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Flying Lessons by Radio: The 1920s Adventure of ‘A Chair, A Stick, A Radio’

[https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/12/CSR_p18-1024x826.png] Imagine yourself in the comfort of your living room, a kitchen chair as your cockpit, a broomstick as your control stick, and the voice of an aviation pioneer crackling through the radio. It’s the late 1920s, and the Alexander Aircraft Company is revolutionizing the way people think about flight, not with soaring planes, but with vivid lessons broadcast over the airwaves. This isn’t just a story about aviation; it’s a story about creativity, humor, and a vision to bring the skies within reach of everyone. Let’s dive into the whimsical yet groundbreaking initiative that had thousands tuning in to “A Chair, A Stick, A Radio.” Listen to the full episode here or watch the video on the BAP YouTube channel [http://www.youtube.com/@buffaloairpark9082]. ---------------------------------------- “A Chair-A Stick-A Radio” by Willis Parker, published in Popular Aviation, March, 1928. We never will know just how many of the thousands of radio fans in the middle west and Rocky Mountain regions placed kitchen chairs before their receiving sets, seated themselves more or less comfortably with their left hands firmly grasping broomsticks between their knees and eagerly followed a course of ten lessons on how to fly as presented over Broadcasting Station KOA, Denver, by Chief Pilot Cloyd P. Clevenger of the Alexander Aircraft Company.  The fans were assured that, if they supplied themselves with kitchen chairs and broomsticks, they could get more out of the lessons than otherwise. However, the chair and broomstick idea were more for the purpose of creating atmosphere than anything else, for it is obvious that learning to fly by radio or by a correspondence course is out of the question. The entire purpose of the radio lessons was to create air-mindedness and arouse in the listeners a greater desire to learn to fly. Each lesson was fifteen minutes long and they were given Friday evenings from 8 to 8:15 o’clock.  To arouse interest and hold the attention of the unseen audience and create aviation enthusiasm, the lessons had to be entertaining and chuck full of “atmosphere.” To do this, the lessons were not presented directly to the audience, but the listeners received the information secondhand through Clevenger’s efforts to teach an alleged gawky rube how to fly. The alleged rube was none other than Gene Lindberg, one of the most popular newspaper humorists in the Rocky Mountain region. Gene’s comments upon the pilot’s instructions, his remarks concerning the various parts of the plane, his soliloquies while “in the air” provided enough clean amusement to prevent radio fans from turning to other stations where jazz orchestras might be performing. There was also a fortunate coincidence in names, for Gene’s name is exactly the same, as far as pronunciation is concerned, as that of the famous trans-Atlantic flyer. In spelling it lacks the letter “H.” Through the liberal use of accessories, the audience was given the representation of the roars of airplane motors, which were produced by turning electric fans into the microphones. For ordinary cruising the fan was turned only part way on. For racing the motor while warming up or at the take-off, a full blast of the fan did the work.  The lessons were in dialogue form and began with the repartee that resulted upon Gene’s arrival at the field. The first was a simple explanation of the controls and the various parts of the ship. Gene asks some pointed though humorous questions regarding the qualifications for good pilots, which Clevenger answers and in doing so indirectly assures every listener that almost any person can learn to fly.  In a subsequent lesson Gene asks “When a fellow like me puts up his hard cash for flying lessons, he wonders when the investment will pay dividends. Do you think I’ll make my first five hundred thousand by 1930.”  This gave Clevenger an opportunity to explain that there is a demand for salesmen with flying ability as well as a demand for good pilots. This should have aroused interest among the radio fans who were seeking financial opportunity should have and created in them a desire to get into the game.  As an illustration of the humorous touches, note this bit of dialogue:  “GENE- Clev, this air feels awful thin to me, today. Are you sure there aren’t any holes in it?”  “CLEV—Nope, no holes. An Eaglerock just came in with a fresh load of air from sea-level. I patched all the holes myself.” Illustrating how some of the points may be presented through the medium of dialogue, mixed with a little humor, note the following which took place, supposedly, when the duet were preparing to go up and were starting the engine:  “CLEV—Don’t say ‘ON; say ‘CONTACT. (Sound of motor.)  “CLEV—Hold the stick back, now, and give it the gun. There are blocks in front of the wheels.” “GENE—Then I can’t shoot anywhere?”  “CLEV—Nope.”  “GENE—Why give it the gun, then? ***”  “CLEV—You’re green, all right! Always remember this. The minute your propeller speeds up, it naturally tries to pull the ship ahead. It can’t go ahead with blocks under the wheels, so it tries to stand on its nose. With the stick held back the propeller blast presses on top of the flippers and holds the tail down.”  (Blocks are removed and the ship taxis off.)  “GENE—Hey, Clev. This thing wobbles all over the field! What you got in the radiator, alcohol?” (After much additional repartee they start down the field with Clevenger issuing instructions, among which are:  “CLEV—Use the ailerons to keep your wings absolutely level.”  “GENE—Aha! Go straight and always be on the level! You can’t cheat in these things!”  “CLEV—If you get the impression your right wing is low, move the stick to the left enough to bring it up immediately. Now, for the elevators. When you’re on the ground, your nose is way above the horizon.”  “GENE—I can’t help my nose. I was born with it.”  “CLEV—Cut out the horse play. Hold the stick forward now, at the start of the takeoff, until the nose comes down almost to the horizon, then return the stick to an approximate neutral.”  (They are in the air.)  “GENE—Wow! Something’s gone fooey. What the—?”  “CLEV—Gene, I’m ashamed of you. I Thought I taught you not to skid.” “GENE—So that’s what I was doing? You ought to have tire chains on these babies.”  “CLEV—There’s no mud or soft sand in the air, Gene. It’s all in your head. You’re in too big a hurry to get your nose around the horizon. Take it easy. You’re putting too much inside rudder on your turns. Now! Straighten her out and fly south.”  “GENE—South, South! Lord, man, which way is South? Think Im a duck?”  In one lesson Gene is taught the principles of stalled flight, which Clevenger explains is necessary to know how to prevent getting into accidental tail spins. He explains that Gene probably will go into a spin and Gene promptly has a heavy feeling in his stomach and declares he feels pale. However, the tail spin is made, corrected, and everything ends with a good landing.  In the lesson on looping, Gene has some thrills that are humorous yet dangerous. Clevenger speaks at length on the need of watching the horizon, keeping the wings level and pulling the nose up to the horizon when the loop is completed, to which Gene remarks that “You sure keep your nose on the horizon a lot in this flying business.”  In reference to keeping the plane straight in a side drift wind, Gene remarks, “Funny things, these planes. Steer ‘em straight and they go so crooked you’ve got to steer crooked to go straight.” The lessons were based upon Clevengers’ book, “Modern Flight.” All through the dialogue, where appropriate, mention was made of what was said in the book.  Just how effective the radio advertisement was, will never be known, but there were hundreds of copies of the book sold shortly afterwards and an increased visitation to the aviation school. Undoubtedly scores of listeners were led to investigate especially after hearing Gene’s soliloquy on his solo flight, parts of which follow:  “Holy Cats! Here I am, 500 feet up in the sky and no Clev in the front seat. *** Maybe I shouldn’t have done this—maybe I’m not good enough yet maybe. Aw, rats! Clev knows his stuff. He wouldn’t have let me solo if he didn’t think I could do it. *** Wonder what Clev’s doing now? I’ll bank and get a good slant at him. There he is, the little runt, no bigger’n a bowling pin. *** He ain’t making any motions. Just watching. Why shouldn’t he? This is a darn keen bank. No skid, no slip. No wind on the cheeks. *** Gee, this thing works just as well now as when Clev was with me. *** Talk about having your hands full—a fellow’s got his feet full, too. *** There’s Clev, waving his helmet. Guess I’d better drop back down. *** No wind on my tail this trip. Down she goes in the glide. ** Easy there. Round her out nice and gentle. Ooops! That left wing’s a bit low. There, level as a lake. Now we’re slowing. No you don’t, you son-of-a-gun, I won’t let you settle yet. Three feet off. Sitting pretty. Two feet. Little more stick. Ahh! A three- pointer. I knew I could do it. I’M AN AVIATOR NOW.”  ---------------------------------------- The ingenuity behind “A Chair, A Stick, A Radio” wasn’t just about teaching flight; it was about igniting a spark of air-mindedness in an era where aviation was still in its infancy. By blending education with humor and creativity, these lessons inspired countless individuals to dream of soaring above the clouds. As we look back on this unique chapter of aviation history, we’re reminded that sometimes, it’s not the planes that take us higher—it’s the imagination that fuels our desire to fly. If this story inspired you, don’t forget to like, share, and subscribe for more fascinating tales of aviation history. Fly high, dreamers! Chair_Stick_Radio [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/12/Chair_Stick_Radio.pdf]Download [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/12/Chair_Stick_Radio.pdf] The post Flying Lessons by Radio: The 1920s Adventure of ‘A Chair, A Stick, A Radio’ [https://www.buffaloairpark.com/2024/12/10/flying-lessons-by-radio-the-1920s-adventure-of-a-chair-a-stick-a-radio/] appeared first on Buffalo Air-Park [https://www.buffaloairpark.com].

Ruth Nichols: Defying Gravity and Expectations

[https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/12/Ruth-with-the-Akita-e1547162891209-1024x830.webp]Ruth Nichols Picture this: a sleek Lockheed Vega gleaming under the sunlight, its powerful engine roaring to life. Beside it stands Ruth Nichols, goggles perched on her forehead, a determined glint in her eyes. She isn’t just preparing for another flight—she’s preparing to rewrite history. Ruth Nichols was a woman who defied societal expectations, broke world records, and soared into the annals of aviation history. Today, we delve into the story of the “Flying Debutante,” a woman who proved she was anything but. Listen to the full episode here or watch the video on the BAP YouTube channel [http://www.youtube.com/@buffaloairpark9082]. The Flight That Changed Her Life Born on February 23, 1901, into a wealthy New York family, Ruth Nichols seemed destined for a life of privilege, far removed from the adventurous world of aviation. But in 1919, her father gave her a gift that would alter her path forever: an airplane ride with Eddie Stinson Jr., one of the era’s most daring pilots. The aircraft was a biplane, its fabric-covered wings stretching like a bird ready to take flight. The exposed cockpit offered no protection from the elements, immersing passengers in the raw experience of flying. As the engine roared to life, vibrations coursed through the plane, mingling with the scent of oil and gasoline. Ruth climbed into the cockpit with a mix of fear and excitement. The plane lifted off the ground, revealing a patchwork quilt of fields and roads below. She felt the exhilaration of weightlessness for the first time. Then came the loop—a heart-pounding maneuver. The plane ascended sharply, flipped upside down, and descended in a smooth arc. Ruth clutched the sides of the cockpit, terror gripping her. But as the plane leveled out, her fear transformed into awe. In that moment, she fell in love with the skies, vowing to make aviation her life’s pursuit. A Passion Ignited Ruth’s determination to fly wasn’t