58 minute read
How to?
ROBERT G. LOCK
Construct a cap strip bending form
A cap strip bending form is a fixture in which wing rib cap strips are bent to proper curvature. The cap strips will have their fibers softened in hot water and then are clamped in this fixture while still wet. When the moisture has dried they may be removed from the form and will retain their curvature.
To make the form it will be necessary to secure a large section of soft wood—I like to find a really good piece of fi ne-grained and knot-free redwood about 18 inches in length that measures at least 4 inches by 4 feet. Using an existing wing rib, trace the outline of the upper (and if necessary the lower) cap strip nose section where the bend is the most extreme.
Since the formed cap strips will tend to “spring back” somewhat after they are removed from the form, it is a good idea to saw the block with a slightly sharper curve than needed. Cut the form with a band saw and sand the cut smooth.
These three illustrations depict the drawn curve, the band saw’s guide line and the 2 pieces that result in the cut.
To soak the cap strips you will need to construct a tube capable of holding water. Th ere is no need to soak the entire cap strip but rather the forward section only, about from the front spar forward. I use a section of 4-inch diameter PVC pipe about 3-feet long and bond a cap on one end. When ready to soak I put enough hot water in the pipe to wet out the cap strips and then drop the strips into the water. Since wood likes to fl oat, if needed add some weight to hold the cap strips down in the water. Let them soak for one to two hours. Remove and immediately place in the form block, clamp down using two C-clamps, and leave overnight to dry. Th e dry redwood form block will absorb most of the moisture of the cap strips.
The Very
Th e restoration of Chuck Doyle Jr.’s Stearman
Jim Hanson
Best
After you read this article, you will understand why I chose the title.
It’s funny. Often I start writing a story and it takes twists and turns, and the final story bears only a slight resemblance to my original idea. I began writing a story about a remarkable airplane restoration. Those are “informational” stories—we’ve all read those kinds of stories in aviation magazines. There’s a good reason. They are easy to do—describe the airplane, get some good photos, end of story. Everybody likes to look at nice airplanes, and the story itself is pretty straightforward. Magazine editors like that.
This story, though, took some unexpected turns. I’d heard about this Stearman restoration in progress—there was a low undercurrent and buzz about it in the aviation underground network. It was reputed to be very good, and very costly. It involved Chuck Doyle’s aircraft—and anybody that has been around Minnesota aviation for a while knows both Chuck and the aircraft. Th ere was an expectation that this would be special.
Th is past spring, I heard that the aircraft had flown—and not long afterward, I received an e-mail from Chuck Doyle Jr. asking if I’d like to see it and cover it. Of course I would!
The Doyles
“Do you know Chuck Doyle? He’s an airline pilot…a mechanic… flies aerobatics…owns a bunch of antique airplanes…has been fl ying since he was a kid.” Those statements could apply to Doyle Senior or Junior.
Chuck Doyle Sr. was born in St. Louis Park, Minnesota, in 1916. He first flew at what is now Minneapolis International airport, back when it still contained the remnants of the speedway. It was in an old Navy trainer. He fell in love with airplanes, rode his beloved motorcycle to the airport, and did whatever he could to be around airplanes—trading working on airplanes six days a week for 15 minutes of fl ying time (and you thought flying was expensive today!). He soloed an OX-5 powered Waco in 1933 at the age of 17. Shortly afterward, he bought an OX-5 powered Travel Air biplane—restoring both the engine and airframe—all while still in high school. He was later expelled from high school for too many unexcused absences. Visiting the airport was apparently not an acceptable reason to skip school.
Wanting to pursue his aviation career, Doyle exchanged the old engine on his Travel Air for a more modern Wright Whirlwind engine. He took up advertising with the airplane—skywriting and banner towing—learning it from some of the originators of the art form. He also wanted to become part of the “aviation thrill show” circuit—pilots that would do deathdefying stunts—and sometimes death was not defied. Aerobatics, wing-walking, parachuting, mock aerial battles, intentional crashes, airplane-to-airplane, and vehicle-to-airplane transfers were the stock-in-trade of the shows. Doyle obtained entrance as a performer by making a parachute jump from an airplane, which he did with no training. He went on to do all of the stunts in the show repertoire. Always looking to add additional ex-
PHOTOS COURTESY JIM HANSEN
citement to the thrill show, Doyle took on ground-based acts, including motorcycle jumps, crashing through blazing houses and barriers, and car crashes while strapped to the hood of a vehicle. Doyle always seemed to escape unscathed. He performed nationwide.
In a strange irony, given the dangerous nature of his profession, World War II may have saved Doyle’s life. In January 1942, Doyle was off ered a job with Northwest Airlines, flying copilot on DC-3s. Doyle worked with the Mayo Clinic, researching the effect of high altitudes on fl ight crew members. Doyle took a leave from Northwest to work temporarily on the war effort as an aeronautical consultant, helping build the more than 1,500 troop-carrying gliders produced in Minneapolis.
Upon his return to Northwest, he helped pioneer the routes to Alaska and the Aleutian Islands. In only three months, he became a captain on the airline—a member of the Air Transport Command— civilian airline pilots fl ying military transports. He continued to fl y for Northwest until reaching mandatory retirement age in 1976, fl ying all of the great piston airliners: the four-engine turboprop Electra and the Boeing 727.
During his airline career, Doyle “moonlighted” by buying, restoring, selling, and operating air-
ADAM GLOWASKI
craft—often military surplus aircraft like P-51s, P-40s, Stearman trainers, BT-13s, T-6s, helicopters, and even airliners and heavy bombers, as well as civil aircraft. One of the aircraft he purchased “way back when” was this very same Stearman.
Doyle modified the Stearman with a 450-hp engine transplanted from a BT-13, wheelpants, dorsal fi n, and prop spinner. For skywriting, a 50-gallon oil tank was installed in the front cockpit and a smoke-oil injector was fabricated for a special smoke-generating tailpipe. Since Doyle regularly towed banners over Vikings football games at the old outdoor Metropolitan Stadium in the autumn months, a canopy was installed in deference to the cold Minnesota weather. Th e much-modifi ed Stearman became a Minnesota aviation icon. Chuck Doyle Sr. flew it until he passed away in 2008.
Chuck Doyle Jr. grew up with aviation. Chuck shared one of his earliest memories, when he was 6.
“My dad was fl ying an airline trip on a Lockheed Electra turboprop— and told the co-pilot, ‘I think it’s time that Chuck gets some flying time,’ so I stood up behind the control yoke of the Electra and ‘flew’ the airplane (with a load of passengers!) as Dad watched the controls. I recall having the sense of control—and told him, ‘This isn’t so hard—and it would be easier if I could see out the front!’
Chuck flew more with his dad over the years from the 1,150-foot family farm airstrip in Apple Valley, and soloed a Super Cub on his 16th birthday. He did all of the nonglamorous work associated with maintaining and operating old airplanes: the maintenance work, cleaning the shop, adding fuel and oil, assembling banners, and holding the pickup pole for the ground banner pickups as the big-engined Stearman fl ashed by inches away overhead.
