This was by no means my first time to be thrown from a horse.
All was quiet as I climbed from the cockpit. The first thing I noticed was oil. It was everywhere. The thick substance was splattered across the engine cowling clear back to the tail. The underbelly, just minutes prior a gleaming white, was now grimy black. Oil dripped from the struts and landing appendage like blood in the early stages of coagulation.
I paced around the downed airplane. Something had gone terribly wrong, but what? My optimistic side saw the oil and imagined nothing more than a ruptured fluid line. Perhaps I could be in the air again tomorrow. Wait - that doesn't explain the smoke or catastrophic loss of power. Nor does it explain the thunderous knocking sound that still echoed in my mind.
To physically push the Fairchild across the tarmac toward the hangar required great effort. Still full of fuel, she weighed more than a ton. I was a little surprised to recognize, given our dramatic re-entry and visible sign of distress, not a soul stopped by the airport. As I struggled, an airplane flew overhead, as though mocking us.
In silence I pushed her backwards into the hangar and chocked the wheels. Drops of oil, still warm, marked our path. Armed with a spray bottle of degreaser and roll of paper towels, I dedicated a solid two hours to wiping down the aircraft.
As I cleaned, I began to notice evidence of the plight. Around certain vents of the cowl, the paint had bubbled. Whatever had happened internally had generated a tremendous amount of heat. One of the engine shrouds was dimpled, as though it had been struck from the inside by shrapnel.
I grabbed a screwdriver and began to remove the engine cowling. As the first piece was removed, something rattled loose and fell to the floor. It struck my toe and bounced across the cement. I set down the cowl and leaned in for a closer look. The object that had fallen from the engine compartment was about the size of a ping-pong ball. It appeared to be aluminum, with two grooves cut along one side. It was mangled, as though hammered repeatedly on an anvil.
Even in its mutilated state, the chunk was easily identifiable as part of a piston.
With the engine cowling removed, I could now diagnose what had happened. The wrist pin of the number three cylinder had worked itself loose, and pushed past the compression caps meant to hold it in place. As it spun, the finger-sized pin started rubbing on the cylinder wall. A short time later it failed completely, causing the piston to slap - and shatter - inside the jug.
With the engine still running, the connecting rod literally punched holes through the case. I could see four such punctures, the largest nearly big enough for me to fit my hand.
Amazingly, the engine did not quit. Up until the moment I shut it off on landing it was still generating horsepower, albeit not very much. With holes in the case, oil was dumped as quickly as the pump could move it - this explains why I never actually lost oil pressure, because I simply did not run out of oil.
Of course, it would not have taken long to run the engine dry. The Fairchild has a 4-gallon oil reserve. In just two minutes, she had dumped about a gallon and a half overboard. Had I been anywhere but directly over the airport, the oil would have run out and the engine would have seized.
But, it did not. The engine continued to generate horsepower; just enough for me to land without further damage to person or property. Let this fact be a testament to the engineering and technology of World War II, which - no joke - was designed to take a bullet and keep on running.
Thus went the conversation I had with the FAA mechanic, who shook his head as he looked over the airplane, "Man, it's a good thing you weren't flying when that happened."
Me: "Actually I was. The engine failed on takeoff."
He turned to me with skepticism and wonder in his eyes, "And the engine kept running? That's the thing about 1940s technology; it's pretty bulletproof."
The engine would obviously have to be removed, torn down, and rebuilt. The Fairchild would not fly for another two months. In the meantime while I waited, I did the only plausible thing I could do in that situation. I immediately called Fly Max Aviation at the Monroe airport and got checked out in a Cessna 172.
Because, that is what you do when you get thrown from a horse.
As I was getting certified to fly the 172, the instructor reached down and pulled the power to idle. She remarked, "OK, you just lost your engine. The airport is right there - I want you to land at the airport without power."
Want to know something ironic? I didn't make it. I came in way too high. I would have overshot the runway. I laughed, "Well, I know I can land without power because I just did it last week."
