“Alaska is trying really hard to kill you all the time,” said Chip Ferguson. “The challenges and rewards are immense, but it is not for everyone.”

Chip and Amanda Ferguson own Alaska Rainbow Lodge on the Kvichak River, located 230 miles southwest of Anchorage. They host anglers from around the world who come for world-class rainbow trout fishing, bear watching, and incomparable scenery. Most arrive by commercial flights into Anchorage and then catch a chartered King Air to King Salmon, where they board one of Chip Ferguson’s three de Havilland Beavers for the 30-minute flight to the lodge. I visited with them on the “outside” in Galveston, Texas.

I’ve been fortunate to fly Super Cubs and floatplanes in Alaska for adventure and exploration, but never as a working pilot, so Ferguson graciously agreed to spend an afternoon sharing insights about the reality of life as a bush pilot flying the iconic DHC-2 into the Bristol Bay wilderness. “The Beaver is the perfect airplane for the mission. It is easy to fly, but it has hard edges,” Ferguson said, noting it demands careful attention to speeds and flap positions to extract the available performance. In the hands of a competent and experienced pilot, the airplane will allow access to tiny lakes and narrow rivers, where most floatplanes simply cannot go.

Nathan Featherston began working for Rainbow Lodge a few years ago after training with me for his commercial seaplane rating in Central Texas. Featherston’s goal was to fly floats in Alaska, and his path to the left seat was fairly typical for budding bush pilots. I asked why he chose this career path rather than fast-tracking to an airline job.

“My whole life has been searching for what I enjoy most about aviation,” Featherston said. “I’ve always loved talking to people of all walks of life in the aviation community. It seems like most of the people that rush their way into the right seat of a jet rarely ever find their way back into the cockpit of a smaller GA plane that introduced them to their passion for flying. I’m still fighting for the flying hours that will lead me to a bountiful career. I just took a few extra years to achieve a lifelong goal for me, and many other pilots, of flying de Havilland Beavers in the bush of Alaska.”

• READ MORE: Cozy Up Next to Your Airplane When Visiting Texas

Featherston began working as an aircraft mechanic in Dallas, where he met Ferguson and started pestering him for a job, finally convincing him to let him work over the summer as a general handyman, dockhand, boat mechanic, or whatever. During the next three seasons, he slowly added to his logbook by flying with the lodge pilots on grocery runs, for example, or on trips to repair broken outboard motors. He spent time flying a Cessna 185 on straight floats prior to moving into the Beaver. Insurance companies require substantial “Alaska time” before they will cover a new pilot, and Featherston began to learn the critical skills needed.

“We train our pilots,” Ferguson said. “Many lodges don’t want to do this, but I think it is the best way to make sure they gain the experience needed to operate safely.”

A broad palette of skills and attitudes lead to success in this environment, according to Ferguson.

“First, it requires a strong work ethic and a willingness to do whatever is necessary,” he said. “From working as a dockhand to mowing grass and fixing busted plumbing, each day is different, and the hours are long. The season starts in May and runs through September with no days off. Next, you need to be able to work well with guides, guests, and staff. Having a positive, upbeat, and friendly attitude is essential.”

He went on to explain that new pilots sometimes push too hard. They think they need to complete the mission even when conditions make it impossible.

“Pilots soon learn they always need an ‘out,’” Ferguson said. “They need to listen to that small voice telling them this is getting too sketchy. Even in low ceilings and visibility, they learn that if they can see the next lake, it is safe to continue. They learn that when the winds and turbulence make a mountain pass too dangerous, the next pass over may be just fine. And we always want them to feel OK about canceling a flight, returning early if the weather begins to change, or in rare circumstances, deciding to spend the night in ‘Hotel Beaver’ on the banks of a remote lake while waiting for better weather.”

A pilot’s day starts early with a 5:30 a.m. alarm. First, pilots check the forecast and weather cameras before heading to the crew room for breakfast. The Beavers are checked and loaded then warmed up at the dock. The rumble of the iconic Pratt & Whitney R-985 Wasp Junior helps awaken the guests who, after breakfast, load up along with their fishing guides for a 7:30 a.m. takeoff. Most trips are only around 30 minutes to an hour or so to the remote lake or river where they will disembark and set off to chase a trophy rainbow trout. Usually the pilot will remain with the airplane throughout the day, watching the weather and relaxing alongside the lake or stream while the guides and their clients chase the trout and salmon.

“Once I arrive at our destination, I like to circle the river or lake I’m landing on,” Featherston said. “You can tell a lot about the wind direction and strength of the wind by looking at the water, trees, and even the birds sitting in the water. They like to sit facing the wind most of the time. I look for water levels and current flow as well as plant life or wildlife in the water that would compromise a safe landing.”

Once the airplane is secured, Featherston has time to fish, watch movies on his iPad, or simply nap until the guests return. Occasionally, they are joined by some Alaskan brown bears that seem to tolerate the intruding anglers as long as everyone keeps to their own section of water. In the rare event where one of the bears decides to bully the humans to access a particular spot, the guide will move the clients along to another section. At midday, the guide will prepare a shore lunch for the clients and allow them to take a rest break before resuming their fishing. Somewhere around 4 p.m. or so, the pilot will load everyone up for the flight back to the lodge.