Though he could fly himself, Chuck was always a bit disappointed that he didn’t get to tow the banners or do the skywriting himself. “Dad wouldn’t let me do it,” he said, “and I resented it.” It wasn’t until much later that his father explained that he didn’t want his son fl ying at the edge of a stall, towing banners above thousands of people at the state fair or sports stadiums with no place nearby to
PHOTOS COURTESY JIM HANSEN
make a forced landing.
I asked him if and when he was able to fl y the famous Super Stearman. “It was at Holman Field in the 1970s,” he said. “The last day of towing at the state fair. I was 17 or 18, and I had been working hard setting up banners. Dad had landed at Holman, walked over to me, and said with a sigh, “Do you want to fl y the Stearman?” I was tired, and really didn’t want to, but I knew what he was offering and I would never pass up that opportunity.
“Tell the tower that you want to stay in the pattern and shoot a couple of landings,” he said. It was my fi rst takeoff and landing at a towercontrolled airport. I shot some landings—they came out pretty well. Afterward, my dad just left the aircraft at Holman, and took me out and bought me a beer.”
I know what Chuck was talking about. Some fathers are short on spoken praise, but when they do acknowledge that you’ve met their standards, it is better than anything they could have said aloud—a mutual and unspoken acknowledgement. You’ve also shared an airplane, a beer, the sky, and an adventure.
Though Chuck didn’t dwell on it, he seems to have the same mixed feelings that most children of famous people have for their parents—sometimes rejection or denial—then acceptance of the special circumstances they grew up with— then a real appreciation for their parent’s contributions. One of Chuck’s tales about growing up in the aviation household is illustrative.
“I took Dad’s Stits Playboy for a fl ight,” he related. “My friends were there, and I made a pass over the fi eld at barn altitude, and did three rolls before landing. Dad stormed up to me and said, ‘I don’t know how many times I’ve had to tell you that I don’t want you doing that in my airplane!’ He thundered, ‘But by the way, the third roll was the best!’ It was only later that I realized that his sometimes critical treatment of me was because he had seen the consequences of even small mistakes in his business, and he didn’t want that to happen to me.”
Chuck continued to fl y, and obtained his airframe and powerplant repairman’s certifi cate. Like so many other children of successful business owners, he moved away from the family business and established his independence by starting an automotive parts and machine shop. Like so many of us, aviation kept calling him back, and he went to work for Roy Redman at RARE Aircraft in 1994.
It was a chance to work on airplanes—old airplanes—the kind of airplanes that he grew up with— and he found he liked it. He also fl ew those old airplanes. He fi nally bowed to the inevitable, and joined Sun Country Airlines as a flight engineer on the Boeing 727—a chance to use both his mechanic and pilot skills.
Today, Chuck is a captain for Sun Country Airlines, and gets to enjoy both ends of the aviation spectrum—the latest technology, glass-cockpit jets, and the simple pleasure of flying visually with little more than the sound of the wind in the wires. Today, in addition to the Super Stearman, Chuck owns that same Stits Playboy (restored two years ago), a Super Decathlon, a 1929 Travel Air 4000, a Twin Beech, and a Waco F-2.
It has been said that no man becomes a man until his father dies. Th at’s true, especially when you are the son of a famous person—you will always be compared with your father. Chuck Jr. has come to terms with that comparison—he is his own person—famous in his own right—and comfortable with living with his dad’s memory while adding his own accomplishments. His building, restoration, and ownership of the Stearman is something that he shares with Chuck Sr. It is a way to acknowledge, honor, and perpetuate the bond they share.
Lifelong pilot, mechanic, restorer of old airplanes, adventurer, aerobatic pilot, airline pilot—that’s the Doyles—both of them!
The Aircraft
I met with Chuck Jr., along with Roy Redman from RARE Aircraft, the people that did the restoration. I wanted information on the airplane. My very first question: “Why the turquoise paint color?” Chuck chuckled. He had obviously been asked this before.
“Dad wanted a paint job that would stand out. Originally, he had a red and cream paint job, then purple and cream. Th ose were very ‘50s-ish’ paint colors, and even auto manufacturers were adopting them. He wanted something green, in tribute to his Irish heritage, but not GREEN green, so he settled on turquoise. He painted everything turquoise—the Stearman, the P-51, the house and hangar, the motorcycle, even the toilet and the Corvette. It was Dad’s tradition, and he loved to get teased about it, and I wanted to carry that on.”
I have to admit, it does stand out!
I asked Roy and Chuck to tell me about the aircraft, and they laid out all of the documents on the table and said, “Ask away!” I asked if the aircraft was airworthy when they started the project.
“It was ferriable,” they said. “You have to understand—this was a working aircraft, and it was licensed in the restricted category because of all of the mods and the smoke system installed in the front seat. Since this was a family treasure, my brother Brian and sister Shannon agreed that we should have the aircraft appraised, and I would buy out their shares and have it restored. I wanted a Stearman that I could use—something I could take passengers in. It would take a lot of work to get it back to standard category—and even then, it wouldn’t look good. The only way to do that was to do a complete restoration.”
I asked Chuck why, given his background with the aircraft, his background in working with RARE Aircraft, his A&P certificate, and his appreciation of old aircraft, he didn’t do the work himself. Chuck smiled and answered in his forthright way:
“I spent eight years restoring the Travel Aire. I fl y for a living, and I spend summers goofi ng off and fl ying. I decided to let someone else do it. The restoration started off with someone else. I was promised that I’d have the aircraft in one year. Along the way, as I looked at the progress (or lack thereof), it was apparent that it wouldn’t be restored the way I wanted it. I wanted the very best Stearman I could have—not something cobbled together or ‘good enough.’ This was my dad’s aircraft—one of a kind. I made up my mind to pull the project. It was messy, and
ADAM GLOWASKI
it was costly, but I wasn’t going to throw good money after bad. Enough said.”
Chuck brought the Stearman to RARE Aircraft. RARE specializes in the very best restorations. From his previous employment with RARE Aircraft, Chuck knew that the finished product would be expensive—but that it would be the very best. RARE Aircraft consistently turns out awardwinning aircraft, so I asked Chuck if he was going to have the aircraft judged at Oshkosh. Both Chuck and Roy smiled.
“No,” replied Chuck. “We could have built the aircraft back to standard—but that isn’t what I wanted. This aircraft was a family pet, but it was also a working aircraft, much modified from the original. Judges look for the smallest infractions and deviations from the original specifi cations. How would you judge this aircraft? It has dozens of mods—the cover over the front pit for the smoke oil, the engine and prop, the turtledeck, the paint, four ailerons, the brakes, the faired-in wing access for the front cockpit, the Serv-Aero engine mount for aerobatics, the fuel injection system, the smoke exhaust stack, the inverted fuel and oil systems. This is a one-of-a-kind aircraft. I wanted a safe and reliable aircraft to fly for fun. I wanted the aircraft to look just as I remember it. I wanted the very best Stearman I could have.”