Maybe it was because of that she let me have a second chance.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
All was quiet as I climbed from the cockpit. The first thing I noticed was oil. It was everywhere. The thick substance was splattered across the engine cowling clear back to the tail. The underbelly, just minutes prior a gleaming white, was now grimy black. Oil dripped from the struts and landing appendage like blood in the early stages of coagulation.
I paced around the downed airplane. Something had gone terribly wrong, but what? My optimistic side saw the oil and imagined nothing more than a ruptured fluid line. Perhaps I could be in the air again tomorrow. Wait - that doesn't explain the smoke or catastrophic loss of power. Nor does it explain the thunderous knocking sound that still echoed in my mind.
To physically push the Fairchild across the tarmac toward the hangar required great effort. Still full of fuel, she weighed more than a ton. I was a little surprised to recognize, given our dramatic re-entry and visible sign of distress, not a soul stopped by the airport. As I struggled, an airplane flew overhead, as though mocking us.
In silence I pushed her backwards into the hangar and chocked the wheels. Drops of oil, still warm, marked our path. Armed with a spray bottle of degreaser and roll of paper towels, I dedicated a solid two hours to wiping down the aircraft.
As I cleaned, I began to notice evidence of the plight. Around certain vents of the cowl, the paint had bubbled. Whatever had happened internally had generated a tremendous amount of heat. One of the engine shrouds was dimpled, as though it had been struck from the inside by shrapnel.
I grabbed a screwdriver and began to remove the engine cowling. As the first piece was removed, something rattled loose and fell to the floor. It struck my toe and bounced across the cement. I set down the cowl and leaned in for a closer look. The object that had fallen from the engine compartment was about the size of a ping-pong ball. It appeared to be aluminum, with two grooves cut along one side. It was mangled, as though hammered repeatedly on an anvil.
Even in its mutilated state, the chunk was easily identifiable as part of a piston.
With the engine cowling removed, I could now diagnose what had happened. The wrist pin of the number three cylinder had worked itself loose, and pushed past the compression caps meant to hold it in place. As it spun, the finger-sized pin started rubbing on the cylinder wall. A short time later it failed completely, causing the piston to slap - and shatter - inside the jug.
With the engine still running, the connecting rod literally punched holes through the case. I could see four such punctures, the largest nearly big enough for me to fit my hand.
Amazingly, the engine did not quit. Up until the moment I shut it off on landing it was still generating horsepower, albeit not very much. With holes in the case, oil was dumped as quickly as the pump could move it - this explains why I never actually lost oil pressure, because I simply did not run out of oil.
Of course, it would not have taken long to run the engine dry. The Fairchild has a 4-gallon oil reserve. In just two minutes, she had dumped about a gallon and a half overboard. Had I been anywhere but directly over the airport, the oil would have run out and the engine would have seized.
But, it did not. The engine continued to generate horsepower; just enough for me to land without further damage to person or property. Let this fact be a testament to the engineering and technology of World War II, which - no joke - was designed to take a bullet and keep on running.
Thus went the conversation I had with the FAA mechanic, who shook his head as he looked over the airplane, "Man, it's a good thing you weren't flying when that happened."
Me: "Actually I was. The engine failed on takeoff."
He turned to me with skepticism and wonder in his eyes, "And the engine kept running? That's the thing about 1940s technology; it's pretty bulletproof."
The engine would obviously have to be removed, torn down, and rebuilt. The Fairchild would not fly for another two months. In the meantime while I waited, I did the only plausible thing I could do in that situation. I immediately called Fly Max Aviation at the Monroe airport and got checked out in a Cessna 172.
Because, that is what you do when you get thrown from a horse.
As I was getting certified to fly the 172, the instructor reached down and pulled the power to idle. She remarked, "OK, you just lost your engine. The airport is right there - I want you to land at the airport without power."
Want to know something ironic? I didn't make it. I came in way too high. I would have overshot the runway. I laughed, "Well, I know I can land without power because I just did it last week."
Maybe it was because of that she let me have a second chance.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