“Once we unload the planes of guests, gear, and fish, our camp hands take the fish to clean while we clean out the planes,” Featherston said. “We all look forward to a good meal after such a long day, so we all end the day back in the crew room for dinner. The process starts right back from square one, figuring out what the next day has in store for us.”

Check out the website alaskapublicusecabins.com for a resource of U.S. Forest Service cabins available for public use. These cabins have been researched by Recreational Aviation Foundation liaisons Jeff and Kari DeFreest, and the site is meant to be a resource for pilots and nonpilots alike. For more information on Rainbow Lodge, visit the site.

During the season, pilots usually log around 150 to 200 hours of valuable “Alaska time.”

But what about the weather, specifically if low ceilings and visibility create problems and delays or even cancellations in the daily schedule?

“Actually, winds are the bigger problem,” Ferguson said. “We know the terrain really well, so we can fly safely in weather conditions that would seem impossible to many pilots. But when the winds get up, it can make things unsafe, particularly in the mountains.”

He told me about an experience as a new Alaska pilot where he tried to fly through a pass on a windy day. “I could see the bursts of wind on the surface of the lake below,” Ferguson said. “As I entered the pass, suddenly the turbulence went from moderate to severe, and the Beaver basically went inverted. I was able to get it back under control and managed to get turned around without damaging anything, but I learned to pay more attention to the indications like ‘cat’s paws’ on the water.”

He went on to point out that they occasionally deal with 40 to 50 knot winds at the lodge with the attendant large waves. “Watching the airplanes pitching at the dock in those conditions is really nerve-wracking,” he said. “We sometimes stay awake all night to be sure everything stays secure.”

Another aspect of this type of Alaska flying is dealing with “little water stuff.” Many places they fly into are narrow, short, and shallow. Many of the rivers have significant current flows, which add extra challenges. The pilots must learn through experience how to operate in pothole lakes and in shallow, winding rivers. This is where mentoring comes in. The more experienced pilots will work with the new ones to help them acquire the knowledge and skills required.

“It takes a lot of time and effort to figure out how to do this stuff safely,” Ferguson said. “We sometimes go places where the wingspan of the Beaver is wider than the creek we are flying into.”

Featherston shared some of his biggest challenges as an Alaska lodge pilot. “I never expected how hard it would be to accurately navigate a floatplane on narrow rivers with strong currents and strong winds,” Featherston said. “I thought it would be like docking the little [Piper] Super Cruiser I got my rating in. The Beaver is a large floatplane with a lot of flat surfaces for wind to hit and oversized floats for the current to grab. I always imagine every scenario before I start the engine.”

As I listened to Ferguson and Featherston describe the path to excellence that Alaska lodge pilots follow, it occurred to me that although the challenges are different, in one way or another, all pilots travel similar journeys that require pushing beyond our comfort zone, learning our lessons, and building our skills until we achieve both competence and confidence. Unfortunately, most of us don’t get to do it in the Alaska wilderness.

The post Chasing Rainbows appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

I flew again as a passenger before I fully understood my condition, and staring at the clouds out the Boeing 757 window, I came to a realization that I am only capable of in my most introspective moments: Aviation is not rational. Flight cannot be depicted through an analytical description of the scientific principles discovered by Isaac Newton and Daniel Bernoulli and pioneered by Orville and Wilbur Wright. It cannot even be put down to psychological explanations of a desire to be “above,” or the process of technological advancement.

Without evidence, I believe that flight has fascinated humans since we first left the trees. We have always stared at the birds, longing to join them in the lofty space that, until the last century, belonged to them exclusively. Aviation is a romantic field, populated by romantic minds with a classical bent. Beings that can sit and break down every aspect of the technological wonder that is their mount and spout off the four forces or the hazards of a thunderstorm with ease. But when caught staring at a cloud or asked what makes the tires “squeak” on the runway in an excellent landing, their romanticism comes to the fore.

A good pilot will tell you the procedure. They will know the boldface by heart, the correct method for intercepting a holding pattern. They will complete the emergency checklists diligently and speedily, without missing a step. They will debrief their learners on shoddy techniques and share their ideas for fixing mistakes. A good pilot puts the airplane where it needs to be.

The great pilot knows the reason behind the checklists, techniques, and procedures.

The great pilot flies with an understanding of the aircraft in relation to themself, how they fit into the system that is the aircraft and crew. The learning pilot thinks about the techniques they have been taught, studies the procedures, and memorizes the checklist. They have their own techniques and use the checklist to confirm what they already know—that the system is working together well. Or confirming they missed something, tracking down the elusive feeling of incompleteness, where only the checklist can show your own idiocy.

The great pilot is making decisions throughout every maneuver, between lines of approach, power settings, or precise angles. They always start with known settings and adjust, the same as a student, but the process happens quickly enough to allow for experimentation and constant minor changes that attempt to optimize everything the plane is doing. The great pilot merges with the airplane, and together the single organism finds a way to the destination.