RARE Aircraft
RARE Aircraft was founded in 1991 by Roy Redman. It has always been a family-owned operation, and from the very first, has been committed to only the best restoration and maintenance. Th at level of maintenance comes at a price. Talking with Roy, Ben, or Jeremy Redman, you may feel a bit like talking to the head of maintenance of a high-end automobile maintenance department—a Rolls-Royce or Mercedes-Benz. There will be no compromises—only the very best—and it is well known there should not be compromises. Th ese aircraft are worth $250,000 or more—they should be maintained accordingly. That doesn’t mean that regular maintenance should be expensive, though. Aircraft of this era are simple, and robust. They were built to take a lot of punishment from operating from open fields and the primitive airports. Th ey were built to be maintained in the field, which means they are easily repairable. You have to remember, though, that some of these aircraft are 70 years old or more. At some time, they have to be completely remanufactured. Other than that, these airplanes
don’t require a lot of expensive maintenance and inspection—everything is out in the open for inspection, and any airworthiness directives should have long-since been issued and complied with.
I asked Roy and Chuck what makes the difference between a “good enough” restoration and the very best. Th e answer was simple. “Good enough—is not good enough.” He elaborates, “When you have an aircraft like this, you should never have to worry about it while doing aerobatics or normal operations. With our restorations, every bit of hardware is replaced. All four wings on the aircraft were built new, as well as the center section. A new engine mount was installed for aerobatics—an inverted fuel and oil system was installed, a different smoke system and exhaust installed, diff erent oil cooler and vent, the cutout above the front cockpit was faired over to eliminate turbulence and improve performance, the front cockpit was faired over (but can be converted in only 20 minutes), modern brakes were installed, the panel re-worked, the list goes on and on.”
With all of those changes in mind, I asked what remained of the original Stearman. “The fuselage and landing gear are original,” “Th e engine, cowling, and prop from a BT-13 that Chuck Sr. installed almost 60 years ago are intact. We sent the engine down to Tulsa Aircraft Engines. Th e teardown report showed the engine to be in excellent shape—but in keeping with wanting the very best, it is now zero since major overhaul.
With all of the modifications over the years and the new modifications during the restoration, I asked about the aircraft paperwork and documentation. Roy pulled out the file. “All logbooks are complete,” he said. “Th e aircraft has only 1,212 hours total time since new, and as of this writing, 12 hours since restoration. Just look at these logs. Th ey read like a ‘who’s who’ of Minnesota aircraft luminaries. The names include Bolduc, Falmouth, Ken Maxwell, Doyle, Wiplinger, Shanks, DePonti, Lysdale, Mohr, (and Redman). Time and time again, we were told ‘You can’t do that!’ by various suppliers—it hadn’t been done on a Stearman before.”
Time and again, RARE Aircraft had to spend the time (and time is money) to work through the approval process. Roy noted that as the project progressed, the FAA actually became more and more accommodating. It seemed that they wanted this aircraft restoration accomplished, too! Th e FAA engaged in many inspections, discussions, and suggestions. Ask any aircraft restorer—having the FAA sign off on approvals can be the hardest part of accomplishing a restoration. If a restorer has done something before, the FAA feels better about the documentation and procedure—something to think about when selecting a restoration shop.
I asked who made the fi rst postrestoration flight—and Chuck replied, “There is no way that I was going to let anyone else do it!” He described RARE Aircraft’s procedures for the fi rst fl ight, including an initial safety briefing. “We had Google Earth projections of the airport, so if we had a problem anywhere around the airport, we already knew where we were going to go. We had Ben Redman flying chase in the Decathlon. We had a prescribed flight check card and procedure. We had people alongside the runway with fire extinguishers. We even had our ground people practice getting me out of the aircraft. Now that’s prepared!”
Chuck said that the first flight came off without a hitch. “Everything, and I mean everything worked perfectly,” he exclaimed. “Th ere wasn’t one thing in the aircraft that didn’t work. Th e aircraft was in perfect trim. It stalled at the correct speed and straight ahead. I couldn’t be happier!”
And that’s exactly what Chuck Doyle wanted—and what RARE Aircraft delivered!
ADAM GLOWASKI
Jim Hanson is the longtime FBO at Albert Lea, Minnesota. He has 50 years and 30,000 hours in the business, has flown 312 different types of aircraft, and has flown to 78 countries around the world. Jim is correct in that most of his stories do not follow their original goal, but that hasn’t stopped him from writing them! If you would like to guide Jim back on track, you can contact him at his airport office, 507-373-0608, or at jimhanson@deskmedia.com.
A Long Journey Home
H.G. FRAUTSCHY
Full circle Buhl
Sparky Barnes Sargent
A Silver-Age Sesquiplane Circles Back to the Buhl Family
One of the special delights this year in the Vintage area was a gleaming black-and-ivory 1928 Buhl Airsedan. Proudly displayed in front of the Red Barn, it simply exuded a stately air of elegance. The Buhl attracted hundreds of admirers, and the judges awarded it Silver Age (1928-1936) Runner-Up. Even in its heyday, this sesquiplane was a rare sight, since there were fewer than a dozen CA-3C models built in 1928 and 1929 at the Buhl manufacturing plant in Marysville, Michigan.
When M.A. Boggs inspected this prototype airplane on June 14 and 15, 1928, his overall pleasure with what he saw was refl ected in his remark, “new type – new plane – excellent. Seems to be a very nice ship,”—yet he did observe that the pilot and passenger seats were “not comfortable,” and the throttle controls were “to be perfected. Not satisfactory at present.”
With those items addressed, Herbert Hughes, the vice president and general manager for Buhl Aircraft Company, sent a letter to the Aeronautics Branch in Washington, D.C., on June 21, 1928: “Your Mr. Boggs inspected this ship last Saturday and mailed in his report. As this ship is going in the Ford Tour, we are very anxious to have the tag and the license plate sent to us as soon as possible and anything that you can do to expedite the sending of these to us will be greatly appreciated.”
The Aeronautics Branch responded on June 27 (just days before the Air Tour commenced): “License card and plate N C dash Five Eight Six Naught assigned Buhl Manufacturers Number Two Eight mailed this date. – Clarence M. Young.”
Flying away from the factory, NC5860 immediately assumed an informal role of national ambassador for Buhl Aircraft Company, and also for general aviation, when it participated in the 1928 National Air Tour for the Edsel B. Ford Reliability Trophy. Buhl’s confident and experienced pilot, Louis Meister, was accompanied by Harry Dunn, and they fi nished the tour in 10th place. One leg of their route may even have had them fl ying within sight of Oshkosh, Wisconsin, where 84 years later, several generations of the Buhl family would be proudly representing the Buhl Aircraft Company, right alongside a freshly restored NC5860.
Buhl Heritage
Buhl Aircraft Company was cofounded by Detroit businessman Lawrence Buhl and aircraft designer Alfred Verville in 1925. (In 1927, Verville departed the company and Etienne Dormoy became designer and engineer.)
The Buhl family of Detroit had been well-known since the 1880s for their numerous and diverse business enterprises, including a large wholesale hardware company and the Buhl Stamping Company, which manufactured tubular lanterns and metal parts for milk cans (if you have an old milk can, look under the handle for the Buhl name).
Th e Buhls also made their mark in
Fuselage mounted on the homemade rotating tool, inside the paint booth in Bowman’s hangar at Y65. May 2010.