deterred by societal expectations. While studying at Wellesley College, she secretly took flying lessons, defying the norms of the time. In 1924, she earned her pilot’s license, becoming one of the first women to do so. That same year, she became the first woman in the world to obtain a seaplane license, mastering the challenging art of water landings and takeoffs. By 1927, Ruth had joined the ranks of elite pilots, becoming one of the first two women licensed to fly transport planes. In 1928, she co-piloted the first non-stop flight from New York to Miami, a daring endeavor that cemented her reputation as a serious aviator. Newspapers called her the “Flying Debutante,” a nickname she loathed. To Ruth, it trivialized her skill and reduced her achievements to a novelty. Determined to prove herself, she let her actions speak louder than any headline. Breaking Records and Barriers In 1930, Ruth borrowed a Lockheed Vega from industrialist Powel Crosley Jr., a sleek monoplane designed for long-distance flights. With its polished frame gleaming under the sun, Ruth prepared for takeoff. She wasn’t just flying across the country—she was chasing a dream. She shattered Charles Lindbergh’s transcontinental record, completing the journey in just over 13 hours. The flight was a triumph, a declaration that women could soar just as high and fast as men. The following year, Ruth continued to break records. In March 1931, she piloted her Lockheed Vega to an altitude of 28,743 feet, enduring freezing temperatures in an unpressurized cabin. Frost formed on the windows as she gripped the controls, breathing oxygen from a tank to combat the thin air. Just a month later, she set the women’s speed record, reaching 210.7 miles per hour. These achievements solidified Ruth’s place among the aviation elite. She wasn’t content with personal glory, though. She wanted to inspire others and challenge the limits of what women could achieve in aviation. Setbacks in the Skies Not every flight ended in triumph. In June 1931, Ruth attempted to become the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic. She meticulously prepared her Lockheed Vega, equipping it with extra fuel tanks for the grueling journey. As she approached New Brunswick, Canada, severe turbulence forced her into an emergency landing. The crash left her with broken vertebrae, a fractured nose, and severe lacerations. Despite her injuries, Ruth remained undaunted. From her hospital bed, she began planning her next venture. Later that year, her beloved Lockheed Vega was destroyed in a fire caused by a fuel leak. The loss was devastating, but Ruth’s resolve only grew stronger. Her love for aviation wasn’t tied to a single machine—it was a part of who she was. [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/12/ruth_nichols-1024x767.png]A newspaper clipping from Tony’s scrapbook. One of Ruth’s most striking acts of resilience came after another crash left her with severe injuries. Against medical advice, she returned to flying within weeks, piloting a plane while wearing a plaster cast and steel corset. She later quipped, “Maybe it doesn’t make sense…family and friends have urged me to keep my feet on the ground. The only people who haven’t tried to change me are flyers. They comprehend.” Aviation for a Greater Purpose Ruth’s ambitions extended beyond records. In 1939, she founded Relief Wings, an airborne ambulance corps that provided disaster and wartime relief. Imagine Ruth stepping out of a meeting with military officials, blueprints and plans in hand, advocating for aviation’s role in saving lives. During World War II, she served as a lieutenant colonel in the Civil Air Patrol, blending her passion for flying with her commitment to humanitarian work. After the war, Ruth focused on global causes. She organized flights for United Nations International Children’s Emergency Fund (UNICEF) and continued advocating for aviation as a tool for humanitarian aid. Her dedication to using flight for good showcased the depth of her character and her belief in the transformative power of aviation. Pioneering Space Advocacy In the 1950s, Ruth’s passion turned toward space exploration. In 1959, she underwent astronaut testing, a rigorous process designed to assess the physical and psychological fitness of potential spacefarers. Standing in a sterile testing facility surrounded by medical equipment, Ruth made her case for women’s inclusion in the space program. Although societal biases prevented her from becoming an astronaut, her efforts paved the way for future generations of female astronauts. The Final Chapter Tragically, Ruth’s story ended too soon. In 1960, at the age of 59, she passed away. Yet her contributions to aviation and humanitarian work endure. In 1992, she was posthumously inducted into the National Aviation Hall of Fame, a recognition of her groundbreaking achievements and indomitable spirit. Close your eyes and imagine a sky filled with endless possibilities. Ruth Nichols saw that horizon, and she didn’t just dream of reaching it—she soared beyond it. Her story is a testament to resilience, innovation, and courage. If her story inspired you, please subscribe to my channel for more tales of aviation pioneers. Share this video to honor Ruth Nichols’ legacy, and leave a comment about which aviator you’d like to learn about next. Together, let’s keep these incredible stories flying high. ---------------------------------------- This story wouldn’t have been possible without the invaluable photos and information provided by the International Women’s Air & Space Museum (IWASM). Their mission is to collect, preserve, and showcase the history and culture of women in all areas of aviation and aerospace; to educate people of the world about their contributions; and to inspire future generations by bringing this history to life. Visit the IWASM to learn more about Ruth Nichols and other extraordinary women who have shaped the skies and beyond: https://iwasm.org/wp-blog/ [https://iwasm.org/wp-blog/]. The post Ruth Nichols: Defying Gravity and Expectations [https://www.buffaloairpark.com/2024/12/05/ruth-nichols-defying-gravity-and-expectations/] appeared first on Buffalo Air-Park [https://www.buffaloairpark.com].