The great instructor will show their learners the joy of flying. They will talk the whole time, telling the until recently landlocked soul the correct pitch and power setting or the right angle of bank to complete the turn in time. They will do it all correctly, and it will look effortless. It will seem as though the airplane is doing what they ask without being told. As a learner, my only thought was, “Why isn’t it that easy when I have the controls?” As an instructor, I realized it was.

I have always maintained that I could teach a monkey to fly. Being a pilot is easy. Pull back, little trees; push forward, big trees. Set the right pitch, power, and bank angle.

Being an aviator, however, you have to experience for yourself. There’s something about flying that can’t be taught. It can only be learned, alone among the clouds. A fascination with the wind, a hunt for more groundspeed. A friendly negotiation with the controller for a straighter line toward the destination or a shorter pattern to the initial approach fix. But one thing above all: self-reliance.

Pilots are typically pictured as the height of arrogance. Zipper-suited sun gods, looking down on everyone, constantly sneering at danger and anyone who tells them no. In my firm opinion, this is not a fair stereotype. Confidence in your skills and belief in yourself are requirements to truly be a great pilot.

To be reliable to yourself, you have to believe, not just that you can do it, but that you are one of the best. When I face that mountain strip or stormy day, I have supreme confidence in my ability to overcome, because if I don’t, the airplane will kill me. One moment of doubt, one look back over my shoulder, and the mountain rears up in the windscreen, the dark rain cloud in the distance swallows me whole.

Yet pilots are also the humblest people out there. Every aviator has read a safety investigation and said, “There but for the grace of the flying gods…” We are the first to admit our mistakes in the debrief, the first to tell a student about the time we messed that up too. Our confidence comes in the moment, approaching every situation with cool, calm, collected self-confidence. I have screwed up before, and I will again, but not this time. This time, I’ll be perfect. Just like I (almost) always am. The attitude isn’t an accessory. It’s a necessity.

Aviation teaches us about the system we are all a part of. My mind, connected to the machine through handles, wires, and pushrods, fits in as a part of the larger whole. Together, I and the craft soaring through the air create a painting, a masterpiece of impressionist beauty. The winds may be against me, Mother Nature may roar to take me into her fold, but my airplane and I will always slip the surly bonds, accomplish our mission, and return braver and wiser. I am not a part of the machine. I am the machine. My brain reaches out tendrils to every part of my craft, guiding me through the updrafts and downdrafts, all to fit into my piece of the picture created by the aviation enterprise, to accomplish my specified goal, even if that is simply to enjoy.

I am an integral part of a network. People, airplanes, radio waves, and weather patterns all flow together like the colors in Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night. I make up a critical piece of the painting. The mission brief, the study of the destination and terrain, the preflight, the takeoff, the descent, the debrief, lunch at the airport, the flight home. It is all necessary for the picture to make sense and for the colors to come together. My $100 hamburger is the key.

Or is it an addiction? Is my raving just an outgrowth of my withdrawal, my fear of never getting my fix again? Maybe the romance of aviation is just a cover for a bunch of guys and gals to go out and have their fun, prancing above the average bird.

The effortless glide of a perfect liftoff opens up the heart. The view of a cloud from above, the perfectly executed holding entry, the hurtling (but completely controlled) descent 5 knots below max speed—all of it speaks to a beauty only experience can comprehend. The air-minded person sees flying as necessary for life. They enjoy every moment they’re in the air. They spend irrational amounts of time and money to be there. And they wouldn’t have it any other way.

Editor’s note: This story originally appeared in the JAN/FEB 2024 issue of Plane & Pilot magazine. 

The post Zen and the Art of Airplane Operation appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

“Ed,” I said, “ya gotta take smaller cuts at this carving you’re trying to make. Two-hundred foot deviations won’t satisfy the check ride requirements.” The problem was, we were flying in continuous light, occasionally moderate, turbulence, and the airplane wouldn’t stay still for more than a second or two.

With well-earned empathy, I could recall many times being in his seat, struggling to keep an airplane in bounds. I knew what he was going through, the frustration of feeling “I’m never going to get this.” Flying with precision is tough enough when you’re your own worst enemy, overcontrolling in an attempt to drive the airplane down a straight path. Add in turbulent air and the frustration triples.

We know what perfect performance is supposed to look like, but we can’t make it happen.

I took the controls and demonstrated how to dampen out some of the bumps, explaining as I went. “Let’s just bracket the entry altitude for now, keeping it within 50 feet plus or minus. But don’t focus on the altimeter reading; by the time you see a deviation happening, the airplane’s already on its way to further deflection. You see, the pitch attitude is where the first change takes place, then the altimeter reading moves, and finally the rate-of-climb goes up or down.”

Precision results from making small, early corrections, not easy to do when you’re bouncing like a leaf in the gale. Nevertheless, the basic theorem of flying still holds true: Power Plus Attitude Equals Performance. Set the power needed for the maneuver, place, and hold, the aircraft’s attitude where it should be, and you’ll stabilize on the desired result. Until, that is, unstable air upsets your applecart.