KEITH FOLKERTS
The interior being installed at Riverside.
KEITH FOLKERTS
Taken in August 2003, this photo shows extensive repair being done to the wings.
KEITH FOLKERTS
Work is progressing on the fuselage. May 2003.
H.G. FRAUTSCHY
the fl edgling aircraft industry of the 1920s, when their company made notable history in March 1927, by receiving the very first CAA approved type certificate (ATC No. 1) for their Buhl-Verville Airster. The following year, the Buhl Airsedan was manufactured under ATC No. 46. By then, the company had moved to Marysville, Michigan. The company stayed in business until 1933.
Lawrence Buhl’s son, Larry, was born in 1934, and was amiably sharing a little about his family’s ties to aviation during EAA AirVenture Oshkosh 2012. “I fl ew when I was in my 20s for a couple of years, and then after my father died, I took over the family real estate business in Detroit and really had nowhere to fl y,” recalls Buhl, elaborating, “so that part of my life disappeared, but I’ve always been interested in aircraft. My eldest son, Larry, always loved aircraft, and as a matter of fact, I drove him to his fi rst fl ying lesson in Harbor Springs, Michigan, when he was 14 years old. He’s been fl ying ever since. It was my father who owned the Buhl Aircraft Company in Marysville, Michigan. I know that he and Edsel Ford were very close friends, and my father also raced boats on the Detroit River. I do know that Edsel Ford built an engine for my father’s race boat, and I think that was about the same time that Ford was getting back into aviation. I just suspect that the two of them were talking one day, and Ford probably said to my father, ‘Larry, this is something that might be fun, why don’t you get your fi ngers in the pie?’ And he did.”
Buhl’s present-day quest to preserve and pay tribute to his father’s aircraft manufacturing history was inspired by a gift from one of his sons. “My eldest son, Larry, found a 1931 LA-1 Buhl Bull Pup that had been restored [by Ken Hetge] in California, and he gave it to me as a gift,” says Buhl with a chuckle, elaborating “that kind of started this whole thing! We have a Buhl Bull Pup now, so wouldn’t it be fun to see if we can get a Buhl Airsedan? We found out about this one when the executor of Ed Marquart’s estate contacted our family. We had our friend and airplane builder, Andy Bowman, go to Ohio and take a look at it, and we decided to finish the restoration that Marquart had started. It took a little over a year to complete the sale, and then the project was shipped north to Andy’s hangar at Indian River airport. It took two years to complete, but we also changed in midstream from just recreating something and putting it in a museum, to having it fl yable. Th at made a big difference, and it’s been fun having it.”
MARY D. BOWMAN
Jeff Passeno fl ies the Buhl’s 1931 LA-1 Buhl Bull Pup.
38 JANUARY/FEBRUARY 2013 Restoration Begins in Riverside
Ed Marquart of Riverside, California, bought NC5680 around 1967, and he and his friends hauled it on an open trailer to the Flabob Airport, where it remained in storage for several decades. Marquart was very well-known in the experimental aviation world for his work with Ray Stits, his involvement with EAA Chapter 1 at Flabob, and his own aircraft designs, including the Marquart Charger biplane. In the mid-1990s, Ed began diligently applying his talents and skills to the sesquiplane’s restoration, submitting FAA Form 337s (Major Repair and Alteration) of his work for at least six years in a row. He thoroughly described and illustrated his progress through these hand-completed records, unknowingly creating a legacy of workmanship for someone else to complete years later. Throughout those years, Marquart had assistance from many friends, including the late Russ Earnhart and Jack Gentry, Janice Johnson (fabric covering and painting), Larry Gudde (machinist), and Keith Folkerts (photographer).
By March 1995, he submitted a 337 for the removal of the original
tailskid assembly (which had been converted to a 4-by-8 wheel) and shock cord mounting tubes, which he replaced with a shock strut and tailwheel assembly from a Cessna UC78, adding a 4130 support structure. He also replaced the forward and aft section of the fuselage with new 4130 tubing, leaving the midsection with its wing and landing gear fi ttings original.
A year later, he was steadily progressing, and submitted a 337 with detailed information regarding repairs to the left and right lower wings: “Replaced laminated spruce tip bow and birch plywood skins, top and bottom, replaced spruce trailing edges, replaced aluminum leading edges, box assembly of three spruce ribs and birch plywood skin top and bottom, replaced three ribs on right wing.”
In March 1997, Marquart filed yet another 337 with hand drawings of additional wing repair, depicting that 13 of the left wing’s leading edge ribs and four main ribs were replaced. On the right wing, he replaced four leading edge ribs, two main ribs, and three inboard ribs aft of the fuel tank location. He also replaced plywood adjacent to the front and rear spars at the wingtips and wingroots. Additionally, he submitted a neatly detailed outline and drawings depicting his proposed installation of the wheels and brakes, though the work was not accomplished at that time.
The next month, he submitted drawings and calculations for changing the engine mount length, refl ecting a 27-pound decrease in weight from the original Wright J-5 to the current Lycoming R-680. He used a mounting ring from a Stearman PT13 with vibration isolators, and indicated his plans to use a stainless steel fi rewall and a PT-13 oil tank (or comparable), along with a Hamilton Standard propeller.
Marquart was moving right along by March 1998, when he submitted a 337 depicting the installation of a 1/8-inch Plexiglas skylight above the cabin area, accomplished by the addition of small tabs on the tubing substructure. A year later, his recorded paperwork stated that he’d re-covered the wings, ailerons, vertical fin, rudder, one stabilizer, and both elevators using the Poly-Fiber process.
In March 2004, another 337 indicated that the complete aircraft was covered in Poly-Fiber. Marquart con-
Of all the Airsedan’s striking features, perhaps the most unusual is its circular-shaped tubing support structure through- out the interior of the cabin. A glance inside reveals a marvelous repetition of geometric circles, with the one closest to the windshield being inverted. Another eye-catching feature of the Airsedan is its lower tapered wing, which is less than half the size of the upper wing. Bowman reflects that the sesquiwing provides “the structural PHIL HIGH integrity and strength of a biplane, without so much drag. It does give some lift; every rib in that wing is unique because of the way it tapers.” tinued working steadily on the Buhl Airsedan project until just a couple of weeks before he passed away on July 4, 2007. Th e project was hauled from Riverside and placed in the care of his relatives in Ohio.
Buhl Airsedan Model CA-3C Specifications
Seating Engine Wingspan Wing chord Wing area Length Height Empty weight Useful load One pilot, two passengers Wright Whirlwind J-5, 220 hp Upper 36 feet, Lower 20 feet 10 inches Upper 72 inches, Lower tapered 35 inches 240 square feet 28 feet 8 feet 1,760 pounds 1,440 pounds
Payload Gross weight Speeds Climb 660 pounds 3,200 pounds 134 mph max, 112 mph cruise, 47 mph landing 800 fpm
Ceiling Fuel capacity Oil 16,000 feet 45-gallon tank in each upper wing root 5 gallons
Range
840 miles Price $11,000 Derived from Joseph Juptner’s U.S. Civil Aircraft, Volume 1, and NC5860’s Aircraft
The Buhls Pass the Baton to Bowman
Buhl shares that he spearheaded the Airsedan project and provided the funding, as well as “supervising” the restoration work. “I’ve known Andy Bowman for years; he’s built his own planes, and when the Buhl Bull Pup was delivered by trailer to Harbor Springs, he was probably the fi rst one there as they were unloading it—with his tongue hanging out!” says Buhl with a chuckle, adding, “he actually said, ‘if you ever fi nd anything else and want some help, let me know.’ Th at was before we even found the Airsedan, so when we discovered it was for sale, I knew I had somebody who could work on it. Best of all, it could be done in my own town, where I could keep watch on what’s happening. That made it a lot more fun for me, and Andy did a beautiful job on it!”