The Lost Inventor: UFO Prototypes Found in a Tobacco Shed

[https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/preface2-topaz-upscale-2x-1024x585.png] Imagine the dawn of aviation—a time when flight was still a wonder and the possibilities seemed endless. Among the pioneers of this era was Jonathan Edward Caldwell, a man whose dreams soared as high as the skies he aimed to conquer. Unlike others refining traditional airplanes, Caldwell sought to revolutionize flight itself—crafting aircraft that could take off vertically, hover mid-air, and mimic the elegance of bird flight. His bold experiments left a legacy of ambition, innovation, and mystery, culminating in an unexpected connection to one of the 20th century’s most enduring cultural phenomena: UFOs. Listen to the full episode here or watch the video on the BAP YouTube channel [http://www.youtube.com/@buffaloairpark9082]. Jonathan Caldwell: The Visionary [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/jonathan-edward-caldwell-topaz-face-upscale-4x-768x1024.png]Jonathan E. Caldwell Jonathan Edward Caldwell was born in 1883 in Ontario, Canada. Though little is known about his early years, he eventually immigrated to the United States, where he worked as a farmer before delving into aviation. He wasn’t a trained engineer, yet he became consumed by the mechanics of flight, particularly the way birds soared and maneuvered effortlessly through the air. Caldwell’s vision extended far beyond the conventional designs of the time. He believed the future of aviation lay in vertical take-off and landing (VTOL) aircraft that could operate in confined spaces and navigate like no fixed-wing plane could. This concept, decades ahead of its time, would later be realized in modern helicopters and tilt-rotors—but Caldwell was attempting it in the 1920s and 1930s, with far less advanced technology. Despite his lack of formal training, Caldwell’s enthusiasm and determination fueled his work. He began filing patents for radical new designs, experimenting with unconventional shapes and propulsion systems, all aimed at overcoming the limitations of traditional aircraft. The Feather-Wing Plane and Other Inventions [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/a-J-E-Caldwells-Gray-Goose-8-in-1923-b-K-F-J-Kirstens-wingless-Cycloplane-topaz-upscale-4x-1024x785.png]Cyclogyro Caldwell’s first major innovation was the Cyclogyro, patented in 1923. The design featured rotating frames with adjustable blades, resembling Ferris wheels mounted to either side of the fuselage.  These rotating airfoils were intended to control lift and direction, allowing for vertical take-off and hovering capabilities. While the concept was revolutionary, the technology of the era couldn’t support its complexity. [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/ornithopter-1024x641.png]Ornithopter By 1927, Caldwell turned to nature for inspiration with the Ornithopter, a flapping-wing aircraft designed to mimic bird flight. Its fabric-covered wings incorporated valves that opened on the upstroke and closed on the downstroke to generate lift and thrust. Though imaginative, the design faced the same fate as the Cyclogyro—its potential outpaced the engineering of the time. [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/feather-wing-1024x760.png]A newspaper clipping from Tony’s scrapbook. In 1933, Caldwell unveiled his most ambitious creation, the Feather-Wing Plane. Featuring three revolving wings on each side, the aircraft aimed to replicate the flapping motion of birds. Caldwell claimed it would redefine aviation, making vertical flight possible and practical. But despite its groundbreaking design, the Feather-Wing never achieved sustained flight, hampered by limited funding and technical setbacks. [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/disc-rotor-plane-topaz-face-upscale-4x-1024x778.png]Disk-Rotor Plane Caldwell’s work culminated in the Disk-Rotor Plane, developed in 1934. With its circular rotor functioning as both wing and propeller, Caldwell envisioned it as a cheap, mass-market aircraft that could take off from small spaces. He promised it would cost less than an automobile, making personal flight accessible to everyone. Yet, like his earlier designs, the Disk-Rotor Plane struggled in test flights, culminating in a crash that marked the end of the project. The Mystery of the Tobacco Shed By 1940, mounting debts and legal troubles forced Caldwell into obscurity. He vanished abruptly, leaving behind unfinished projects and a trail of unanswered questions. His disappearance might have been the end of his story—if not for an extraordinary discovery nearly a decade later. [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/flying-saucer-article-496x1024.jpeg] In 1949, Maryland State Police investigating reports of abandoned aircraft stumbled upon a tobacco shed on a farm near Glen Burnie. Inside, they found two peculiar machines, covered in dust but unmistakably unique. One resembled a giant wooden tub, about 14 feet in diameter, with an engine and cockpit at its center. Around its top and bottom rims were four-bladed propellers designed to rotate in opposite directions. The other was a helicopter-like contraption topped with a disc-shaped rotor, stretching 16 feet across and covered in airplane cloth. The discovery captivated the public and drew the attention of the U.S. Air Force, which had been investigating a wave of UFO sightings since 1947. Could these strange machines explain the mysterious “flying discs” reported across the country? The Air Force thought it was possible. Caldwell and the UFO Phenomenon [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/kenneth_arnold-topaz-face-upscale-3x-868x1024.png]Kenneth Arnold At the time of the discovery, UFO mania was sweeping the nation. Kenneth Arnold’s sighting of flying discs over Mount Rainier in 1947 had sparked a cultural obsession with unidentified flying objects. Caldwell’s