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.

Flagman Folly, Flying Folly

Back in the wohgie days, "aerial applicators" (a more dignified name for cropdusters) required flagmen. You see, when an ag-pilot made a swath across a field it was necessary to mark that pass so when he turned around at the end of the field to come back, he would know where to lay the next swath. The accepted method was to place a man (or woman) with a flag at each end of the field. The pilot would line up on the flags and know exactly where the next swath should be placed.

The flag-person had a few simple rules that he was required to follow.

Rule number 1. Both flagmen were to begin by standing at each end of the field to be sprayed and on the same side of the field. As an example, if the pilot intended to make his spray passes going north and south he would need a flagman on the north end of the field and another on the south end. Or, both flagmen would need to start on the east side of the field and walk toward the west side, or start on the west side and walk toward the east - whichever way the pilot had instructed them. Above all, they should both be starting on the same side and walking parallel to each other in the same direction. Most pilots liked to start on the down side of the field and fly cross-wind. This would keep the spray off of the flagmen and also off of the plane.

Rule number 2. Wave the flag until the pilot had time to line up on them for his pass. If the field to be sprayed was over a half mile in length it was necessary for the flagman to wave the flag quite vigorously so as to be quickly sighted by the pilot after making his turnaround and lining up for the next pass. This was especially necessary if there was no breeze to open the flag.

Rule number 3. As soon as it appeared that the plane was lined up, the flagman were instructed to take a given number of steps perpendicular to the flight path of the plane so as to be ready for the next pass. For example, if the known width of the plane’s swath was 48 feet, the average steps of a flagman for each pass would be sixteen steps. Simple right?

O.K. Now you know the rules.

Foolish Flagmen

On this particular morning I was assigned the field to be sprayed. The field was located some 20 miles away from our base. This was a bit unusual. We didn’t often work fields that far away from a landing strip. I was given instructions as to where the field was. My plane was fueled. A full load of the necessary chemical was pumped into the Stearman’s 180 gallon hopper, and I was told that my flagmen were already on their way to the field.

I buckled myself in, taxied out to the airstrip, and poured the coals to the Pratt & Whitney. After using up most of the runway, I finally pried the old girl loose from planet earth. The air was plenty warm in East Texas. It had rained the night before so it was also quite humid. Warm, humid air isn’t the best for producing aircraft lift. I had on a full load of fuel and a full load of spray so the old girl was needing some high manifold pressure to maintain our flight altitude of about a hundred feet.

I found the field which lay alongside a state highway. The flaggin’ wagon had just arrived and the flagmen were trudging across the field to take their positions. Well, just guess what……….bet you can see where I’m going with this. One flagman ended up on the south side of the field at the east end with the obvious intention of walking north, and the other idiot…excuse me…I mean flagman…perched on the north side of the field at the west end with the obvious intentions of walking south! The field had a hump in the middle so they could not see each other.

Now how in blue blazes was I supposed to line up on these two half-asleep klutzes? I had no radio in the airplane and it wouldn’t have helped anyway because they were out of their vehicle and I couldn’t have contacted them if I had a radio.

I flew by each one several times and made motions with my arms trying to make them understand that they were not where they should have been. They just stared at me like a couple of idiots. One of them grinned and waved, supposing I was just being friendly. If he could have read lips, he would certainly know I was NOT being friendly!

After circling a number of times I came to the conclusion that they were hopeless. In a fit of frustration and anger I decided I would land on the nice, wide, good ole Texas highway and go over and scorch their ears with some well-chosen verbiage.

Bad choice.

The highway ran east and west. There was a distinct cross-wind from the north. However, this was not the first time I landed on a highway or a dirt road even. I looked both ways for traffic and saw none. I set her down as gently as I could, knowing that I was pushing the envelope. What I had not counted on was the fact that the baffles in the chemical tank had been removed for some unknown reason.

As soon as the upwind wheel touched the pavement, that 180 gallons of chemical in the tank came alive! It began to slosh and the ole girl got the bit in her teeth and into the left side ditch we went. Oh yeah - it had rained the night before so the ditch contained a lot of water and mud in the bottom. We hit the ditch at an angle, went through the ditch issuing a spray of water from both sides, careened up the outer embankment, then off to the right, back to the ditch again flinging more water and mud, and then back out on to the paved highway where I managed to regain control and brought her to a stop.

Where he came from I do not know, but I looked behind me and there sat a farmer with wide eyes and startled look on his face. He never uttered a word. Didn’t leave his pickup, but slowly eased around me and hightailed it on down the road probably thinking "Them dang fool cropdusters is at it again!"

