buzzing the Kids

Comical incidents occur in most occupations, with possible exceptions such as brain surgery. Here is one I remember well. 

The cropdusting season finished in late fall. Then I was sent to a large ranch in deep East Texas to do some grass seeding by air. This ranch consisted of several thousands of acres with huge areas covered with mixture of large timber. The owner had decided to have the timber removed in order to make more grass land, thereby supporting larger herds of cattle. 

The method chosen was to have the R.G. Letourneau Company bring in some extremely large machines designed to drive through the timber, pushing it down and crushing it. Then I was to fly over the flattened trees, some as much as four feet thick at the trunk, and sprinkle grass seed over the whole mess. The plan was then to wait until fall when the grass has grown up, matured, and dried. It was then set afire. The dry grass acted as a fusing agent. The ground was thus cleared for next spring’s crop to take over and make for fine grazing. A plumb scientific plan, I suppose.

So I set up shop in the middle of the ranch on a dirt strip with my lil ole Stearman and several truck loads of grass seed. Big chunks of the ranch had already been de-treed so to speak when I arrived. A dirt strip had been graded out for me set to work on the west side of the target pasture. 

I began flinging seed over all the downed timber. Of course there was no place to land - and I mean none - if the old wore-out Lycoming surplus engine decided to stop and rest awhile. Like the ole saw has it, that prop up front is like a fan. If it stops running the pilot will shorenuff start to sweat.

Nevertheless, all went well and after a couple of days I had worked my way across half of the acreage. I was monotonously flying back and forth three swaths, and land for the next load, three swaths and land, three swaths and land.

One morning I noticed an old sort of dilapidated farm house sitting back in the timber on the north side of the pasture I was working. At first I thought it was abandoned. But as I worked, each swath brought me closer to the old house and I noticed it had a rail-type fence around it and there were children playing in the yard. I remembered it was a non-school day so they were at home. 

As I got closer I noticed that the kids were up on the fence waving at me as I went by. It must have been a large family or, for all I know, more than one family because there were about ten kids of all sizes from three year-olds to a couple of girls that looked to be teenagers. It reminded me of my own childhood. If a plane flew by fairly low we children would wave at it and sometime the pilot would see us and wobble his wings to answer the greeting. This was a great thrill for me as a kid so I returned the wave to the kids with a wing waggle.

As each swath took me closer it became obvious that the next pass would take me directly over the house and kids on the fence. I decide I would give the kids a little extra thrill. I had been maintaining about thirty-five to forty feet of altitude and as I approached the house on the pass that would take me over them, I tipped the nose of the plane down a bit and opened the throttle for a good buzz job.

When those kids saw the plane coming down toward them there was a scene of pure bedlam. They came off that fence and went in all directions like a flushed flock of quail.

Some flew under the porch, some went up a nearby tree, some sailed around the house, some went in the screen door. One of the older girls grabbed a small child in each hand and headed for that same screen door but it slammed before she got there and she ran smack into it with the kids in hand.

I had no idea that it would cause such a panic, but it was a hilarious explosion of kids and I burst out laughing. On my next pass believe it or not every last one of them was back on the fence waving and laughing. I gave them a big wing waggle and an arm wave and headed back to the strip. I love kids. I guess that is the reason I have five of my own.