disc-shaped aircraft seemed to fit the description, and the timing of their rediscovery fueled speculation. The Air Force launched an investigation, speculating that Caldwell—or someone inspired by his work—might have developed advanced versions of these designs in secret. Captain Claudius Belk, leading the inquiry, noted that Caldwell’s smaller models had reportedly flown successfully in the 1930s, even if the larger prototypes had failed. The possibility that these crafts might have been mistaken for flying saucers added a layer of intrigue to an already mysterious story. Even skeptics couldn’t dismiss the parallels. Caldwell’s rotating discs, hovering capability, and unconventional shapes aligned with public descriptions of UFOs. While the Air Force ultimately dismissed the connection, their initial interest legitimized Caldwell’s place in UFO lore. Public Reaction: Genius or Dreamer? Reactions to Caldwell’s work were deeply divided. Supporters, including mechanics who worked on his prototypes, praised him as a visionary, claiming his designs were simply ahead of their time. Critics, however, dismissed him as an overambitious dreamer whose ideas lacked practical feasibility. The rediscovery of his aircraft reignited fascination. Headlines like “Original Flying Saucers Found” captured the public imagination, blending fact and folklore. While some saw his machines as precursors to modern VTOL technology, others latched onto the UFO connection, believing his designs were linked to extraterrestrial technology or secret military projects. A Legacy of Innovation and Mystery [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/newspaper_flying_saucers.jpg] Jonathan Caldwell’s story is a testament to human ambition and the fine line between genius and folly. His designs, though flawed, anticipated concepts that would later shape modern aviation. The discovery of his aircraft during the height of UFO mania blurred the boundaries between aviation history and cultural mythology, ensuring his place in the annals of both. Caldwell may not have achieved his dreams, but his work continues to inspire curiosity and speculation. Whether remembered as a misunderstood inventor or a figure in UFO lore, his legacy invites us to imagine what lies just beyond the horizon. ---------------------------------------- [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/conclusion-topaz-upscale-2x-1024x585.png] Jonathan Caldwell’s story is a remarkable blend of ambition, innovation, and mystery. He was a man who dared to challenge the limits of his time, crafting aircraft that embodied dreams of a future where flight was accessible to everyone. Yet his legacy is as much about the questions he left behind as the machines he created. Were his designs simply ahead of their time, or were they an inspiration for something greater? Could the strange crafts discovered in Maryland really explain the UFO sightings that captured the world’s imagination? While the answers remain elusive, one thing is certain: Caldwell’s vision continues to captivate those who explore the intersection of history, aviation, and the unknown. His story reminds us that even when dreams don’t fully take flight, they can still soar in the minds of those who dare to dream. Join me next time as we uncover more stories that shaped the history of flight. See you in the skies! The post The Lost Inventor: UFO Prototypes Found in a Tobacco Shed [https://www.buffaloairpark.com/2024/12/03/the-lost-inventor-ufo-prototypes-found-in-a-tobacco-shed/] appeared first on Buffalo Air-Park [https://www.buffaloairpark.com].

The Candy Bomber of Berlin

[https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/C-54_landing_at_Tempelhof_1948.jpg]Tempelhof Airport, used in the Berlin Airlift of 1948-49, defied the Soviet blockade by delivering supplies to the city of Western sectors. Listen to the full episode here or check out the video on the BAP YouTube channel [http://www.youtube.com/@buffaloairpark9082]. In a city divided by war and desperation, a simple act of kindness took flight. This is the story of the Berlin Airlift’s most human mission—a mission born not of strategy but of the heart. As Thanksgiving approached in 1948, one man’s small promise became a symbol of hope for a city on the brink. Join me as we step into the skies of Berlin and uncover the story of the ‘Candy Bomber’ and the Thanksgiving that lifted more than spirits—it lifted an entire city. [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/Deutschland_Besatzungszonen_8_Jun_1947_-_22_Apr_1949-865x1024.png] It was the autumn of 1948, and West Berlin found itself at the epicenter of a rapidly escalating Cold War. Following the devastation of World War II, Germany had been carved into four occupation zones controlled by the United States, the United Kingdom, France, and the Soviet Union. Berlin, though situated entirely within the Soviet zone, was similarly divided into four sectors. As tensions between the Soviet Union and the Western Allies grew, the city became a flashpoint in the struggle for influence over Europe. [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/Berlin_Blockade-map.png] In June 1948, the Soviets implemented a full blockade, cutting off all road, rail, and canal access to West Berlin. Their aim was clear: to starve the city into submission and force the Allies to abandon their sectors. Food, fuel, and other essentials dwindled rapidly. For the 2.5 million residents of West Berlin, it seemed as if the future would bring only hunger and despair. [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/BerlinerBlockadeLuftwege.png] The Western Allies, however, refused to back down. Rather than retreating, they launched the Berlin Airlift, a bold logistical operation to supply the city entirely by air. It was an audacious plan, one that initially seemed impossible. The first flights, nicknamed “Operation Vittles” by American forces and “Operation Plainfare” by the