I sat there thanking God that the Texas highway department designed wide, gently sloping ditches, or else I would surely have made a wheels-up landing.

Dale Roberts crop dusting in the 1960s

When my brain-dead flagmen saw the near-disaster taking place, they jumped in their truck and raced over to see why I had landed. I was so shaken and thankful that I had not wrecked my plane that I forgot how furious I was and gently explained why I landed. HA! NOT!!

Lesson: Don’t let your emotions fool you into believing you are not subject to the laws of physics.

Flying Circus

While plying my trade as an ag-pilot (ag-pilots never refer to themselves as cropdusters ), I worked for an aerial application company that was owned and run by the Smiths.* (*Name changed for reasons that will become obvious!) There was Papa Smith, Mama Smith and Sonny-boy Smith. Papa Smith was founder and manager of the company for many years. Sonny-boy grew up and became an ag-pilot and a darned good one in his own right. When Papa Smith eventually retired, Sonny-boy took over the management.

Papa Smith, around 78 years old, was a diabetic and because of the onset of this dreadful ailment he could no longer pass the physical exam required to maintain a license to fly. Mama Smith did her best to ride herd on him and maintain his diet and insulin balance and keep him out of the airplanes. It was a sad situation really. The old man had a hard time adjusting to the fact that he could no longer fly. And when his system got out of balance from time to time, his behavior could become very peculiar as many people with this problem can attest to. If Papa Smith neglected to maintain his strict diet, he would take the bit in his teeth and decide he would fly anyway - diet, physical certificate, license be hanged!

Mama Smith also kept the company books balanced and took care of many other affairs around the little airport the company owned. She had decided that if they built a fence around a section of the airport property and stocked it with goats, they could make a little money off the grazing and also claim an agricultural exemption for tax purposes. (That little activity alone was a story in itself, but I will bypass that for now.)

Papa in the Air
Well, one fine day Papa Smith took a notion that it was time for him to spread his wings again before he forgot how. After making sure Mama Smith was nowhere around, he climbed into a little Citabria tail-dragger, which was a company plane used for general purposes. He even talked one of the hired helpers into riding with him.

In no time Papa Smith launched himself into the wild-blue yonder and had a good ole time, being careful not to get too much droop in his swoop. He buzzed the town. He buzzed his friends. He had no problems…until he decided to land.

Now, the airport had two runways. One was turf, long and wide. The other was paved, narrow and short. The paved runway ran right alongside the goat pen.

Papa on the Ground
Well Papa Smith, feeling he was doing just fine, headed for the paved runway. He lined up, reduced the throttle, but still came in pretty hot in a quartering tail wind with a couple of bounces…a swing to the left…back to the right and…a big hairy ground loop…out of control! Into the fence! Flattened a few small posts in no time. Tore a big opening in the wire fence, ripped off the plane’s landing gear, and slid to a stop sideways.

Scared the goat herd half to death! Yep, the terrified critters scrabbled out the fence opening at top speed and scattered all over the airport.

The hired hand in the back seat, by now scared witless, hurled himself over Papa Smith and out the bent-up door. A portly fellow, Papa Smith was sort of lodged in the doorway.

Pretty quick old Papa Smith managed to extricate himself and started hollering for help, but not for himself. He wanted everyone to grab the plane and drag it into the hanger before someone saw it and called the FAA. Of course he had been illegal - no medical, invalid licenses, carrying a passenger - the works!

We got the plane tucked back in a corner of the hanger all right, but the story was all over the county before the day was out! And guess what we pilots and ground crew spent the rest of the day doing - playing cowboy rounding up goats and mending the fence. The Citabria was a whole nuther story. Major repairs.

Papa Smith spent the rest of the day trying to convince us that his foot had slipped off the rudder pedal and got hung up under it. “Poor-designed it was. It could happen to anybody.”

Rolling our eyes, we pilots humored the old man, “Shoower, shoower, poor design. No doubt.” I wondered if his story would fly when Mama Smith heard it!

Runaway Aircraft

Back in the woahgie days, most small aeroplanes did not have electric starters.  The onliest way to start the engine to internally combust was to spin the propeller by hand.   Early on several techniques were developed to do this little chore safely.

The most common method required at least two people - one to sit in the cockpit and handle the controls, and the other to spin the propeller.  The routine went something like this.  The man at the propeller called, "Switch off, throttle set, and prime." The cockpit man called back, "The switch is off, throttle is set, a couple shots of prime."  Whereupon, the propeller man would grab the propeller and pull it through several blades in the proper direction, thereby filling the cylinders with fuel-laden air ready to be ignited.  Then the prop man called, "Make it hot."  That meant the cockpit man was to turn the magneto switch to the "on" position. The cockpit man called back "Switch is on."

