Background: An accident of fate had me living on the beach in Lanikai, Oahu on Dec 7 1941 when the Japanese attacked. Lanikai is only 3 or 4 miles from Kaneohe Naval Air station. The Japanese destroyed or damaged more than 30 PBYs leaving only a few flyable. Only 3 years old , I had no memory of the attack. I do remember the machine gun nest soldiers dug into the sand in front of our house. As I learned about the essential role PBYs had in locating the Japanese carriers in the battle of Midway, they impressed me.

The Story: I'm a Navy N3N biplane volunteer sim instructor at the WW2 airplane museum in Colorado Springs. A few days ago, as a reward for being a volunteer, I got a chance to fly a PBY--in the copilots seat, racetrack pattern at 8k feet and 90 indicated. The wing is too big and the rudder too small so it is sort of an airplane that thinks it is a sailboat. Very unhappy in yaw. It flies like a C124 with somebody messing with the rudder. I loved it, and I can perhaps do it a few times a year in the future.

During Doolie summer, I had a team from the VOA filming me during our training, including--among others--a run through the obstacle course with my trusty old M-1. I have a pic from that that they gave me. They were filming for a broadcast in Europe that summer; although, I never saw it. But I got a free ride home in an Air Force sedan so they could show my mom altering my summer uniform! That is obviously an untrue [staged] thing, but again I have the pics to show it. In any event it was a great opportunity to get home for a day (I lived in Denver!) and see my family and friends.

During our first class summer I was a flight commander, and I had my doolies count cadence in Japanese. Also I had them more often than not running in formation with the shortest guys first. Gerry Gammill, Vic Yoakum and Charley Sands can relate!

I was the last member to finally pass when I showed the instructors it was physically impossible for me to float, dead man or otherwise, while I was sitting on the bottom of the pool. They just shook their heads.

I was a member of that "rock squad." Like Ben, I went through 4 years of remedial swimming, and I did not finally pass until just before graduation. Technically, the task was not to "float" but "to remain motionless in the water for 3 minutes." I eventually passed by training to hold my breath for the required time, and I did so while sitting on the bottom of that accursed pool.

Reading Ben Furuta’s “Stake Your Claim” brought back memories of Special Swimming. I, too, could not float. My buoyancy point was when the top of my head was about six inches below the water surface. I passed the swimming requirements but could not float.

As I remember, the special swimmers met about every other week the first summer. We did not do anything special. Mostly, we stood in the pool and talked. One day some one went on an exploring trip in the gym and found a candy machine. After that, we often relaxed over a candy bar. Obviously, we had little to no supervision.

I remember especially our Third Class summer trip to Castle AFB (now closed). Many of the class were at the base pool. When I looked around, there were two colors of bathing suits. The original blue color worn by most of the class and a gray color caused by all the chlorine in the Lowry AFB pool worn proudly by us, the “Special Swimmers”.

When I was a lad, my Dad also worked at an aircraft factory--Lockheed Burbank. And, like Les, I got to see some aviation firsts there. But my biggest aviation first was to witness the one-and-only flight of the Spruce Goose in 1947 when Howard Hughes' "taxi test" of his H-4 Hercules got a little exuberant.

This happened on a day shortly before the Cadet Soaring Club birds were blown loose, extracting their tie-downs from the ground, and tumbled to damage beyond repair, resulting in the demise the Soaring Club. I was up in the Schweizer 1-26 looking for lift in all the wrong places west of the Academy air patch when I got a call on the radio that the surface wind was picking up quickly and that I had best get down NOW. By the time I got close to the field (it was literally that in those days), the winds were all ready over 40knots out of the west, and with a north-south runway there was no way for a normal approach. Instead, I turned into the wind just west of the runway, and slowed to let the wind drift me back over the runway. When I was over the runway, I dropped the nose enough to kill the ground speed and pulled enough spoiler to produce a vertical descent to the runway. When I touched down, a man got on each wing tip, and one held the tail, to help keep the airplane--which was still 'flying'--from kiting while they pulled me into the corral (again, literally) and got the 1-26 tied down. Once the bird was 'secured,' I opened the canopy and got out.

