Post by jesse on Dec 4, 2008 9:55:31 GMT -5
My allotted time on the computer has expired so I'll talk to y'all later.
Jesse
"Things Just Ain't What They Seem!"
By Jesse R. Callahan (January 3, 1997)
The year was 1946 and like a lot of other 23 year olds just back from WWII, I was anxious to resume 'civilian' flying as opposed to the hot military style we had become used to. I was still single and did not have too many responsibilities, so I plunked down a worldly sum of $400.00 and bought a surplus BT-13. I had taken my basic training in the Vultee Vibrator, as the BT was affectionately called so I figured it would suit my needs more so than the Mustang I had been eyeing. It cost $300.00 more, so that was out of my range.
At the time I was stationed at Kelly Field in San Antonio and was still dating my child bride up in Tulsa, Oklahoma. When we got a free week-end, I would usually crank up the old Pratt and Whitney 450hp engine and go tooling off in the blue to TUL. Back in those days we did not have such luxuries as VOR, FSS and Flight Following. We had the old Adcock Range (you know, A's and N's) and at night, the CAA light line. We relied mostly on following the iron beam, and when we would come to a town, we would circle the water tower to see where we were. Usually the town name would be painted on the tower.
One warm spring Saturday morning, I gassed up the bird, it held 120 gallons, and swallowed about 17 - 18 gallons per hour and cruised at 120 miles per hour. I checked the WX at Kelly operations and was assured of smooth flying all the way to TUL. By the time I got to Ft. Worth and landed for fuel, the sky was getting very hazy and contained a lot of dust. But since I was instrument rated, and the old bird still had all of her navigation instruments I pushed on. After crossing the Red river and heading up into hostile Indian territory, I was hardly able to make out anything on the ground. The dust blowing produced so much static that radio reception was practically nil. After flying northward for what I believed to be the dead reckoning time I should have arrived at TUL, I started a slow let down from 8000 ft, all the time keeping my eyes peeled for a recognizable land mark. Nothing! I brought the bird on down to about 2000 feet, and could start to see a little better. I spotted what appeared to be a small airport just off the right wing, so I did what I had always been trained to do when approaching an unfamiliar field. I put the flaps down, went into high pitch on the prop and made a slow drag of the field.
Near what I thought was a hangar, were parked an old C-47 and a T-6. I made a long, low approach from north to south just dragging it in over the fence, and then stalling to get on the ground before I ran into the fence at the South end. When I got the beast stopped, I was less that 18 inches from the fence. I taxied back up to the hangar that turned out to be a hay storage barn. An old gent in overalls came out to the plane and asked if he could be of service. I asked him what field this was and how did they get the Gooney Bird and the Texan in on such a short runway. His answer really floored me. The two airplanes belonged to his son, and they were trucked in, not flown in. His runway was not a runway, but a part of his hay field, and that we were 15 miles North of Coffeeville, Kansas. To say the least, I really felt stupid and I had seen cadets in our class washed out for less.
Making the short field take off out of there was a feat that I would not like to repeat. At 800 feet altitude and 25 minutes later, I put the bird down in Tulsa. My bride to be was waiting at the Airport and wanted to know why I was late. My reply - don't ask!
Jesse
"Things Just Ain't What They Seem!"
By Jesse R. Callahan (January 3, 1997)
The year was 1946 and like a lot of other 23 year olds just back from WWII, I was anxious to resume 'civilian' flying as opposed to the hot military style we had become used to. I was still single and did not have too many responsibilities, so I plunked down a worldly sum of $400.00 and bought a surplus BT-13. I had taken my basic training in the Vultee Vibrator, as the BT was affectionately called so I figured it would suit my needs more so than the Mustang I had been eyeing. It cost $300.00 more, so that was out of my range.
At the time I was stationed at Kelly Field in San Antonio and was still dating my child bride up in Tulsa, Oklahoma. When we got a free week-end, I would usually crank up the old Pratt and Whitney 450hp engine and go tooling off in the blue to TUL. Back in those days we did not have such luxuries as VOR, FSS and Flight Following. We had the old Adcock Range (you know, A's and N's) and at night, the CAA light line. We relied mostly on following the iron beam, and when we would come to a town, we would circle the water tower to see where we were. Usually the town name would be painted on the tower.
One warm spring Saturday morning, I gassed up the bird, it held 120 gallons, and swallowed about 17 - 18 gallons per hour and cruised at 120 miles per hour. I checked the WX at Kelly operations and was assured of smooth flying all the way to TUL. By the time I got to Ft. Worth and landed for fuel, the sky was getting very hazy and contained a lot of dust. But since I was instrument rated, and the old bird still had all of her navigation instruments I pushed on. After crossing the Red river and heading up into hostile Indian territory, I was hardly able to make out anything on the ground. The dust blowing produced so much static that radio reception was practically nil. After flying northward for what I believed to be the dead reckoning time I should have arrived at TUL, I started a slow let down from 8000 ft, all the time keeping my eyes peeled for a recognizable land mark. Nothing! I brought the bird on down to about 2000 feet, and could start to see a little better. I spotted what appeared to be a small airport just off the right wing, so I did what I had always been trained to do when approaching an unfamiliar field. I put the flaps down, went into high pitch on the prop and made a slow drag of the field.
Near what I thought was a hangar, were parked an old C-47 and a T-6. I made a long, low approach from north to south just dragging it in over the fence, and then stalling to get on the ground before I ran into the fence at the South end. When I got the beast stopped, I was less that 18 inches from the fence. I taxied back up to the hangar that turned out to be a hay storage barn. An old gent in overalls came out to the plane and asked if he could be of service. I asked him what field this was and how did they get the Gooney Bird and the Texan in on such a short runway. His answer really floored me. The two airplanes belonged to his son, and they were trucked in, not flown in. His runway was not a runway, but a part of his hay field, and that we were 15 miles North of Coffeeville, Kansas. To say the least, I really felt stupid and I had seen cadets in our class washed out for less.
Making the short field take off out of there was a feat that I would not like to repeat. At 800 feet altitude and 25 minutes later, I put the bird down in Tulsa. My bride to be was waiting at the Airport and wanted to know why I was late. My reply - don't ask!