British, began on June 26, 1948. What was intended as a temporary measure quickly grew into a monumental effort. [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/C-47s_at_Tempelhof_Airport_Berlin_1948-1024x818.jpg]Tempelhof Airport By November 1948, the airlift was in full swing. Each day, planes landed at Tempelhof Airport in Berlin every few minutes, delivering coal to keep homes warm, flour for baking bread, and medicine to keep the sick alive. The operation required Herculean coordination, with pilots flying in treacherous weather and ground crews working around the clock to unload supplies and prepare planes for their return trips. Despite the dangers, spirits were high among the aircrews, who took pride in their mission to sustain a besieged city. Lt. Gail Halvorsen: The Candy Bomber [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/Gail_Halvorsen_ca._1983-678x1024.jpg]Colonel Gail Halvorsen Gail Halvorsen was not the kind of man who sought the spotlight. Born on October 10, 1920, in Salt Lake City, Utah, he grew up on a small farm in rural America. From a young age, Halvorsen was fascinated by flight. He spent his youth watching planes soar overhead, dreaming of one day piloting his own. His modest upbringing instilled in him a strong work ethic, a deep sense of humility, and an unwavering belief in doing what was right. When World War II began, Halvorsen answered the call to serve his country. He became a pilot in the U.S. Army Air Corps, flying transport missions in the Pacific Theater. The war left its mark on him. He had witnessed the destruction wrought on cities, the suffering of civilians, and the heavy toll of conflict. These experiences shaped his determination to use his skills for good in the postwar years. In 1948, Halvorsen was stationed in Germany as part of the U.S. effort to counter Soviet aggression. It was there, in the midst of the Berlin Airlift, that his legacy was born. One day, while waiting for a cargo load to be prepared at Tempelhof Airport, Halvorsen wandered over to the airfield’s perimeter. There, behind a chain-link fence, he saw a group of children watching the planes land. They weren’t begging or shouting; they simply stood in awe, their eyes fixed on the skies. Their resilience and quiet gratitude struck a chord with him. Halvorsen reached into his pocket and found two sticks of gum. He passed them through the fence, watching as the children carefully divided the gum and even shared the wrappers to smell. Overwhelmed by their joy at such a small gesture, Halvorsen made a promise: he would return with more candy. “I’ll wiggle my wings so you know it’s me,” he told them. [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/Gail-halvorsen-wiggly-wings.jpg]Lt. Gail Halvorsen True to his word, Halvorsen began fashioning tiny parachutes out of handkerchiefs and dropping chocolate and gum from his plane. His fellow pilots noticed and joined in, turning the small act of kindness into what became known as “Operation Little Vittles.” Word of Halvorsen’s efforts reached the U.S., sparking an outpouring of support. Candy manufacturers, schoolchildren, and ordinary citizens donated tons of sweets, ensuring that every child in Berlin could experience a moment of joy amidst the hardship. Halvorsen’s compassion went beyond the candy drops. He often visited Berlin hospitals to play with young patients and teach them how to blow bubbles. To him, the airlift wasn’t just about delivering supplies—it was about reminding the people of Berlin that they weren’t alone, that someone cared. Thanksgiving and Operation Little Vittles [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/C-54_dropping_candy_during_Berlin_Airlift_c1949-1024x799.jpg]C-54 dropping tiny parachutes of candy. As Thanksgiving approached, Halvorsen’s candy drops had become a symbol of hope. The holiday provided an opportunity to deepen the connection between the Allies and the people of Berlin. In addition to the usual cargo of coal and food, U.S. forces arranged for traditional Thanksgiving meals to be flown in, complete with turkey and cranberry sauce. For many Berliners, these meals were a reminder of kindness and humanity in the face of adversity. By Thanksgiving, “Operation Little Vittles” had delivered more than three tons of candy. To the children of Berlin, Halvorsen was a hero—not because of the chocolate, but because he showed them that someone cared enough to bring light into their darkened world. To Halvorsen, it was never about heroism. As he would later say, “It was a heck of a lot better to feed them than to kill them.” As the Berlin Airlift drew to a close, it became more than a story of planes and supplies. It was a story of resilience, compassion, and connection. The Thanksgiving of 1948, marked by meals of gratitude and candy drifting from the skies, symbolized something greater—the triumph of kindness over adversity, of humanity over division. Lt. Gail Halvorsen’s simple act of kindness transcended its moment, reminding the world of the power of small gestures. His candy drops became more than parachutes of sweets; they were parachutes of hope. The Candy Bomber’s legacy is etched not just in history books but in the hearts of those he touched. In a divided world, the Berlin Airlift—and the Thanksgiving within it—proved that compassion can bridge even the widest chasms. As we look to the skies, let us remember that sometimes, the greatest victories are not won by force, but by the strength of the human spirit. I highly recommend you check out the video I created for this post on BAP’s YouTube channel [http://www.youtube.com/@buffaloairpark9082]. I found actual footage of the Berlin Airlift and added a small clip to my video. You won’t be disappointed! Thanks again, and I’ll see you in the next one! The post The Candy Bomber of Berlin [https://www.buffaloairpark.com/2024/11/28/the-candy-bomber-of-berlin/] appeared first on Buffalo Air-Park [https://www.buffaloairpark.com].