Chasing needles, or glass-panel tape presentations, won’t work. Following a course deviation indicator that refuses to stay centered in rough air doesn’t mean watching CDI movement and reacting; it’s the heading indicator that brings the course reading into alignment, and the heading is held steady by rock-solid wings-level flight.

Okay, bouncing air takes you off your heading; put it back, using minimal bank and a brief jab of rudder. Small, constant corrections, done early, yield better results than a swinging swordfight.

Airspeed control, particularly during approach and departure phases of flight, similarly requires attitude and, in some cases, power adjustment, if the air isn’t stable. Airplanes with fixed-pitch propellers are particularly vulnerable to rough-air upset; when sucked earthward by a downdraft, the pilot will naturally yank the nose up, and shove forward when boosted by an updraft. But rpm will sag and surge as a result, so both pitch and power need adjustment. Just don’t forget where the neutral parameters are, when the air turns smooth, so you don’t destabilize.

Much of the time, in light turbulence, the airplane just needs a little help from actively-participating hands and feet on the controls. I brace my feet on the rudder pedals to hold the nose from swinging, and if a wing goes up or down, some use of opposite rudder will help it come back to level on its own. Roll control should be reserved for big deviations.

Ed finally got the performance he wanted, by watching the horizon in his windshield and keeping it steady, in spite of the pounding from the turbulence. I used the checklist to cover up his horizon and altitude indicators, forcing him to concentrate on basic outside attitude, and he was amazed that it could be done that way. The performance instruments, I said, are tools for grading our flying.

Even when the air isn’t nice.

The post Flying Precise When It Isn’t Nice appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

The A20 is set to cease production in less than a year. More and more professional cockpits are ditching the molded earpiece and boom mic for a ProFlight, but the model generates fewer sales because of its defined market.

Although Chris Wuerfl, Bose’s business development manager, did not reveal a new aviation product, he expressed a general wish that one would be forthcoming. However, it would seem that the one-year anniversary of the Bose A30 headset was reason alone for the company to celebrate here at the Sun ’n Fun Aerospace Expo (SNF) this week. According to Wuerfl, the product has been well received.

Like all of the company’s headsets, the A30 was designed to reduce noise fatigue. Bose claims that the unit has a slightly higher degree of effectiveness. A touted 20 percent reduction in clamping force, in addition to a headband with larger cushions that span a greater area, are also attributes. The clamping attribute is a game-changer for me, because for whatever reason, Bose headsets eventually begin to pinch the top of my head.

One feature of the A30 that the competition hasn’t added is the ability to swap the position of the mic from one side to the other. The headset allows this to be performed gracefully by simply pulling and replugging without the use of a tool. Although for GA use this feature isn’t a must, after more than four decades of flying professionally, it just seems awkward to have the boom mic always on the left side no matter what seat you occupy in the cockpit.

• READ MORE: Bose’s A30 Headset Shows Off New Design

Testing the unit at SNF was a good experience, considering the volume of ambient noise. The quality of sound was superb. In addition to the standard volume controls, the A30 control box contained a slide switch that allowed for the ambient noise reception to be increased or decreased by selecting low, medium, or high. Movement of the slide didn’t dramatically change the reception with my degraded hearing, but perhaps a noisy cockpit would make it more apparent. Simply tapping a couple of times on either headset cup accomplishes the same task. This feature is probably more of an asset in a professional environment when you need to hear another pilot, flight attendant, or mechanic.

Bose maintains a five-year warranty on all of its headsets. If a headset is out of warranty, $225 is a one-size-fits-all refurbishment fee. The consumables, like ear cushions and mic covers, can be purchased as a service kit for $49.95. (The SNF show special is $35)

No one can argue that Bose set the standard for ANR equipment. The A30 continues to maintain that standard.

Editor’s Note: This story originally appeared on flyingmag.com. 

The post Bose A30 Headsets Showing Strong One Year Later appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

In a news release from Sun ’n Fun Aerospace Expo 2024, the company said the T182—like the 172, 206 and T206—has received interior facelifts and the first deliveries of the aircraft have occurred. Production of the T182 was paused in 2013 and Textron announced its revival in 2022.

“Textron Aviation’s investment in the Cessna piston aircraft lineup demonstrates the company’s continued enthusiasm and support for pilots worldwide, whether they are pursuing training ambitions or planning their next adventure,” the company said.

The upgrades announced include new seats, power headset jacks at every seat, A and C USB charging ports at every seat, along with side and cell phone pockets throughout the aircraft. There is also integrated overhead air conditioning on aircraft with that option and a new center armrest available on certain models.

Editor’s Note: This article first appeared on AVweb.

The post Textron Revives T182, Announces Upgrades appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

Pilots interested in a unique experimental biplane should consider this 1986 Stolp SA-100 Starduster, which is available for $25,000 on AircraftForSale.

Introduced in 1957, the SA-100 is a single-seat, fabric-covered biplane with a tubular steel fuselage. Presently, 27 examples are actively registered in the U.S., making it a rare and unique sight at most fly-ins but with an owner community that’s large enough to engage with for support.