Back in the day, the USAFA Model Airplane Club traveled, via Goony Bird, to West Point for a "meet" with the corresponding Army activity. The weather was not conducive to outdoor flying; so, they decided to hold a limited event inside the Field House. I was one of several who flew control-line aircraft. After several successful overhead passes aligned with the long axis of the building, I then tried one aligned with the short axis. The field-house ceiling slants downward from the apex, but I thought it was still high enough to permit the maneuver. Alas, it was not; the airplane struck the ceiling and fell silently and forlornly to the field-house floor.

One day in high-school Chemistry class, a friend asked if I could give him a ride to Pasadena on Saturday. I said that I'd have to check but could probably do so. I picked him up on Saturday and drove him to Pasadena. When we got there, he suggested that I come inside the building to wait, because his business could take an hour or more. He never said what the "business" was, and I didn't ask. I took his advice and waited on a bench just inside the entrance doors. My friend and several others checked in at a table, received a envelope, and went into a room down the hall.

Eventually, one of the ladies at the table said that I should take one of the extra envelopes and go to the room down the hall instead of just sitting there. Not having anything better to do, I accepted her offer and took what I think was either the SATs or something like them. My test papers were apparently submitted to my Congressman along with the rest. I did not find out what the tests were for until several months later when I got a letter from my Congressman instructing me to procede to March AFB for more tests. I went, and the rest is history. My friend, who really wanted to attend the Academy, never got such a letter, and he never spoke to me again.

My father worked for Fairchild, and we lived a few miles from the factory. When I heard that the test flight for the XC-120 would be "today," I jumped on my bicycle and headed for the airport.

I watched the start-up and taxi to the end of the runway, where I was standing, and felt the prop wash after it turned and headed down the runway.

Take off was graceful. It flew for an hour circling overhead, then landed. The cargo pod was then removed and it headed back to the end of the runway.

Without the pod, it was a strange looking monster. Power was applied and it shot down the runway, like a P-38. It climbed at a high angle of attack, flew around the area for a while, then landed.

An exciting day for a airplane-loving kid.

Seven years later, while on summer leave after our Doolie year, I was invited to visit Fairchild, having been the first Academy appointee from the area. While there I went on a test flight of the Fokker F-27 with Fairchild's Chief Test Pilot, Dick Henson, who was also the test pilot for the XC-120.

A STORY ABOUT AN AIRPLANE

Just once, on the 17th of August 1969 I was given the opportunity to pilot Minimoa #56 NC16923 at the Tucson Soaring Club at old Ryan Field west of town. It would be Carl Groom’s second single seat plane to pilot, and he wanted three of us to take it up and let him know how to handle it. Col. Andy Gordon USAF retired, the chief pilot of the club, Aussie Don McEligot, and I were the lucky ones.

We found the pulley system and huge ailerons to be slow to react on takeoff. The plane flew nicely, and landing was easy. We told Carl to add a couple of mph to the approach speed since the plane was 34 years old. We also mentioned the spoilers pitched the nose down gently. He held steady without correcting on takeoff and did better than we did. On landing he came in nice, a little hot fearing using the spoilers close to the ground, rounded out and flew in ground effect for about three thousand feet. We had to walk the plane back. All was well.

My log says air tow to 3,000 ft, max altitude 5,700 ft, 38 minutes in all. Comment: “early in morning after night storms weak lift longest flight of the day.”

This plane was purchased by Richard DuPont, shipped to the U. S. on the Hindenburg dirigible (Maybe), and raced in 1937 and 1938. It was later sold twice.

Reverend Carl E. Groom--seen here in the Minimoa--grew up in Elmira, New York and had seen the plane as a child. It was advertised for $2,000 in Soaring Magazine. Carl wanted to buy it, and the consensus was to bid $2,010 for it which worked out. After a couple of years Carl donated the plane to the Soaring Museum in Elmira, New York where I last saw it hanging from the ceiling. In 1969 it was a colorful red, blue, white, and yellow with some clear coat. In the museum it has been put back to the original fabric covering (not as elegant).

This Minimoa is listed under N16923 as deregistered, and the Soaring Museum has it listed as G16923; NC16923 is how it is in my logbook. Version 3 of the Minimoa (Werk Nr. 3) starts with number 32 delivered July 29, 1936, and ends with number 312 in 1939.

Read more about the Minimoa HERE