In 2009, when the project arrived at Indian River (Y65), Michigan, Bowman was a bit dismayed when he found some damage on the wings. “All four wings had been covered and painted, but there was shipping damage on the wing leading edges— which was not fun to fix,” explains Bowman, “and a lot of the rib stitching knots were scuffed on the lower wings and the tail. So Larry and I decided it would be easier to repaint the wings. Th e fuselage was covered and primed, but we felt it was best to strip the primer and then start fresh. Jon Goldenbaum and the employees of Consolidated Aircraft Coatings were very helpful and supportive of my many questions as I learned to work with Ranthane, their fi nal fi nish.”
When Bowman discovered that there was a 1929 Buhl Sport Airsedan at Greg Herrick’s private Golden Wings Flying Museum in Minnesota, he says he “went there to take photos and get ideas for the trim around the door. Greg also kindly shared the logo artwork with us; then Larry and his wife, Fay, picked this one which was on a great 1920s advertisement.”
Bowman completed myriad detailed restoration chores throughout the course of two years, including installing new windows, completing the interior which Marquart had started, and replacing the instrument panel. “Ed made the panel with a cutout for a radio stack, because he planned to fly it regularly in the California environment, and he also planned a trip to Oshkosh,” explains Bowman, “but I switched it over to more original. I had the instruments overhauled, and they’re pretty much original to the era. The altimeter is part of a Navy bombsight.”
The pine wood trim around the Buhl’s doors and windows were made by Dick Babcock, a boat-builder friend of Bowman’s, and another friend from Cheboygan, Jeff Passeno, made the threaded grease seals for the wheels and small spinnings for the hub caps.
Jim Mynning (of air show fame) provided invaluable help with many aspects of the restoration, including accomplishing work on the wheels and brakes, having the fuel tanks welded, and working on the Lycoming
H.G. FRAUTSCHY
R-680 engine. “The engine came off a Stearman that Jim had traded for, and it had the front exhaust collector. Jim did a top overhaul on the Lycoming, working with Earl Kirchoff of Topinabee, Michigan,” shares Bowman, adding, “Earl was also the IA who worked with me. Th e ‘pretty’ Ham-Standard prop we got with the project was too big—it looks nice for display, but we fly it with a shorter prop that came off Jim’s 1929 Stinson. The carburetor also came off his airplane—we had a carburetor overhauled, but the throttle control linkage was not smooth, so Jim loaned us his.”
When it came time to hang the wings, Bowman enlisted Passeno’s assistance again. “Jeff was my primary helper, and teacher, during the last phases of the restoration,” shares Bowman, adding, “He has built and restored several planes, as well as designing and building an antiquelooking biplane. He was the lead on the wing installation and rigging for the Buhl; I was the gofer.”
PHIL HIGH
Flying the Airsedan
October 12, 2011, was a beautiful blue-sky day, with brilliant autumn colors in full array on the hillsides adjacent to the Pellston airport in Michigan. Members of the Buhl family and those who worked to complete the restoration gathered in anticipation of NC5860’s first flight since 1953. Pilot Paul Fullerton was accompanied by Jeff Passeno, who served as radio operator/passenger/movable ballast. They taxied to the end of Runway 23, and the resplendent sesquiplane lifted off about 10:30 a.m. and climbed into the sunny sky for a 25-minute fl ight.
Fullerton, who owns and flies a Cessna 195, commented to Bowman afterward that he’d “bring her down on the grass next time,” even though the gear and wheels held up fine on the pavement. The Airsedan handled nicely; its counterbalanced ailerons, and the elevators, are operated by push-pull rods, which facilitate smooth and fluid movement of the fl ight controls.
“It flew real nice the very first time—it’s just wonderful,” refl ects Fullerton, elaborating, “it’s not a STOL aircraft or anything, but in its day, this was a very nice aircraft— especially with its enclosed cabin for the pilot and passengers. Landings aren’t too bad, but you can’t really use the brakes, because you’d have to take your feet off the rudder bar to reach them. Jeff and I cruised 95 mph coming over to Oshkosh, and it was a real pretty fl ight.”
Preserving the Buhl Family Legacy
Now that the 1931 LA-1 Bull Pup has been aloft twice (flown by Jeff Passeno), and the 1928 Airsedan made a safe and successful debut at AirVenture, the Buhl family’s goal for both planes will be preservation.
When asked what it’s like to now own two of the Buhl Aircraft Company’s airplanes, Buhl smiles and refl ects, “it makes me wonder, at 77 years old, why I didn’t think of this a lot sooner. I mean, you know, why not? It just never even occurred to me—it took my children to say, ‘Hey, Dad, let’s get on this!’ It’s been a wonderful experience. I’ve just completed a 50by-60 building on my property in Harbor Springs, and we’re going to call it the ‘Buhl Sons’ Museum.’ We’re going to retire both planes and put them in there, along with the fi rst car my son, Robbie, raced in the Indy 500. We’ll also add a few things from the Buhl Stamping Company—it’ll be nice.”
Buhl and Bowman especially enjoyed being able to share the Airsedan with aviation enthusiasts during AirVenture 2012. “I loved meeting many of Ed Marquart’s friends at the show,” declares Bowman, with his gregarious smile, adding, “I learned a lot more about the plane, and the Vintage Aircraft Association. I was amazed at the number of people who thanked me and the Buhls for bringing the plane to the show. I’ve never thought to say those words to an exhibitor, but I will use them often at future gatherings of airplanes.”
Jams D. Dole Drowned
Eagles
Winners Goebel and Jensen
Th e disastrous 1927 Dole Air Derby
Mark Carlson
Flying in small airplanes, cross-country pilots experience a profound sense of the nearness of the world outside. Th ey hear the engines and feel the airstream on the windshield. Looking below the wings a flier sees roads, rail lines, towns, airfields, and other familiar landmarks to guide him. This is very different from what airline passengers sense, sealed into a large
aluminum and plastic tube that isolates them from the hostile and vast environment beyond.
But when a small plane leaves the land behind and points its nose out over the ocean it is another matter. Today with GPS and instant global communication, it’s almost impossible to get lost or lose contact with civilization.
Eight-fi ve years ago, when woodand-fabric planes were common, the blue ocean far below might just as easily have been another planet. For thousands of miles there were no roads or rail lines to follow. A pilot fl ying the ocean was as alone as any human could possibly be.
