ETLB Squawk Forums — Archive

The late Spring of 1967 was a hot one in southeast Texas, but not really much hotter than usual. This morning sported a clear sky and bright sun. The puffy white clouds would develop before noon, but now there was nothing between the sun and the back of the nameless pilot’s neck except an occasional mosquito.

The green and yellow Stearmans that operated from this Beaumont base started before daylight but this one was getting a very late start because of problems with the big pressure carburetor. This carburetor regulated the gasoline into the Pratt and Whitney R-985 engine, helping the 985 supercharged cubic inches produce 450 horsepower.

Since the jobs were paid by the pound or the gallon, and the pilot was paid 20 percent of that charge, no poundage was wasted on starters and their requisite generators and batteries. Why, if one were to get started on frivolous things like that, one might even use up weight on wires and lights for those days when one took off before sunrise and returned after sun set. Things could really get out of hand. Besides, it was easy to hand-prop an R-985, even when the engine was hot, if one knew what he was doing. But, on the hot days, almost all of the pilots left their engines running all day, just to avoid the possibility of the extra work of hand propping a hot engine when everything did not go just as planned. It was not unusual to see a couple of Stearmans sitting on a grass strip in rice country, their round engines swinging silver blades as the pilots talked to farmers, or directed the flagmen, or just lay in the shade of the wings and rested on the summer grass. But, some pilots knew how to adjust their carburetors so that the engines would idle all day long, and idle so slowly that the red and black Hamilton Standard ovals could be seen whirring in a blurry circle; Ka-blump…., ka-blump…., ka-blump…., the exhaust slowly bellowing as the wings rocked back and forth in rhythm. This gave rise to a contest among some of the pilots to see who could get their engines to idle the slowest without dying. This was, of course, never an admitted contest, but among those pilots there was always a comment, a poke or some good-humored put down about the poor fellow who had to put up with an engine that wouldn’t stop blowing dust when it was parked. Nameless was in the contest.

Like I said, the duster pilot had not been able to get his plane out of the shop to start with the others on this particular morning, and in addition to that, he had to gas it up before he could get out there and get the hopper open and some cash coming in. Jackie had propped him off this morning and then gone back inside the shop. Nameless left the engine idling to warm up while he gassed her up. While waiting for the tank to fill, Nameless noticed that the carburetor had been readjusted and his prop would certainly blow a dry Kleenex off a coffee table. He would need to do something about that.

The tank was full and Nameless secured the gas cap, climbed down off the Stearman’s wing, wound the fuel hose into the gas pit and dropped the steel cover on the pit. Next he opened the “baggage door” behind the single cockpit and retrieved his stubby screwdriver from its place in the small canvas tool bag. Then Nameless walked around the left wingtip, down the wing and around the 7.50/14 auto tire and stood next to the cowl that covered only the engine mount and rear portion of the engine. He worked his hand through the little space between the front of the fuselage and the rear of the cowl. His fingers soon felt the throttle arm and found the idle adjustment screw. He deftly worked the screwdriver into his fingers and turned the screw, slowing the engine’s revolutions. Then, he felt for the idle mixture adjustment and turned that screw out a little, letting a little more gasoline sip into the big engine. Again, Nameless found the idle adjustment screw and slowed the engine’s running so that it began to say “ka-blump, ka-blump”. This was better, but just barely in the contest. He found and adjusted the mixture screw again.

The trick was to get the idle mixture set very rich, but not too rich. When done properly, with a good engine, the engine would idle so slowly that the engine would occasionally almost die, but then belch, catch up and continue its very slow “ka..-..blump..., ka..-..blump..., ka..-..blump...”

Nameless had his engine close, but he needed to get to the strip and get the hopper open; get the money coming in. First, he needed to open the throttle just a little and bring it back to idle, just to be sure it didn’t die. Unable to move the throttle arm and all its linkage with his bare hand, he managed to wedge his stubby screwdriver so that he might be able to move the throttle a little. He gently pushed on the screwdriver/lever, but nothing moved. His lever was not long enough, but to get another would take too long. He pulled a little harder. The throttle moved. The excitement began.

The Wasp Jr. had gone to about half power and the buzz signaled danger. Stearman began to roll forward, its left landing gear pushing Nameless along too. Nameless tried to keep his legs straight and hold the plane in place as his boots began to slide over the “oiltop” ramp toward the shallow drainage ditch. Nameless knew that he was no match for a couple of hundred horses and he began to struggle to stay up while he tried desperately to pull his arm and hand out of the small space between the cowl and fuselage. He managed to twist his body and grab the streamline flying wires that attached just in front of the left lower wing. Just before his grip was ripped loose his right hand came out of confinement and grabbed the wires. Nameless had not broken a leg but he knew this was all moving too fast; the end could not be good.

The drainage ditch was gently sloped so that the planes could taxi through it and park, but this plane was taxing rather fast and it was light on the tail. As a matter of fact, the tail wheel was off the ground.

Where those 7.50/14-4ply auto tires hit the ditch, they found an almost perfect match for their curvature and they really seemed to be ready for a rest, because they stopped turning.

The short ride had been pretty good until the green and yellow plane came to an abrupt halt. There was no way that Nameless or anyone else could hold on to the sharp edges of those streamlined flying wires when the G load of the stop multiplied his weight.

Just about the time that the Stearman threw its tail into the air and managed to shake loose from its impatient pilot, the blades of the Hamilton Standard 2B20 began to chew St.Augustine grass. Somehow, in the split second that Nameless spent flying and the 2B20 spent chewing, the timing was just right. Nameless, the impatient, competitive, undisciplined pilot/would-be mechanic, lost neither his legs nor his life.

The blades slowed, the body twisted and Nameless got away clean. Well, almost clean. There was one bad cut. It was a clean cut, an embarrassing cut, but not a fatal cut. It was a butt cut. The only thing that the pilot lost that day, besides a lot of money that he would have earned, was one butt cheek. In exchange, he did forever gain a name, written on everything cropdusting except his pay check – ONECHEEK.

epilog:
I never actually met Onecheek. The setting and incident are true but before my arrival.
This time it was not me.