• READ MORE: STOLP SA-100 “STARDUSTER”

Originally designed around a 125 hp Lycoming O-290, many including this one have been upgraded to more powerful engines. Sporting a 150 hp Lycoming O-320, this example should handily exceed the already healthy 1800-foot-per-minute rate of climb reported by owners of the original version. More importantly, it’s far easier to source parts and maintenance for the O-320 than for the older O-290, making ownership significantly easier.

Inside, the lone occupant is presented with a charmingly vintage aesthetic. Devoid of any modern color screens or even radios, the simple panel resembles that of a World War II-era biplane. Some modern functionality has been added, however, in the form of an electrical system, G-meter, and cylinder head temperature gauge.

With a midrange engine time of 890 hours since major overhaul and a total airframe time of only 625 hours with no known accident history, this Starduster offers a massive amount of open-cockpit aerobatic performance for the dollar.

You can arrange financing of the aircraft through FLYING Finance. For more information, email info@flyingfinance.com.

The post Bargain Buys on AircraftForSale: 1986 Stolp SA-100 Starduster appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

Pilots interested in a classic cross-country machine with vintage style should consider this 1947 Beechcraft Bonanza, which is available for $64,500 on AircraftForSale.

With the classic V-tail and the small triangular third cabin window, this Bonanza is unmistakably one of the early models but has been updated with a more contemporary paint scheme. Claimed to have always been hangared in a dry climate, the presence of corrosion is less likely than in other examples. To remove any doubt, the seller will provide a fresh annual inspection to the new buyer when the sale is complete.

The VFR panel is relatively basic in function, but what it lacks in IFR capability, it makes up for in retro style. Both the panel and glareshield are color-matched to the exterior paint, and the classic polished piano keys have been retained to maintain the airplane’s original, authentic aesthetic. While the radio stack is modest by modern standards, the radios and transponder are arranged in a neat stack that is more straightforward to update compared with other aircraft types. 

Under the cowl, this Bonanza’s 6-cylinder Continental has been updated with a 60-amp alternator to handle the addition of future electrical equipment or accessories. The engine has 925 hours since major overhaul, and the original propeller has been replaced with a hydraulic Hartzell, making future maintenance and parts sourcing far easier.

You can arrange financing of the aircraft through FLYING Finance. For more information, email info@flyingfinance.com.

The post Bargain Buys on AircraftForSale: 1947 Beechcraft Bonanza appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

Both sides of my family can boast their fair share of those who nobly served our nation in the armed forces. My late father was extremely proud of that fact, even though he wasn’t a veteran himself. The closest he came was being a member of the Corps of Cadets at Texas A&M University. My paternal grandfather, a Jamaican-born immigrant, served in the U.S. Army during World War I. After Pearl Harbor, my maternal grandfather ran away from an orphanage with his younger brother, lied about his age, and joined the U.S. Army Air Corps, serving in the Asiatic-Pacific Theater as a staff sergeant.

My dad told me that one of my cousins from my grandmother’s Colorado-rooted side of the family served as a Naval aviator aboard the USS Hornet. I also had a great uncle on my mother’s side who served in the Navy during WWII. Another uncle—like myself and my father, a proud A&M graduate—flew as a navigator on a WWII bomber and recorded more than 100 missions in Korea and Vietnam.

Given my family’s military background—which, by the way, has made holidays like Memorial Day and Veterans Day resonate more keenly in recent years—it’s no surprise my dad proudly told me about William L. Tingle, who went by Bill.

Since my father was born in 1941, he never knew his first cousin Bill, a copilot on a B-17 Flying Fortress, one of the most famous heavy bombers in history and a major factor in winning WWII. His airplane was shot down over Nazi-occupied France in 1942. Of the crew of 10, only four survived—and Tingle was not among them. I don’t recall much more than that, other than seeing his parents’ graves next to that of my father, grandparents, and my dad’s brother. I never gave him much thought when visiting the family plots at our south-side cemetery in San Antonio. That’s probably because I never realized Bill Tingle’s body, like so many who served in WWII, was never recovered from his ill-fated final mission.

According to Defense POW/MIA Accounting Agency documentation, on October 21, 1942, First Lieutenant Tingle was aboard a B-17, the Francis X—named after the pilot, Second Lieutenant Francis X. Schwarzenbek—that took off from the British Royal Air Force Base in Polebrook, England, as one of 99 aircraft on a mission to destroy German submarine bases in Lorient, France. Only 18 of those bombers made it to the target because the rest were forced to turn back because of heavy cloud cover over the target. Tingle and Sergeant George Whitham Jr. were actually filling in for two members of Schwarzenbek’s crew.

Witnesses on the same mission said the Francis X was hit by enemy fire from a Focke-Wulf 190 fighter, fell out of formation, and went down in the Bay of Douarnenez. Four crewmembers managed to bail out and survived but were captured. The remains of the other six, including Tingle, were never located or identified because the heavy presence of German forces in the area prevented any search efforts. Postwar attempts to find the airplane’s actual crash site along its route, or any remains of the missing crewmembers, also proved unsuccessful.

I know all of this detail thanks to Nanis Gilmore.