The man at the prop carefully took the upward slanting blade in hand, swung his left leg forward and up, then heaved his body and leg downward and back as he pulled the prop blade through a revolution.  This maneuver hopefully cranked the engine as it also took the prop man safely clear of the spinning blade.  Sometimes this had to be repeated several times before the engine came alive and started running.

Now, ya got the picture?

I have observed several incidents where one or more of these parts of the above mentioned procedure were not carefully observed or were somewhat modified with - shall we say - interesting results. There were times when one had to crank the engine with no one else around to help. The procedure then was slightly changed. The airplane was securely tied down to the ground with ropes or straps, usually to a concrete block with a metal loop on top to receive the tie-down rope.
 
In one instance that I recall, the tail-wheel tie-down was not fastened and the right wing tie-down came loose.  When the lone individual cranked the engine by the prop, the plane launched a quick circle around the left wing tie-down and struck the twin-engine aircraft tied down next to it, and chopped the twin nearly in half.   Hope the pilot had liability insurance!

Another occasion that I witnessed, the plane was prop-started with no tie-downs at all.  The throttle had been set about half open.  The plane was completely out of control and loose!  It cut three or four quick circles with several men chasing it.  If it wasn't so serious, it would have been highly comical.  The men were chasing the plane and then whoops! The plane, after a sharp change of direction, was chasing the men!  This chaotic scenario was repeated several times until the wayward Aeronca Champ slammed into the side of a hanger.  Ouch!  What a mess!

George (name changed to protect the guilty) and I were spraying brush out in West Texas.  We were using a landing strip out on a ranch which sloped downward to a small lake on the south end.   We were flying Piper Cub-type aircraft, neither of which had an electric starter.  I was tall enough to stand on the right side of the engine cowling behind the propeller and with my right hand-prop my plane.  I could set the throttle at a low setting and when the engine started, I could quickly reach into the cockpit with my left hand and reduce the RPM.  No problem.

George was a small fellow and could not do this so I usually did the honors while he sat in the cockpit.  For some reason this particular morning he decided to set the parking brake on his ship and went round in front of the plane and cranked it by propping it himself.  He had set the throttle a leetle too high.  The brake didn't hold.  The plane began to move forward. Being very agile, George quickly jumped to the side and then made a leap for the cockpit.  He didn't make it.  Instead he tripped on the wing strut and tumbled over and landed on his back just in time for the tail wing (stabilizer) to pass over him.

He did manage to grab the tail-wheel strut as it passed by.  The plane dragged him quite a ways as he struggle to regain his feet.  The little Cub seemed bent on taking a dip in the lake at the end of the runway.  George hung on and, after clawing his way up the length of the fuselage, scrambled to the cockpit and closed the throttle.  The plane rolled to a stop about fifteen feet from the lake.

About that time the boss-man came driving up to find me lying on the ground laughing my head off.  He wasn't laughing.  It was a wonder he didn't fire the both of us.

Over the years I witnessed a number of these runaways. With the advent of electric starters, this excitement seldom happens anymore. These incidents were very serious, of course. But almost always hilarious...as long as it wasn't my plane!   

Tail Dragger

I wrote this poem for a flying magazine many, many years ago. It was written to poke fun at a friend of mine who had never flown a tail dragging aircraft.  I guess it sort of went viral although at that time there was no viral.  It seems to keep popping

  up in strange places from time to time.  Thought Y'all might enjoy it.

Taildragger, I hate your guts,
I have the license, ratings and such.
But to make you go straight is driving me nuts.

With hours of teaching and the controls in my clutch.
It takes a little rudder, easy, that's too much.

You see, I learned to fly in a tricycle gear
with one up front and two back here.
She was sleek and clean and easy to steer
But this miserable thing with wires and struts
Takes a little rudder, easy, that's too much.

It demands your attention on the take-off roll
or it heads towards Jones' as you pour on the coal.
Gotta hang loose, don't over control.
This wicked little plane is just too much.

With a lot of zigzagging and words obscene
I think I've mastered this slippery machine
It's not that bad if you have the touch
Just a little rudder, easy, that's too much.

I relax for a second and from the corner of my eye,
I suddenly realize with a gasp and a cry
That's my own tail that's going by.
You grounding looping wretch; I hate your guts,
Give a little rudder, Great Scott, THAT'S TOOOO MUCH.