“Hey, Steve.” Bryan from somewhere ahead. “I’m getting about ten knots of tailwind at five hundred feet.” That’s the value of a Loran.
I leveled off 500 feet above the ground and searched the sky ahead. Occasionally I got a glimpse of sun glinting off his top wing. The air was smooth and the green stubble on the land made it look hospitable. Below me trucks and cars poked along, but the Cannibal Queen navigated the azure at a blistering 100 MPH indicated. I waggled the stick to let her know how pleased with her I was. Two or three times Bryan and I exchanged words, just for company.
Thirty miles east of Van Horn, just past the filling station that Bryan once visited, the interstate split. I-10 continued straight east to Fort Stockton. I took I-20, the four-lane that headed northeast to Pecos and Odessa.
I was past Pecos when I heard Bryan call over Fort Stockton, but shortly afterward I had to switch frequencies. Good-bye, Bryan.
The largest collection of World War II airplanes in the world, over 150 of them, belongs to the Confederate Air Force. After a spirited competition between San Antonio and Midland-Odessa, the CAF decided to move from Harlingen, Texas, to Midland-Odessa. I dropped in to see how the move was coming and to squint at any odd treasures that might have arrived.
Alas, there was only one, a C-46, which was sitting out on the ramp. The manager of the Cutter Aviation FBO where I stopped, Chuck Davis, assured me that the C-46 was not a treasure.
“I got a couple thousand hours in a C-46, and believe me, it’s one of the worst excuses for an airplane ever certified. The fuselage on the damn thing is too fat, so when you slow to landing speed the rudder and elevators become ineffective. So there you are, not landed yet and no longer flying, with no control. And it’s too short-coupled. See how close together the main gear and tailwheel are. That’s a great prescription for a groundloop in any kind of crosswind. The best anyone can manage in a C-46 is to arrive without crashing.”
Chuck shook his head. “And the military back then was buying C-47s, real airplanes, as fast as they could get them. But there were never enough, so they flew the C-46s until the war was over, then got rid of the damned things. They were so cheap all the civilians bought them and flew them until they crashed or wore out, whichever occurred first. But they were always an abortion of an airplane.”
Chuck was kind enough to take me over to the CAF’s new office spaces for a look around. We met several people, including a gent and lady in their seventies accoutered in gray CAF jumpsuits covered with patches and pins. Both had colonel’s eagles on their epaulets.
They had just driven down from Wichita, the man said. His name was Willard. He asked Chuck if he was a colonel, and Chuck said yes. So Willard shook hands with Chuck. Then he asked if I was a colonel, and I said no. So Willard didn’t bother wasting a handshake on me and addressed all his remarks to Chuck.
“Yessir, they flew that C-46 here from Harlingen crammed full of people. Hadn’t flown in four years, but they filled it up with people and flew it up here. I think they ought to have done some flying in it before they filled it up with folks. Four years is a long time.”
Chuck agreed that four years is indeed a long time for an airplane to sit. Personally I didn’t believe that the plane wasn’t given a test flight before it was filled with passengers. Not being a colonel, I kept my opinion to myself.
“But they know what they’re doing,” Willard assured his fellow colonel. “Yessir. Me and the missus just came down to camp out and look around and get the feel of the place, y’know?”
After Willard and wife left, a lady gave us a tour of the offices. The folks that could have taken us into the hangars under renovation and construction were all at lunch, so we made do by stopping at one warehouse crammed to the eaves with World War II-vintage spare parts. That was only a small portion of the collection. They had a mountain of the stuff, they said, still waiting to be moved into two more warehouses the CAF had rented in the area.
Back in his office Chuck made some phone calls on my behalf. I had heard that a gentleman named Connie Edwards had a collection of airplanes at a private strip near Big Spring, and I wanted to stop in for a peek if I could wrangle an invite. Alas, Mr. Edwards was out of town for a couple days.
“Connie has a nice collection over there at his ranch,” Chuck said. “Messerschmitt 108s and 109s, Spitfires, Hurricanes, P-51s, a lot of original, unrestored planes.”
“I heard,” I told him, “that these planes are just stacked in a hangar willy-nilly, lying on top of each other.”