In 2019, Gilmore, a 72-year-old retired registered nurse living in Vancouver, Washington, emailed me to ask if I was related to William L. Tingle. She informed me that her mother, the former Charlotte Elizabeth Teepell, married Bill Tingle in Tampa, Florida, in February 1942, just before he shipped out to England. Bill was killed a mere eight months later at the age of 25, leaving Charlotte a 27-year-old widow.

After Charlotte suffered a stroke in 2007, the family decided to move her to a care facility. In preparation for that, Gilmore was going through her mother’s belongings when she came across a box of love letters Charlotte received from Bill during the war. All the envelopes were addressed to Mrs. William L. Tingle, and the letters—all 71 of them—were neatly stowed away along with some other keepsakes, telegrams, and photo albums. When she was a teenager, Gilmore recalls stumbling across an 8-by-10-inch framed photo of Bill in uniform in a desk drawer and asking her mother, “Mom, who is this handsome man?”

“[She was] fumbling a little bit [to answer] because she really hadn’t mentioned him before…[and said,] ‘Well, he was my first husband. He died in the war,’” said Gilmore, whose father, Merrill Gilmore, married Charlotte about five years after Bill’s death. “…It was hard for Mom to talk about. I think it speaks volumes that she carried that box of letters her entire life.”

It’s undoubtedly a common occurrence for those who represent what’s been aptly dubbed the “Greatest Generation.” There must have been untold instances of marriages taking place just before the soldier was called off to war.

One of the Francis X’s survivors, Sergeant Ned Herzstam, wrote a letter to George Randolph Tingle—Bill Tingle’s father and my great-great-grandfather—that Gilmore has graciously shared with me. The correspondence included a rough drawing of the B-17 crew positions aboard the aircraft.

“As you see [from the diagram], Bill had a [more] difficult escape passage than myself, [the] radio operator,” Herzstam said in his letter dated July 23, 1945. “However, the bombardier [Lieutenant Harry R.] Erickson survived and he reported that Bill was putting on his parachute, but had not started for the escape hatch at the time…Erickson bailed out. That is the only visual report there was about Bill. However, I believe I talked with him last as I was one of the last to leave the ship, and he was still there when I left. Mr. Tingle, your son was a real soldier and one of the few real officers it was a pleasure to serve [with]. I heard him talk under fire, and there was no trace of fear in his voice, always calm assurance. The last words I heard him say were, ‘We’re turning back for England.’…

“I landed about 5 miles offshore and was fortunate enough to be picked up by a French fishing boat. Of the five men that went out of my escape door, three lived [and] two drowned. By my diagram, you can see five go out the front hatch…of those five front men, only one is back home now, [Lieutenant] Erickson…and he told me he did not know if the other four ever got out of the ship. So Mr. Tingle, it is impossible to determine if Bill went down with the ship, drowned after parachuting, or was taken POW. Only one thing more, wherever he is now, rest assured you can always be proud of him. I am!”

Gilmore said Charlotte, who was living in Boston at the time of her husband’s last mission, went to live with Bill’s parents in San Antonio not long after he was declared missing in action to share in their grief.

“[My husband, Philip, and I] visited the house [at 201 Cloverleaf Avenue in March 2018] and sat outside with the current owner and chatted for quite some time,” she told me in one of the many emails we have exchanged about Bill and Charlotte’s brief life together. “He remembered the Tingles.”

Tingle’s name is enshrined on the Wall of the Missing, along with more than 5,000 MIA men and women—most of whom died in the Battle of the Atlantic or the strategic air bombardment of northwest Europe—at the Cambridge American Cemetery and Memorial in England. My father had a marker erected for Bill at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery in San Antonio. Gilmore also shared with me the letter my father sent to her mother in 2003 to deliver that special news.

Inspired by her mother Charlotte, who died at age 94 in 2009, and Bill’s incredible love story, Gilmore visited the Cambridge memorial with her husband in 2019.

“The wall stretches a block in length,” Gilmore said. “It was, for me, overwhelming to see the names plus all the crosses in the field and to realize the enormous sacrifice made to win the war. It was an emotional experience when the superintendent of the memorial took us to where Bill’s name was on the wall and handed me an American and British flag [to take photos with].”

At Gilmore’s urging, my cousin Dr. Leslie E. Tingle, also an A&M alum and the eldest son of the decorated Air Force officer and late uncle, and I have submitted DNA samples to the Department of Defense Family Reference Database for use in the Armed Forces DNA Identification Laboratory. It’s a service the government provides so that in case any remains are ever discovered during excavations of Europe’s beaches and battlefields, Bill Tingle might be able to be identified. According to the Defense POW/MIA Accounting Agency, more than 72,000 service members remain unaccounted for from the WWII era.

“The journey to find Bill has been fascinating and very emotional at the same time,” Gilmore said. “I know my mom and Bill are together now, and I’d like to think that this search is somehow meaningful for them too.”

Before enlisting in 1941 and earning his wings at Brooks Field in San Antonio, Bill Tingle was “studying voice in Boston,” according to a three-paragraph article in the October 29, 1942, San Antonio Evening News with the headline: “1st Lt. W.L. Tingle Reported Missing in Action.” It was in Boston where Bill and Charlotte first met in 1941 as voice students, started dating, and fell in love.