Freaks That Flew: Aviation’s Strangest Designs of the Early 1920s

Imagine a time when flight was more art than science—an era of bold experiments and eccentric contraptions that defied logic and gravity alike. In those early days of aviation, when inventors and daredevils competed to conquer the skies, the world witnessed creations that were equal parts brilliance and madness. These so-called “freaks that flew” were a fascinating chapter in the evolution of aircraft, embodying humanity’s relentless ambition to master the heavens. In this video, I’ll take you on a journey through the annals of aviation history, exploring the peculiar designs, daring innovations, and remarkable stories of the unconventional machines that paved the way for modern flight. Buckle up for a tale of ingenuity, courage, and the occasional misstep—welcome to “Freaks That Flew.” Listen to the full episode here or watch the detailed video on the BAP YouTube channel [http://www.youtube.com/@buffaloairpark9082]. ---------------------------------------- “Freaks That Flew,” by Bertram W. Williams, published in Popular Aviation and Aeronautics, May, 1929. Although aviation was well advanced from a military point of view all over Europe prior to 1914, the various governments were careful not to encourage standardization among individual aircraft constructors. In the maze of designs submitted and new types constantly being produced they strove valiantly to pick out something that would really come in useful for that delightful European Game—war.  Perhaps it will be news to some people that aeroplanes were employed in military operations in the Balkan-Turkish flare-up of 1912. They were. Bleriot monoplanes did some useful scouting over the Turkish lines on more than one occasion, sufficient at least to prove that these flimsy things of stick and string could be very annoying to an enemy—especially if that enemy had none of his own.  Military leaders the world over and ever since the first caveman hurled a rock at his neighbor, have always been distinguished by a lack of imagination. It is doubtful if any of the European war lords expected heavier-than-air machines would serve otherwise than as an aid to reconnaissance work and duties formerly detailed to light cavalry. The idea that an enemy might actually show his objection other than by ground fire to aircraft flying over his private and exclusive territory never entered the heads of even the Potsdam bigwigs.  There was much loose talk of bomb-dropping, long distance raids, and so forth, but it was more the bombast of the man in the street than the belief of the gray—beards who held the  leashes of the war dogs. Yet none of these gentry, military, naval, or civil, were overlooking any bets. When it comes to war or preparing for it, “Hang the expense,” that’s the motto—in Europe at least.  Naturally, the best way of encouraging an inventor is to offer him a worthwhile prize to produce something that will measure up to required specifications. By the end of 1912 there were almost more types of planes being turned out in France, England, Germany, and Holland than there are in those countries today with America thrown in. And they were not all freaks by a long shot. A plane that failed to get off the ground received the loud, “ha ha,” then as much as it would now.  The great mass of citizenry in the countries mentioned were, if not exactly “air-minded,” keenly interested in aviation. Also the governments of Great Britain and Germany were becoming a little jealous of France’s dominancy in this new science. Both in planes and aero engines she was leading.  It is no exaggeration to state that the Gnome rotary engine was the greatest boost to aviation since the Kittyhawk flight, though of course the beginnings of man-made wings date before either.  Just as the boy who passes all examinations at school or college, often turns out a failure in after life, so the flying machines that answer every requirement of an exacting government do not always show up so successfully as expected. £10,000, I believe, was the sum offered by the War Office at London to the manufacturer of a plane that could fly at a certain speed, climb to a given height, and perform a few mild stunts. And let me tell you, friends, ten thousand quid was quite a piece of change in those days.  Curiously enough, the winner was an American, Samuel F. Cody. Cody, though a civilian, had been connected with the British army for several years prior to 1912, chiefly by his experiments with man-lifting kites, the forerunner of the observation balloon. I saw the prize-taking machine at the Aero Show in London in 1913. It was a weird contrivance, looking as if it had been built out of discarded fishing rods.  All the struts and longerons were of bamboo with no attempt at fairing. The pilot sat on an open platform in much the same exposed position as that of the early Wright and Farman “box-kites.” Accommodation for the two passengers was on either side of the pilot in the form of iron seats, exact replicas of those to be found on horsedrawn plows and other agricultural implements. Indeed, the whole structure resembled a reaper and binder.  A very short time after the machine had been accepted by the government, Cody was killed on it whilst flying with a passenger in a test flight. After that, John Bull was content to rest on his oars a while as far as British-made aircraft was concerned and to buy most of his equipment from La Belle France.  Mr. A. V. Roe, the well-known designer of Manchester, was the first to introduce the biplane type with a fuselage body instead of the nacelle and long outriggers. Its advent reduced the number of freak planes and construction followed more or less on standardized lines. Immediately after the appearance of the improved rotary engine Le Rhone, France, began to experiment with small speedy monoplanes which, while beautifully made, took considerable skill to handle.  The Germans, now thoroughly aroused, were convinced at last that the heavier-than-air machine had come to stay and was likely to prove a serious rival to the expensive and unwieldy dirigibles they had been building. Most of their earlier types were extremely clumsy ships powered by enormously heavy engines.  Dr. Etrich, an Austrian, invented the Taube (dove) monoplane, so called from the curious and unconventional shape of its wings, which were tapered and held in place by a maze of wires running to cabanes above and below the fuselage. The remarkable feature of this type was that the tips of both wings were turned up at a negative angle of incidence, the idea being that in case of a sideslip the reversed area would offer sufficient resistance to the air to allow the machine to right itself. The disadvantage was that these upturned tips were an enormous drag when the monoplane was flying level.  The Germans discarded the Taubes very shortly after the war started. About 1915 they enlisted the services of a gentleman named Anthony Fokker who taught them quite a lot about efficient aeroplane construction.  But designers all over the world were not satisfied. They were forever experimenting with new wing shapes, arrangement of planes and elevators, though strangely enough little attention was devoted to the actual aerofoil surfaces even after the discovery by M. Bleriot in 1913 that two-thirds of the lifting power of a heavier-than-air machine was derived from the upper side of its planes. A great deal of time and labor—designers didn’t have much money in those days—was spent in searching for the ultimate in wing-tips. The purely square was, of course, the most economical to build. But the elliptical was proven to be far more efficient than any other shape. Round and diagonal were also tried out. The Germans and Austrians gave some attention to “swept back” wings; but the Pfeil or arrow plane had little to recommend it.  In 1914 certain manufacturers came out with inherent stability ships, a quality gained by placing one or both planes at a dihedral angle to the path of flight. Such machines were not popular with skilled pilots, who claimed they were difficult to handle under certain contingencies.  