“Well, they let the air out of the tires of some so that they could overlap the wings, then the air went out of the tires of the others and they’re resting on the first ones. Sure, there may be minor damage. But Connie’s not running a museum. These are unrestored planes. They’re dusty and dirty, all right, but nothing that soap and water couldn’t cure. Then a competent mechanic could bring them back to airworthy status.”
Chuck told me that Connie Edwards doesn’t sell planes, but occasionally he’ll trade a fighter for a Grumman amphibian, which he also collects. He made a trade like that recently and the new owner of the fighter flew it to Chino for restoration.
He made another call, to the ranch belonging to Joe Mabee, and snagged me an invitation to visit. At 1:30 or 2 P.M.
“Joe Mabee is the colonel who heads the CAF board. There are colonels and there are colonels. He’s sort of the colonel-general.”
“What’s out at his ranch?”
“You’ll have to go look. I won’t spoil the surprise.”
So at 12:30 I said good-bye to Chuck and strapped into the Cannibal Queen I might as well be a little early. Maybe the man who agreed to meet me, Tom Dollahite, would be early too.
He was standing on the ramp when I taxied up to Mabee’s hangar on his private strip 20 miles north of Midland International. Along with him was a man named Ken Shugart, who I eventually figured out was a world-class aircraft restoration expert. Together they showed me the treasures of Joe Mabee’s hangar.
I’ll tell you about them in the order in which I saw them. Centered in the door was an AT-11 wearing two R-985 Pratt & Whitneys that didn’t look that clean when they came new from the factory. Ken is restoring this aircraft, and when he is finished, it will be better than new. It will also, Tom told me, have an authentic cockpit. But the cabin will be pressurized and outfitted with a bar and comfy chairs, perfect for joyrides for people whose idea of aerial adventure is a Learjet.
Behind the AT-11 was a Hellcat fuselage without an engine. It’s owned by the CAF and is awaiting its turn for Ken’s attention. Joe Mabee agreed to foot the bill for the aircraft’s total restoration. “There’s only three Hellcats flying in the world,” Ken told me. “This will be the fourth one.”
He showed me the engine sitting on a stand. There he is bringing the exhaust and induction systems back to military specs. “They customized this thing and raced it at Reno, but it was uncompetitive. Probably would have performed better stock. Of course the CAF wants it stock.”
In the adjoining hangar were completely restored aircraft, scrumptious delights that turned me green with envy. Standing there staring at those toys, I wished I were Joe Mabee.
The world’s newest P-51, with just 30 flight hours on it, sat there gleaming in raw aluminum. They’re still researching the paint scheme.
Not far away was probably the world’s lowest-time Harvard, with a mere 1,300 hours on its airframe. Mabee bought it in Canada in its present, perfect, original condition for exactly $8,000. True, that was a few years back, but …
$8,000?
The plane has never been restored. It doesn’t need it. I fought back the envy, but I confess, it got the better of me. If I were a Catholic I would have needed a priest right then.
There’s just no justice in this world. No one calls me offering to sell like-new nifty airplanes for $8,000. No one! I’d buy them if they did. But nooo, they call guys like Joe Mabee. Is that fair or what?
I stood there staring at an immaculate P-40. What can I say? Robert Scott and Tex Hill should come look.
Parked in front of the P-40 was a T-34 from the shop of a former cop in Kansas who restored his first T-34 for fun, Tom said, and got so many appreciative comments he decided to try to make a living at it. He bought every T-34 airframe and all the spare parts he could find and went into the business. And he makes his own parts. I suspect all top-notch restoration experts have to.
In the back of the hangar was the finest Grumman Wildcat I ever laid eyes on. This one was restored by two machinists in Chicago who got her someplace and decided to make her restoration their life’s work. The craftsmanship is sublime, equal to the best that any living soul could do.
And there was a replica Nakajima Type 97 Kate torpedo-bomber built from AT-6 and BT-13 fuselages for the filming of the movie Tora! Tora! Tora! This one is owned by Ken Shugart, who bought the pieces in Los Angeles and rebuilt it here. He paid $8,000 (there’s that number again!) for the parts, which were spread all over Los Angeles in the homes of volunteers who were polishing them. The owners apparently realized the enormity of the project and sold the plane. The man who sold it to Ken had all the names and addresses on a Rolodex and spent two days phoning. All the parts didn’t come in, but the major subassemblies did. Ken made the rest of the parts himself.