It didn’t take me long to realize the little fact about “studying voice” near the end of the newspaper story helps to explain the closing of Herzstam’s letter to Bill’s father. It was clearly a nod to my distant cousin’s love for music and singing. In one of his final letters to Charlotte, Gilmore said he told his wife that he even led his bomber group—in need of a morale boost—in song because a scheduled vaudeville troupe was late for its performance.

“Well, I’ll end now with a thought [from a Christian Science hymnal] that proved helpful to me: ‘O’er waiting harpstrings of the mind, there sweeps a strain, low, sad, and sweet, whose measures bind the power of pain and wake a white-winged angel throng of thoughts illumined by faith and breathed in raptured song with love perfumed.’ A lot of Bill’s life was devoted to song and I’m sure he’d want you all to carry on this singing. — Respectfully, Ned”

Respectfully, indeed. Rest in peace, Bill and Charlotte.

Editor’s Note: This story originally appeared in the November 2023 issue of Plane & Pilot magazine. 

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Carpenter was born in the small town of Edgington, Illinois, in 1912. If such a thing can be predetermined, then it was likely that Carpenter was destined for the skies. On the day he was born, the local newspaper headline read, “Aviation Events Big Fair Feature.” Yet aviation was a long way off for Carpenter. His parents divorced when Carpenter was still a child, and he and his siblings would frequently find themselves working on neighbors’ farms to help make ends meet.

Carpenter still found time for his studies. Books were a happy pastime for him, and upon graduating high school, he turned to teaching history in Moline, Illinois. It was there he met Elda Fritchle. They married in 1940 and had a daughter, Carol, together.

But war was coming for the U.S., and in 1942 Carpenter was commissioned as a second lieutenant in the U.S. Army. Initially assigned to the infantry, he was sure he could do more aloft. He decided to join the Glider Corps, but he found the training took much longer than he anticipated and he was hungry for action.

Carpenter arrived in France in 1944, where he was assigned to combat duty with the 1st Bombardment Division. Compared to the P-40s, P-51s, and B-17s that were commanding the skies over Europe, his airplane was nothing remarkable. Carpenter found himself in the L-4 Grasshopper, although it is better known by its civilian name, the Piper Cub. 

However, Carpenter wasn’t going to let his small, slow airplane keep him from fighting the Germans. He took a page out of other reconnaissance pilots’ books and added six bazookas—three on each wing—to his artillery-spotter airplane. As a play off of the famous “Rosie the Riveter,” he would paint Rosie the Rocketer on the side of his L-4.

Carpenter continued to improve upon the design of the bazookas on his beloved Rosie and flew in the 1944 Battle of Arracourt, where he was credited with knocking out a German armored car and four tanks. Multiple articles in the press back in the States featured his pilot exploits, including ones in Stars and Stripes, The Associated Press, and more. Carpenter also served as the personal pilot for U.S. Army General John S. Wood.

A Hodgkin lymphoma diagnosis in 1945 led to his honorable discharge from the military in 1946. He returned home to his family and began teaching high school history again in Urbana, Illinois.

Although Carpenter was given just two years to live when initially diagnosed, he thrived and worked in Urbana until his death at 53 in 1966.

Carpenter’s cherished L-4, Rosie the Rocketer, found its way back to the U.S. in 2019 and has since been restored to flying condition. It flies now as a testament to the “Mad Major,” as Carpenter’s comrades also called him, and the crazy idea that would save many American lives. 

Editor’s Note: This story originally appeared in the October 2023 issue of Plane & Pilot magazine. 

The post This Incredible Pilot: Charles Carpenter appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

It’s a story I’ve heard told in any number of FBOs with minor variations, recollections of when a favor went terribly wrong. “I was laughing and crying and worried I would hit the trees because my buddy’s ashes were all in my eyes. The ashes washed out of my clothes, but a little bit of Don goes along for the ride whenever I fly now. I’ll never get all the ashes out of the nooks and crannies of my Cherokee!”

A family friend asked if I could help him find a pilot to spread a friend’s ashes over a farm. “If you don’t mind it being a weekday, I can help you out,” I offered.

Saying no when a friend asks for a favor is difficult for me, and I volunteered for the mission before even contemplating the machine I had available. My Mooney is a fine traveling machine. It’s relatively comfortable, quick enough, and efficient. I’ve crossed significant swaths of the country in it, enjoying the experience. It really isn’t great at flying low and slow; the wing on the bottom kind of gets in the way of seeing what’s below, and the only window that can be opened in flight is the pilot’s ice window, which is only a little bigger than a deck of cards.

In other words, it’s a fine machine for anything except trying to spread a person’s ashes across a farm.

• READ MORE: Words Aloft: Test Pilot, Airline Style

A Piper J-3 Cub would be perfect, and I have enough pieces to build most of a Cub, but the fella’s younger relatives would likely need their ashes spread before I get around to that. A Cessna with an opening window would do, but try getting a Mooney owner into a 172. You’ll have better luck getting a McLaren owner to drive your Toyota Camry to town.