Charles Lindbergh’s brave goal of fl ying the Atlantic alone was one of the most daring feats in history. To be fair, he wasn’t the only one to attempt the fl ight. But the danger that accompanied such an attempt was driven home by the deaths of six men who tried the same thing.
Two experienced French pilots, Charles Nungesser and Francois Coli, were both aces in the World War I. Even with a suitable airplane and extensive preparation, the fl ight ended with their disappearance somewhere over the 1,800 miles of ocean between Ireland and Newfoundland. To this day their loss remains a mystery.
Th e moment Lindbergh touched down on the grass fi eld of Le Bourget, Paris, on the night of May 21, 1927, the world changed forever. For the first time in history, the continents of the Old and New Worlds had been joined by the wings of an airplane.
Even as Lindbergh was making speeches and being paraded around Europe, a man in Honolulu, Hawaii, was already thinking of a way to generate interest in another transoceanic fl ight. His name was James D. Dole, the pineapple mogul. He had been profoundly impressed by Lindbergh’s feat. Dole saw the incredible marketing potential in a similar fl ight over the Pacifi c.
Lindbergh, however, had intended the New York to Paris fl ight to promote aviation, not to become a celebrity. He had worked for months to prepare for the flight, taking every precaution to assure his safety and success. To him it was not a stunt but a carefully planned long-distance flight. He had little experience with over-water flying and knew it was dangerous.
Th e Summer of Eagles
With typical zest, American pilots began looking to set other aviation records, to fl y to the same fame and fortune Lindbergh had found. Th e summer of 1927 became known as the “summer of eagles.”
Dole put up a prize of $25,000, the equal of the original 1919 Ortieg Prize for a New York to Paris fl ight, for the fi rst plane to fl y from the continental U.S. to Honolulu. Dole sent the story out onto the Associated Press wire on May 25, only four days after Lindbergh had landed in Paris.
The man who made pineapples famous in the United States was a member of the National Aeronautic Association. Dole knew the dangers of such a fl ight and approached the Honolulu chapter to establish race details and rules. Chapter President Clarence H. Cooke worked with Navy Cmdr. H.B. McComb of Pearl Harbor and Army Capt. Lowell H. Smith from Wheeler Army Airfi eld. Th e Dole Air Derby would begin in Oakland, California, on the east shore of San Francisco Bay. Th e landing was to be at Wheeler on Oahu. Dole hoped Lindbergh himself would take the bait and enter the competition. Takeoff was sched-
uled for Saturday, August 12.
But even before the race had begun, two Army Air Corps lieutenants named Lester Maitland and Albert Hegenberger had already flown an Atlantic Fokker C-3 Trimotor from Oakland to Wheeler on June 25. They made the flight in just over 25 hours. The timing of the fl ight was purely coincidental, having been planned for several months. This only made Dole more eager to promote his air race.
Unlike New York hotel owner Raymond Ortieg, Dole was offering a $10,000 prize to the runnerup. Drawn by the lure of a big cash prize and instant fame, pilots from all over the country besieged the committee with their intent to enter the competition. Thirty-three applications were received and reviewed by Cooke’s committee. One of the early entrants was Frank Clarke, a noted Hollywood stunt pilot, whose work would include Howard Hughes’ famous Hell’s Angels in 1930. His plane was an International F-17W named Miss Hollydale. Famed cowboy star Hoot Gibson sponsored Pride of Los Angeles, another unusual Catron & Fisk CF-10 triplane. Gibson’s iconic face was painted on the side of the plane. Th e pilots were James L. Griffi n and Ted Lundgren.
Other entrants were itinerate barnstormers or exhibition fliers, and the money was a huge temptation. To Dole’s disappointment, Lindbergh was not among them. After returning to the U.S., Th e Lone Eagle was far too busy promoting aviation and flying the silver Ryan NYP to every one of the 48 states.
A Hop, Skip, and a Big Jump
Only a few of the applicants had any experience with long, over-water flying.
The prevailing mood was, “If a Midwesterner like Lindy can do it, so can I.” Few of the entrants seemed to realize or pay heed to the danger. Oakland was 2,400 miles from Hawaii, far to the southwest. The Hawaiian Islands were less than 300 miles across. Even a slight compass deviation at that distance would put them hundreds of miles off course.
In 1927 aircraft instruments were simple and even primitive. It would be another two years before aviation pioneer Jimmy Doolittle would help to develop the artifi cial horizon and directional gyroscope that greatly aided all-weather and night fl ying.
The Aeronautics Branch of the Bureau of Commerce, the forerunner of the FAA, knew the fl ight was dangerous and sent inspector Walter Parkins to work with the Dole committee. Navy Lt. H.T. Wyatt was ordered by the 12th Naval District at Mare Island in Vallejo, California, to oversee the inspection of aircraft intending to enter the Dole Air Derby. The 33 original applicants were quickly whittled down to less than half that number.
One was disqualified because its magnetic compass was 45 degrees off true. Th e plane would have fl own off to the northwest and disappeared. Far from being grateful for having their lives saved, the fl iers were angry at being cut. Th e race offi cials held a drawing on August 8 to determine the order of takeoff .
Of the 15 qualifying entrants, two withdrew. Then The Angel of Los Angeles crashed on a trial fl ight. On August 10, Pride of Los Angeles, bearing the face of Hoot Gibson, but without him on board, crashed in San Francisco Bay. Griffi n, Lundgren, and mechanic Lawrence Weill were able to swim to shore.
Then another was cut for having an unqualified navigator. Ten remained.
Lieutenant Wyatt, feeling the entrants needed more time to prepare told the press, “In the interest of aviation and safety, this race should not be held tomorrow. It would be suicidal.” Takeoff was re-scheduled for noon on Tuesday, August 16.
On the 11th, a British pilot named Arthur Rogers took his unique Bryan Taylor monoplane up for a test flight. The radical design had twin booms and two BristolLucifer engines set fore and aft on a central fuselage, one pushing and one tractor. As onlookers watched the plane suddenly went into an uncontrolled spin and fell. Rogers was able to bail out, but his parachute failed to open and he was killed.
Th e City of Peoria was disqualifi ed just a day before the race because it couldn’t carry the 450 gallons of fuel necessary to reach Hawaii.
The eight remaining aircraft were an eclectic bunch. Most were high-wing monoplanes, while a few were biplanes.
Hawaii’s favorite was Aloha, a Breese-Wilde Model monoplane, flown by Martin Jensen with Paul Schluter as navigator. Schluter was not experienced in aerial navigation, having only been on ships. Th is would be his fi rst time in an airplane.
Jensen, an Oahu resident, had raised the money for the plane with his wife’s help. “She told me,” Jensen said to the press prior to takeoff, “that if I flopped into the ocean, she was going to row out and hit me in the head with an oar. So I guess I’d better make it.”
He’d christened Aloha with a bottle of water from Waikiki Beach.
Another Breese-Wilde was named the Pabco Pacific Flyer. The lone pilot was Maj. Livingston Irving, an ace in World War I.