The resemblance between this replica and the real McCoy is only superficial. The real Kate had a wingspan of 51 feet and a fuselage 34 feet long. The big wing was necessary to carry a load of bombs or a Long Lance torpedo. The dimensions of the replica are reversed, with the fuselage much longer than the shortened wings. And instead of a double-row radial that develops 1,020 horsepower, the replica wears a single-row 600-HP mill. But she doesn’t have to carry bombs or deck-run from an aircraft carrier.
Skipping the replica hoopla, this plane is a big, brand-new, one-of-a-kind, all-metal low-wing monoplane with retractable gear and a respectable radial engine. Not a bad prescription for a fun machine.
“She cruises at 185 miles per hour true,” Ken said, “and is a real pussycat in the air. Impossible to stall. The stall is just a gentle mushing. She’s an absolute delight to fly.”
She’s also expensive to fly and insure, so Ken is thinking about selling her. I didn’t ask him the price. I just might be able to borrow or steal enough. And I don’t even own a hangar to house her.
But wouldn’t it be a kick? Fly to airshows in a replica Naka-jima Kate, maybe work up an act with some guy who owns a P-40 and stage mock dogfights. The cockpit holds a pilot and two passengers seated all in a row, so I could take two girlfriends along. Imagine pulling up to gas pumps around the country with that big rising sun emblazoned on the fuselage!
Perhaps I could get a Colorado Mazda car dealer to sponsor me, buy me some gas if I put his logo on the wings and flew over his dealership on sale days. Imagine the ads on TV, with me and the dealer all decked out as kamikaze pilots and sitting in the Kate, which the announcer could lie and call a Zero. We could recruit a bunch of hot women and drape them on the wings wearing bikinis. Thong bikinis. We could …
Naw!
Tom Dollahite led me over to the last hangar to see the latest acquisition, a Grumman Avenger. She sat at the back of the hangar with her wings folded and her bomb bay door open. This is a huge plane, with a giant four-bladed prop. God Almighty, she’s big! On the other side of the hangar on a dolly sat the upper turret.
“Joe has a rather novel approach to buying aircraft,” Tom said. “He buys them FOB the ranch, so the seller has to get it here to get paid. Avoids a lot of problems for us.”
“The seller flew this thing here?”
“Yep.”
We climbed up and peered into the cockpit.
I could fly this plane! Honest. If George Bush could do it, I sure as hell can. I could get that big prop spinning and taxi her out and feed in the throttle and rudder and—
“She flies like a big Piper Cub,” Tom said.
Ah me…. Why couldn’t I have been rich?
I almost asked Tom what it will cost to restore this Avenger, but I didn’t. If you have to ask. … No sense dreaming.
I thanked Tom and Ken for their time and strapped on the Queen. I took off to the south, right over the hangars full of fighters. But they weren’t flying. The Cannibal Queen was.
On my way east to Sweetwater I got to thinking about the Confederate Air Force. Founded in 1957 by five ex-fighter pilots who had just pooled their resources and acquired a military-surplus P-51 Mustang for $2,500, the CAF has grown exponentially to over 150 aircraft and 8,000 members who donate money, labor and expertise to keep the warbirds flying.
Many of the members, I suspect, are World War II veterans of advancing years, like Willard from Wichita in his natty gray jumpsuit. These people donate millions of dollars and spend uncounted hours washing, fixing, polishing and so forth. A large number of them do it, I suspect, to recapture a bit of the sparkle from the golden days of their youth, when they were young and a part of the greatest conglomeration of national power ever assembled on the planet.
What will happen to the CAF when these veterans pass from the scene, as will inevitably happen in the next few years? Can the CAF find enough members who will donate enough money and labor without the nostalgia impetus? I don’t know.
Joe Mabee and the other colonel-generals will have their hands full in the next few years keeping this organization going. I suspect that as the years go by more and more of these planes will have to be retired to permanent static-display status as money and manpower dry up.