Of the legion of freaks continually cropping up at the various aerodromes, the queerest was the Canard from the workshops of M. Bleriot. This extraordinary apparatus was a monoplane with the tail and control surfaces in front. But it flew. The writer has seen it skimming a few feet over the ground with a very young and very scared pilot in charge.  Another unconventional machine that caused considerable excitement in the British newspapers was the one invented by Mr. Dunne in 1913. He had produced something that represented an entirely new theory in aircraft construction. It was an arrow-shaped biplane without any fuselage. Nor were there the usual elevators, stabilizer, or rudder fastened to outriggers.  Horizontal and vertical control was effected entirely by working the ailerons, and its designer claimed it was so efficient and steady in the air that it could be flown “hands off.” He gave several demonstrations and convinced the lay press at least that at last the much sought for foolproof machine had been discovered.  Contrary to general belief, the Great War did not stimulate aviation to any marked extent. It was no time for any experimentation. Aircraft factories all over the world were rushed with orders, and though of course the performance of machines improved considerably during the four years of hostilities, it was due more to the competition among manufacturers of aero engines than any radical change of design in the aircraft. There were refinements of streamlining and fewer exposed parts to offer parasite resistance; but little else.  At the end of 1918, the aeroplane was a speedy, fast climbing, but exceedingly dangerous and uncertain means of transport. What little interest that had been aroused in this country by the exploits of the “war birds” in Europe quickly died down. The average American wanted something that was useful in peace time. He refused even to be stirred by the two successful flights across the Atlantic and the earlier gallant attempt of Hawker—all in 1919.  The policy of the government may have had something to do with this apathy. At the end of the war, Uncle Sam found himself with an enormous quantity of DH.4 biplanes on hand—a clumsy two-seater that required a four hundred horsepower engine to lift it off the ground. And the latter was also on hand in the shape of the much boosted Liberty, a motor of some merit but short working life. Both plane and engine were obsolete years before they were out of use; yet in consequence of their cheap-ness and the way they were “dumped” onto the army and Post Office, American aircraft and aero engine manufacturers had little encouragement to produce newer or more efficient types of either.  Undoubtedly the machine which has had the greatest influence on modern commercial aircraft design was the Junkers monoplane of 1920. While not a freak in any sense, it presented several original features. It was entirely of metal, even the wings being covered with thin sheets of duralumin. The latter were tapered, about sixteen inches thick at the roots, and with a lifting power hitherto unknown. Also they were cantilever in structure without any supporting braces or similar resistance-offering surfaces, yet sufficiently strong to carry about fifteen full-grown men on each panel. They were placed below the fuselage instead of flush with or above as had previously been the custom with all monoplanes. Powered with a 185 h.p. engine, it carried seven people. Its present use on the great German lines and its adoption with slight changes all over the world has proved its success.  The more efficient single wing was coming back into its own. In 1921 an Italian designer named Jacuzzi resident in California, manufactured a machine somewhat resembling the Junkers and started a passenger line between San Francisco and the Yosemite. Unfortunately before the company was in actual operation, the designer, the engineer, and a well known pilot were killed while on a long distance flight in a crash the cause of which was never learned.  The Jacuzzi monoplane was a seven-seater cabin machine built of wood and fabric with a fifty foot span and slightly tapered wings. The power plant was a 200 h.p. Hall Scott motor. Aeronautical critics, however, took exception to the bracing of the wings which was in the form of Y-shaped spruce struts having the lower ends fastened to the axle of the undercarriage. Although this kind of bracing is seen slightly modified on modern three-engined planes today, it can never be classified as ideal, the slightest roughness in a landing communicating itself to the more delicate planes instead of being confined to a cheap and easily repaired damage of the chassis.  A far more original and much neater design by an American was the Loughhead single-seater biplane exhibited at the Aero show in San Francisco in 1920. This little machine was a precursor of the light aeroplanes so popular at present in Europe. It was manufactured in Santa Barbara, California, and great care and attention to detail had been lavished on the finished product. Apart from the monocoque fuselage of three-ply wood, light and sturdy yet no thicker than one-eighth of an inch, there were other and more interesting features. The two cylinder, horizontally opposed, water cooled engine, also a product of the same firm, was entirely cowled in, the radiator being placed below the body. The latter is a practice prevalent in latter-day U.S. military types. The wings were folding, allowing the machine to be stored in a garage ten feet wide. But the most notable peculiarity was that there were no ailerons or warping surfaces. Lateral control was effected by tilting the entire panel of one or other of the lower wings by means of a lever near the pilot’s seat. As no official record of the Loughhead biplane’s performance is available, the success of this feature is unknown. It was claimed the landing speed was only 30 m.p.h., and as the single-sparred lower wing could be swiveled to a vertical position immediately upon reaching the ground, an efficient air brake was provided.  One must not forget that every one of the “freaks” described in this article flew. Of the countless atrocities that never left the ground no man will ever know; they were as the sands of the seashore. Also, it is well to remember when reading of some endurance contest or long distance flight that the pilots of a few years back had neither the splendid machines nor the reliable engines we have now.  Yet, taking both these facts into consideration, there is hardly a present day stunt that has not been excelled by the earlier flyers. And the American pioneer aviator and constructor perhaps deserves more credit than any other; he least of all has had any support from press, public, or government.  ---------------------------------------- The “freaks that flew” may seem strange, even laughable, to modern eyes, but they represent a critical step in aviation’s journey from fantasy to reality. These unconventional designs tested the limits of imagination and engineering, leaving a legacy that inspired future innovations. They remind us that progress often demands failure, experimentation, and a willingness to challenge convention. As I wrap up this look into these fascinating machines, I’d love to hear your thoughts and favorite moments from this incredible chapter in history. Don’t forget to like, subscribe, and join me for more stories that bring the skies to life. Until next time, keep your eyes on the horizon and your dreams in the clouds! Freaks That Flew [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/Freaks-That-Flew.pdf]Download [https://buffaloairpark.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/Freaks-That-Flew.pdf] The post Freaks That Flew: Aviation’s Strangest Designs of the Early 1920s [https://www.buffaloairpark.com/2024/11/26/freaks-that-flew-aviations-strangest-designs-of-the-early-1920s/] appeared first on Buffalo Air-Park [https://www.buffaloairpark.com].