Two reliable Travel Air 5000s were entered. One was Oklahoma, flown by Bennett Griffin (no rela-
tion to the pilot of Pride of Los Angeles) and Al Henley. The second Travel Air was Woolaroc, with Art Goebel, another Hollywood stunt pilot, and Bill Davis Jr. navigating. Goebel had used his own money and borrowed from friends to buy the Travel Air, but was unable to make the last payment. Bennett Griffin suggested Goebel contact wealthy rancher Frank Phillips. Phillips, who was already sponsoring Oklahoma, agreed to make the final payment if Goebel named the plane after his ranch lodge. Th e name Woolaroc is a combination of the words wood, lakes, and rocks. Goebel’s plane was one of only two to carry a two-way radio.
A new prototype Lockheed Vega Model 1, soon to become famous with Wiley Post and Amelia Earhart, was named Golden Eagle. Jack Frost piloted the Vega while Gordon Scott navigated. Eagle was painted bright gold, making her easily the most visible of the entrants. It had been purchased by the San Francisco Examiner. With a long over-water flight in mind, the Vega had been equipped with several modifi cations. Fuel could be dumped from the tanks, increasing buoyancy. In addition, Scott could use a compressed air tank to infl ate rubber cells inside the wings. The fuselage and wings were designed to be as watertight as possible, while a fi ve-man life raft complete with sail, oars, compass, and flare pistol was ready for use.
Th e remaining all-metal aircraft was El Encanto, a Goddard Special, flown by her designer, Norman Goddard and navigator Ken Hawkins. Th is advanced plane was favored to win by members of the aviation community. Goddard and Hawkins were both Navy offi cers.
Dallas Spirit, fl own by Bill Erwin, was a Swallow Monoplane. Her Miss Hollydale
Oklahoma
Pabco Pacifi c Flyer
Aloha in Hawaii
Dallas Spirit
Miss Doran
navigator was Alvin Eichwaldt.
One of the most intriguing entrants was the Miss Doran, a Buhl CA-5 Air Sedan biplane piloted by John “Augie” Pedlar. Pedlar always flew with his trademark knickerbockers and a straw hat. Th e plane had run into engine trouble on the flight from Michigan and needed repairs. Pedlar and his original navigator, Manley Lawling, worked on the plane in Long Beach and took off for Oakland. Lawling’s navigational skills didn’t impress Pedlar, and he was replaced by Vilas Knope. But the male pilots were secondary to their passenger, a pretty, 5-foot-4-inch 22-year old fifthgrade teacher named Mildred Doran from Flint, Michigan. The plane was purchased by a wealthy Flint businessman. Doran, who wasn’t concerned (or more likely, aware) of the dangers, was instantly the darling of the press as she paraded about in her specially tailored khaki ‘flight suit’ emblazoned with admirers’ fraternity pins as though they were military medals. Across her chest was a Sam Browne belt, and she wore high leather boots. Doran intended to go into acting after the fl ight. “She was the cutest little thing,” said a woman who met Doran.
Th e Buhl was painted red, white, and blue. As a passenger, Doran was to ride in a separate compartment behind the cockpit. A hole was cut into the forward wooden bulkhead for her to communicate with Pedlar and Knope with a small megaphone. She sat on an inflatable rubber cushion for comfort. Under it was a crude toilet.
Nearly every aircraft was powered by the faithful and nowfamous Wright J5C Whirlwind radial engine, the one that had powered Lindbergh’s’ Ryan.
From Sea to Shining Sea
One thing Lindbergh didn’t have was maritime and naval support. Th e committee arranged for a dozen ships en route between California and Hawaii, including the S.S. Wilhelmina, 1,400 miles out of San Francisco, to keep watch for the airplanes.
In addition, the U.S. Pacifi c Fleet, still based in San Diego was put on standby alert. Th is included the fi rst American aircraft carrier USS Langley (CV-1). Wheeler Field had a radio beacon, but only Golden Eagle and Woolaroc could make use of it.
On the morning of the race, the eight planes and crews waited on the hard-packed dirt of the Oakland Airport for their turn. Arranged in a semicircle, they were to roll out one at a time. There
was a lot of bravado and bragging. “When I pass the halfway mark,” said Bill Erwin of Dallas Spirit, “I’m going to listen for the rustling of grass skirts in the breeze and use it as a beacon to guide me in.”
At least 100,000 spectators and dignitaries’ were gathered to watch the start of the Dole Derby. At exactly 12:00, Ernie Smith, the official starter, fired his pistol and Bennett Griffi n advanced the throttle of the blue and yellow Oklahoma and rolled down the bumpy dirt runway. Th e plane was off at 12:01. Th e heavily laden Travel Air fi nally lifted off and banked west over San Francisco Bay.
The next plane at 12:03 was Goddard’s El Encanto. It began to roll down the runway. But it suddenly veered off the strip and tipped over, crushing the left wing. Goddard and Hawkins were able to climb out, shaken but unhurt.
At 12:11 Maj. Livingston Irving pulled his bright orange BreeseWilde monoplane, Pabco Pacific Flyer, just a few feet off the runway, but it failed to rise and landed heavily in a marsh at the end of the runway. Undeterred, Livingston had ground crewmen pull him out so he could try again after the last entrant had taken off .
But the derby had started off badly. Two of the three starting planes had crashed.
Th e crowd kept cheering on the entrants, but their enthusiasm was tempered by the fear of seeing more crashes.
Jack Frost coaxed the gleaming Vega, Golden Eagle, into the air at 12:31 and headed out to sea.
At 12:33 Miss Doran, with the sole woman contender aboard in her tiny cabin followed Frost into the warm afternoon sky. Martin Jensen threw Hawaiian leis out the window as the Travel Air, Aloha, took to the air. A few minutes later Woolaroc with Art Goebel at the stick joined the procession.
The last plane in the lineup was the green and silver Dallas Spirit, which took off uneventfully at 12:37.
Th en Livingston in Pabco Pacifi c Flyer was ready after repairs and headed down the runway. His second attempt reached 70 feet, and then the plane nosed over and crashed. Livingston too survived.
A short time later the sound of engines had died down and the spectators began to gather up their things to go home and wait for news.
But suddenly the sound of a rough-running engine was heard to the west. A mechanic frowned. “Th at engine doesn’t sound right.”
In a minute the crowd saw the gaily painted Miss Doran approach the field and land. Pedlar and Knope ran around to the balky engine and made some adjustments. Mildred Doran, in her faux aviator’s clothing, watched with some trepidation. When Pedlar suggested she might want to remain behind, she smiled and said, “I’m going.”
With that, Pedlar and Knope lifted off again and headed into the afternoon sun.
Then Oklahoma, with a tear in the fuselage, returned for repairs. Shortly after, the last plane to take off, Bill Erwin’s Dallas Spirit returned with control trouble. It would be a day before they could re-enter the race.
On Their Way
Four planes were in the air, separated by several miles, headed southwest for the tiny and distant Hawaiian Islands.
At an average altitude of 1,200 feet the fragile planes flew ever westward, eating up the miles. From that height the pilots were able to see for 60 or 70 miles in all directions in clear weather. Woolaroc, the only plane to carry a radio, sent regular reports of their location, provided by navigator Bill Davis. All through the afternoon, evening, and night of August 16 the nation waited for news.