In Sweetwater the FBO had a Texas magazine lying on the table. The cover touted a story inside listing the hundred richest Texans. You needed net assets of $130 million to get on the list. I looked to see if Connie Edwards or Joe Mabee made it. Nope. Probably squandered their piles on airplanes.
Just like me.
But then, I wouldn’t have made a list of the ten thousand richest Texans, even if I lived here and didn’t own anything with an engine except a motorcycle.
26
MY WAKE-UP CALL CAME AT 5:30,BEFORE DAWN. SWEETWATER, Texas, is on the western edge of the Central Time Zone, so the sun rises late here. It’s up but hidden by clouds on the eastern horizon when I complete my preflight and strap into the Queen. I’m going to do some flying today, a lot I hope, and go all the way to Savannah, Tennessee, 80 miles east of Memphis. If the weather cooperates.
Avenger Field in Sweetwater lies 2,385 feet above sea level. Built in 1929, during World War II this field was home to the WASPs, women pilots who ferried fighters and bombers around the country for the military. Today it’s home to Bob Sears Air-shows, an outfit that puts on aerial acts at airshows a la Earl Cherry.
But this morning I am the only person moving at the airport. The shabby old Beech 18 that was dripping oil beside the gas pump when I landed last night is gone. Only the stains on the asphalt remain. The owner and pilot of that antique was lying on his back under the airplane when we talked. He was a college instructor in Hawaii and had owned the twin-Beech for three years. He worked on it all summer and was trying to get the FAA to sign it off for a flight across the Pacific to Hawaii. He installed racks of 55-gallon drums in the cabin and plumbed them to deliver extra fuel, and he rigged up a system to oil the engines in flight.
I stood there staring at the Beech. It badly needed the attention of someone like Ken Shugart. I thanked my stars that I wasn’t going to fly across 2,300 nautical miles of open ocean in this clapped-out twin-engine prop, one that cruised at 150 knots indicated and had no autopilot.
“What are you going to do with it when you get it to Hawaii?” I asked.
“Haul skydivers.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Had our problems getting started. An aux fuel tank ruptured yesterday when we climbed to eighty-five hundred feet for a test. Sand daubers had plugged up the vent line. Found the rupture this morning when we tried to fill the tank and it ran out all over.” He ge
stured to the great stain on the asphalt and sighed. “I’ll put in one more drum and go without the aux tank. If I can just get the FAA to sign off the fuel mods. I keep telling them I can just disconnect the lines and call the drums cargo, but they may want to inspect the whole rig. I been talking to them all day.”
“Long way to Hawaii.”
“Oh, we’ll make it. Got to be there Monday when classes start.”
That was yesterday afternoon. Now he’s gone. Maybe up to Lubbock to have the FAA inspect the plane, or on to San Diego.
This morning the temperature is in the low 70s and my leather jacket feels good, but yesterday evening when I landed the temperature was 101 degrees. I am gradually coming down off the spine of the continent as I go east. So the temperature and humidity increase as I descend.
There is a stiff southwest wind blowing about 12 to 15 knots, but one of the runways points dead into it. I taxi out thinking about college teachers flying worn-out twin-Beeches across the ocean.
Sand daubers!
With no wind he will need a minimum of 16 hours to make the hop. Allowing for adverse winds and a little reserve, he should have fuel for 20 hours. Two Pratt & Whitney R-985s at 20 gallons an hour each—absolute minimum—40 times 20. He needs 800 gallons of fuel, and God only knows how much oil. That’s 4,800 pounds of fuel alone.
If he loses an engine before he burns off part of that load, he’s history. Or if his homemade plumbing rig springs a leak, or the plane fills with fumes, or the oil filler system craps out.
I line up the Cannibal Queen with the runway and run up the engine. The prop cycles properly and the mags check out. Trim set. Controls free. Okay, here we go. Throttle forward and feed in right rudder, now a touch of left. Tail up … and almost. … yes, she’s flying.
But the college instructor and his twin-Beech—that’s what aviation is all about, isn’t it? If he wants to risk his life flying an old airplane across the Pacific so that he can earn a few dollars hauling skydivers aloft, who are we to say that is foolish? Who are we to deny him permission to go? It’s his life and his plane. After all, Lindbergh made it and he didn’t have an FAA inspector sign off his fuel system.
The Cannibal Queen Page 32
