"I'd say your Fairchild dresses up the flight line considerably," Pat Weeden remarked as he snapped off a few photos. I stood back and smiled. She was definitely the oldest girl at the ball, and certainly added a touch of class - oil drips and all.
I popped the cowling and pulled the dipstick from the cavernous oil reservoir. We had just completed a 300-mile cross-country, flying from Brodhead to Dayton, Ohio. The engine ticked as it cooled, and the smell of hot, fresh engine paint mixed with the scent of vaporized oil and fuel.
Hers was a newly overhauled engine, still in the break-in phase. The 200 horsepower, inverted, inline, six-cylinder Ranger engine was still burning oil, but the rate was trending downward. A few oil streaks on the underbelly didn't worry me, so long as she wasn't "bathed in oil," as the old-timers would remark.
My Fairchild rolled off the assembly line in January 1940. Originally designed and marketed to upper-class businessmen (emphasis on "men") of means, 1940s-era Fairchilds were advertised to the public using destination phrases like "resort" and "business conference." During World War II, these four-passenger airplanes were used off the Atlantic coastline to scout for German U-boats. My particular aircraft was utilized for the war effort to ferry military officers and VIPs. Oh, if only she could talk.
"Oil consumption is down, but she's still burning almost a quart per hour." Believe it or not, I was happy. Fresh off an overhaul, the engine was still breaking in. As the piston rings seated properly, as the conglomeration of moving parts settled into their respective grooves, the engine would consume less and less oil. It ought to, I was told, stabilize at about a pint per hour.
A pint of oil consumed per hour would be a phenomenal rate, considering these Ranger engines were designed during World War II to burn as little as a quart - and as much as a gallon - per hour of operation. Literally, the airplanes would leave an oil streak as they taxied across the tarmac back in the old days.
Such a burn rate was simply unsustainable, so what did the engineers of World War II devise as a solution? They merely installed a larger oil reserve on the firewall of the aircraft. As I screwed the oil cap shut and buttoned the cowling, I smiled at the placard, "Oil Reserve Capacity 4.1 gallons."
One thing about traveling by private aircraft is that it changes your life. Pat and I had flown from Brodhead to Dayton in just over two hours. When we landed, a signalman waved us to a parking spot. As I shut down the electronics and prepared to disembark the airplane, he parked our rental car alongside, so we wouldn't have to carry our luggage. He chocked the wheels, helped secure the aircraft, and brought over a fuel truck to top off the tanks.
As Pat and I drove away from Dayton International Airport, the purpose of our visit began to sink in. Actually, I was awed that we made it this far. The journey had truly begun several months earlier as I flipped through the pages of a flying magazine. There, tucked away in the back pages was a short blurb replete with a black and white photo of a group of World War II flyers, smiling and each holding up a glass. The headline is what caught my attention, "Doolittle Raiders to Hold Final Toast."
On April 18, 1942, a group of airmen led by James Doolittle achieved the impossible by delivering the first aerial bombardment of Japan. The 80 men involved with the mission flew 16 B-25 Mitchell Bombers from an American aircraft carrier to Japan, and then escaped to China. One B-25 was landed in Russia, but none were shot down. The mission, which took place just over four months after Pearl Harbor, provided America and her allies a much-needed dose of good news. Up until the Doolittle Raid against Tokyo, Japanese forces had seemed all but unstoppable.
Following World War II, James Doolittle made it his personal goal to locate and reunite the flyers. Nearly every year since, veterans of the Raid would hold an annual get-together. At each reunion, the doors would close and the men would hold a private ceremony. They would perform a roll call and offer a toast to fellow Raiders who passed the previous year.
Of the 80 men originally involved with the mission, four were still living. They were set to hold a final toast on November 9, 2013. Traditionally, the Doolittle toasts were closed to the public, and this Final Toast would be no exception. However, given the enormity of the mission and the fact that this would be their final reunion, the event was to be open to the press.