I needed to find someone with a suitable airplane for the mission, so I did the right thing and figured out how to jettison a person’s mortal remains out the ice window of a 165 mph airplane without wearing all of the ashes in the process. Some of the local EAA guys had spread ashes from the gear leg of a 172 using a PVC pipe rig with a pull-string trigger to release the contents. I could have done that, but how would I retract the landing gear then? Ain’t no Mooney driver gonna buzz around with the gear down if they can help it. We pay a lot of extra insurance for the privilege of retracting our gear. Another idea floated was hanging a hose out the window, positioning it into a lower-pressure area and using a $75.00 shop vacuum to pull the ashes out of the window.

I flew a test run, with a friend—using a setup I’d heard would work—and in my mind it was the perfect solution for the job. Take a brown paper lunch bag, fill it with ashes, and tie a string to it. Throw it out the window, while holding onto the string, and the bag will shred, spreading the powdery contents in a puff to scatter across the land below.

It was simple, foolproof, and cheap: a perfect solution.

But why leave perfection alone? I did what I always do and overengineered the thing. I put an index card into the bottom of the bag to reinforce it and punched two holes through the bag bottom and its reinforcement. I looped some paracord through the holes, tied it in a bowline, and then tied another loop into the other end of the string.

On a test flight with a friend, using stale Cream of Wheat instant cereal as the test medium, I looped the end of the string around my wrist and slowed to about 80. I had wrapped the bag around on itself and ran two loops of paracord around that. Holding the assemblage in my left hand and flying with my right, I stuck the bag out into the breeze and released it. The brown parcel rolled out of my hand and shot aft in the breeze, a good 2 feet before it hit the end of the line. Tethered in the breeze by its reinforced base, the bag stayed intact for about a millisecond as it unfurled and tore away from the string in a puff of milled grain. I cheered and we flew back to home base, where I realized there was a fine dust where I’d sat the bag on the floor ahead of my seat. The plan wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t a disaster.

There was no time left to refine the design. I had to fly a work trip, and our plan was to spread the ashes the morning after my return.

Monday dawned a little cloudy and foggy, but the clouds burned off quickly, and I hopped over to the nearest airport to meet the son and daughter of the fella we’d be spreading across the farm. They wanted to go along for the flight, so I’d opted for the longer, paved runway for our mission. They walked into the FBO carrying a cardboard tube the size of a small artillery shell—its contents would certainly not fit into the single brown bag rig I’d built to go out the Mooney’s window. Time was on my side, as I’d told them to arrive early. After having a discussion about what to expect and where on their farm they wanted the ashes dropped, I came up with a plan.

“Why don’t y’all stay in here with the air conditioning while I load your dad up?” I followed with my truest words of the day: “The next few moments might not be the most dignified part of the day, and there’s no reason y’all need to be part of that.” It was a hot day, and AC was a hard amenity to pass up, so they agreed.

On the ramp, I fished another brown paper bag out of the baggage bin and cut another length of cord with my penknife. Hearing voices behind me, I glanced over my shoulder to find a group of 20 or so kids and their chaperones, having come from a summer camp for a tour of the airport. The FBO manager was explaining that I was preflighting my airplane, and someone asked what exactly I was doing. The manager and I locked eyes for a moment, and he mumbled something to the crowd and they shuffled off into the FBO hangar as I spilled a bit of our guest on the ramp while filling the second bag. Some kids probably thought they’d witnessed a pilot smuggling cocaine. Oh, to be that glamorous. If only they knew.

• READ MORE: Jargon Fails: Why Pilots Should Simplify Messages

With two bags filled as much as would fit out the ice window, there was still a little bit of remains left. It was time to swallow some pride and ask for a little help. Back into the FBO I marched, carrying the partly filled cardboard tube. “Friends, it’s getting a little windy out there. I don’t have a lot of practice dropping ashes from an airplane and, frankly, most of them may blow clear of the farm before they settle. Do y’all want to carry this bit back with you to ensure at least some of him really does settle where you’re intending?”

His son looked me in the eye with a smile, and his answer saved the shreds of my dignity I was about to sacrifice: “It was [either] spread his ashes from an airplane or plant them with a tree, and we had a tough time trying to make the decision. We’ll plant this part with the tree, and both ideas will work out.”

The flight itself went well. We launched early enough for a sightseeing lap over my passengers’ homes, and we made a high circle over the farm to confirm my memory from the test hop the week prior. I lined up on the upwind boundary of the property and let the first salvo go with the same sound effects a 7-year-old might use if pretending to drop bombs from a toy plane. With a jolt, I realized I was speaking into the microphone and that his kids could hear.

I very politely apologized for my less-than-sensitive sound effects. “Don’t worry. Dad would have loved every moment of this, your noises included,” the son said. “He had a great sense of humor.”

“Well, that’s good that we’re pretty compatible,” I said. “Seems like a bit of him may tag along for a few more flights with me!”

They took it in a figurative sense, and I just left things as they settled, including the small pile of powder on the carpet next to my left foot.

Editor’s Note: This story originally appeared in the October 2023 issue of Plane & Pilot magazine. 

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