Rumors began to circulate among coffee shops and workplaces from Hawaii to New York. One plane had been spotted approaching Hawaii or another had been reported down at sea. No one really knew anything, but that didn’t stop the speculation.
On the morning of August 17 the fi rst solid report came in from Woolaroc. Art Goebel sighted the S.S. Wilhelmina, westbound 1,500 miles from San Francisco and radioed it for a navigational fi x, confirming his position. At Wheeler Army Airfield north of Honolulu, nearly 25,000 spectators, a huge number for the island, began to gather to watch the winner land.
At 10:00 a.m. a report came in from a Hawaii listening station that Davis estimated they would be over the island by 12:30. But just after noon, the droning sound of aircraft engines thrummed in the warm air. People pointed at a monoplane, escorted by Navy and Army pursuit planes headed in for a landing. The assembled crowd cheered as Art Goebel stopped the Woolaroc with 26 hours and 17 minutes in the air. After cutting the engine, Goebel and Davis emerged, stiff and woozy from the long flight. Hawaiian girls placed leis around their necks and soldiers fi red a salute. Goebel looked around. “How many made it in before me?”
He was astonished to hear that Woolaroc was the winner. No other planes had been heard from in the last 25 hours. Knowing he had
Martin Jensen with his wife. been behind Oklahoma, Golden Eagle, Miss Doran, and Aloha, Goebel began to worry. At least one of the leading planes should have landed already or been seen. He and Davis had seen no other aircraft on their lone journey over the ocean. Goebel said they had maintained an altitude of more than 6,000 feet because a cloud layer at about 1,000-2,000 feet had obscured their view of the ocean. Any of the other planes fl ying at that altitude would have had difficulty seeing ships or land.
Navigator Davis said he finally sighted a faint shadow, the island of Maui, “just where I thought it should be.”
It was nearly 2:00 when another plane was spotted, the gaily painted Aloha with Martin Jensen at the controls. He had been in the air more than 28 hours. Jensen, after receiving his lei, explained they had been lost. “But after wandering about for four hours we found ourselves and lit off like a blue streak for Wheeler Field.” Jensen was reunited with his wife who hadn’t had to hit him with an oar.
As the afternoon wore on there was no sign of the other two planes. People and race offi cials began to fear the worst. Miss Doran and Golden Eagle were both missing. But few were more than concerned. Even if they were down at sea, the planes would float until rescuers reached them. On Th ursday a massive sea and air search began along the 2,400 miles between Hawaii and California. Since there was no way to know when or where they had gone down, every mile had to be scoured for wreckage. More than 40 Navy ships, including the USS Langley were put on the search. Merchant ships were asked to look for any sign of the missing planes. A $40,000 reward, possibly offered by Dole himself, was posted for information leading to the rescue of the downed fl iers.
Was This Trip Necessary?
In Flint, Michigan, a rumor circulated that Miss Doran and her crew were found. Celebrations were short-lived when it turned out to be a false report. Th e people of Flint and Mildred Doran’s pupils went into mourning. More than 59 years later, the nation would similarly mourn the loss of another schoolteacher, Christa McAuliffe, who died in the explosion of the Space Shuttle Challenger.
A subdued James Dole, knowing his dream had turned to ashes arranged for a simple ceremony. He handed Art Goebel a check for $25,000 and Martin Jensen a check for $10,000. Th e race was over.
Even though three men had been killed at takeoff , and fi ve more had Art Goebel disappeared over the vast Pacific, Bill Erwin and his navigator, Alvin Eichwaldt, having eff ected repairs to the controls of Dallas Spirit decided to take off on Friday morning to Hawaii. Friends tried to talk them out of it, saying the race was over, there was no hope of prize money. But Erwin was adamant. Th ey had a radio and could look for survivors on the way. At just before noon on Friday, August 19, 1927, Dallas Spirit lifted off and headed west.
For several hours Erwin reported all was well. Then as evening approached, a California listening station heard a shaky call from Eichwaldt. “We were in a tailspin but came out of it okay. We sure were scared. It was a close call. Bill (Erwin) thought it was all over, but we came out of it. Th e lights on the instrument panel went out, and it was so dark….” Th e signal faded. Th en a few minutes later Eichwaldt called again. His voice was frantic. “We are in a tailspin! SOS!” From that moment on there was only silence.
Ten people had died in the Dole Air Derby. No trace of the three missing planes was ever found.
What happened to Golden Eagle and Miss Doran? Speculation among aviation historians runs the gamut of engine failure, clogged fuel lines, faulty controls, and pilot error. But why hadn’t any of the more than half-dozen ships along
the route seen or heard them?
The Wright Whirlwind was one of the most reliable radial engines ever built until the appearance of the Pratt & Whitney R-1340 Wasp in 1935. Both missing planes had J5C Whirlwinds.
The only logical answer is navigational error. Celestial navigation was a reliable way of fi xing an aircraft’s position, but juggling a sextant and trying for an accurate fix in a small plane is a challenge, and an error of only a few degrees would put a plane far off course, with nothing but empty sea ahead. At the altitude of 1,200 feet even the large island of Hawaii could be missed from 70 miles away. As Goebel said, there was a cloud layer up to 2,000 feet for the later part of their fl ight.
The margin for error was thin and fragile, as were the lives of Jack Frost, Gordon Scott, Bill Erwin, Alvin Eichwaldt, Augie Pedlar, Vilas Knope and Mildred Doran. Doran is perhaps the most tragic figure in the story of the Dole Derby. A young, pretty schoolteacher who sought fame and adventure, she only found a terrifying fall from the sky to die in a tiny shattered cabin sinking into the freezing black water. She had no concept of how dangerous fl ying was, even under ideal conditions.
A Flint girlfriend told the Honolulu Star-Bulletin that “Mildred didn’t know enough to be afraid.”
In a statement replete with grim irony, Doran, just before takeoff said she didn’t plan to go swimming at Waikiki Beach when she reached Hawaii. “I don’t care much for the water.”
The man whom inadvertently inspired the Dole Air Derby, Charles Lindbergh, was the guest of honor at the offi cial opening of the Oakland Airport in September. The famed aviator must have harbored some grim thoughts about the Derby that had begun there a mere month before.
Th e “summer of eagles” was over.
James Dole, after learning the planes were on their way to Hawaii, had told the Honolulu Star-Bulletin, “Th ere is a defi nite stimulus to commercial aviation on the Pacific in the Dole Derby. It is my hope and belief that the achievements of the trans-Pacific fliers today point to the early establishment of commercial aviation in Hawaii with regular and ample facilities for business and pleasure transportation. “
His fl awed dream did come true, however. Four decades later a Boeing 747 was en route to Honolulu from Los Angeles. In two adjoining seats in fi rst class were a retired Air Force colonel and a retired aeronautical engineer. Looking down at the wide blue Pacifi c 35,000 feet below, they talked about the Dole Derby. It had been a tragedy, a dangerous stunt with little heed paid to the risks and all to the payoff. But it had been the forerunner of the very plane they were fl ying in, basking in comfort and ease.
They were Art Goebel and Martin Jensen, the winners and sole survivors of the Dole Derby.
Mildred Doran