I was able to obtain press credentials in order to attend the sacred event, which was why Pat Weeden and I flew to Dayton, Ohio. The Final Toast of the Doolittle Raiders was to be held at the National Museum of the United States Air Force, at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, just outside Dayton. The event would include speeches from top U.S. Air Force personnel, a flyover of B-25 aircraft, interviews with the surviving Raiders, as well as the toast itself.
For all of this, Pat and I would have front-row seats.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
I popped the cowling and pulled the dipstick from the cavernous oil reservoir. We had just completed a 300-mile cross-country, flying from Brodhead to Dayton, Ohio. The engine ticked as it cooled, and the smell of hot, fresh engine paint mixed with the scent of vaporized oil and fuel.
Hers was a newly overhauled engine, still in the break-in phase. The 200 horsepower, inverted, inline, six-cylinder Ranger engine was still burning oil, but the rate was trending downward. A few oil streaks on the underbelly didn't worry me, so long as she wasn't "bathed in oil," as the old-timers would remark.
My Fairchild rolled off the assembly line in January 1940. Originally designed and marketed to upper-class businessmen (emphasis on "men") of means, 1940s-era Fairchilds were advertised to the public using destination phrases like "resort" and "business conference." During World War II, these four-passenger airplanes were used off the Atlantic coastline to scout for German U-boats. My particular aircraft was utilized for the war effort to ferry military officers and VIPs. Oh, if only she could talk.
"Oil consumption is down, but she's still burning almost a quart per hour." Believe it or not, I was happy. Fresh off an overhaul, the engine was still breaking in. As the piston rings seated properly, as the conglomeration of moving parts settled into their respective grooves, the engine would consume less and less oil. It ought to, I was told, stabilize at about a pint per hour.
A pint of oil consumed per hour would be a phenomenal rate, considering these Ranger engines were designed during World War II to burn as little as a quart - and as much as a gallon - per hour of operation. Literally, the airplanes would leave an oil streak as they taxied across the tarmac back in the old days.
Such a burn rate was simply unsustainable, so what did the engineers of World War II devise as a solution? They merely installed a larger oil reserve on the firewall of the aircraft. As I screwed the oil cap shut and buttoned the cowling, I smiled at the placard, "Oil Reserve Capacity 4.1 gallons."
One thing about traveling by private aircraft is that it changes your life. Pat and I had flown from Brodhead to Dayton in just over two hours. When we landed, a signalman waved us to a parking spot. As I shut down the electronics and prepared to disembark the airplane, he parked our rental car alongside, so we wouldn't have to carry our luggage. He chocked the wheels, helped secure the aircraft, and brought over a fuel truck to top off the tanks.
As Pat and I drove away from Dayton International Airport, the purpose of our visit began to sink in. Actually, I was awed that we made it this far. The journey had truly begun several months earlier as I flipped through the pages of a flying magazine. There, tucked away in the back pages was a short blurb replete with a black and white photo of a group of World War II flyers, smiling and each holding up a glass. The headline is what caught my attention, "Doolittle Raiders to Hold Final Toast."
On April 18, 1942, a group of airmen led by James Doolittle achieved the impossible by delivering the first aerial bombardment of Japan. The 80 men involved with the mission flew 16 B-25 Mitchell Bombers from an American aircraft carrier to Japan, and then escaped to China. One B-25 was landed in Russia, but none were shot down. The mission, which took place just over four months after Pearl Harbor, provided America and her allies a much-needed dose of good news. Up until the Doolittle Raid against Tokyo, Japanese forces had seemed all but unstoppable.
Following World War II, James Doolittle made it his personal goal to locate and reunite the flyers. Nearly every year since, veterans of the Raid would hold an annual get-together. At each reunion, the doors would close and the men would hold a private ceremony. They would perform a roll call and offer a toast to fellow Raiders who passed the previous year.
Of the 80 men originally involved with the mission, four were still living. They were set to hold a final toast on November 9, 2013. Traditionally, the Doolittle toasts were closed to the public, and this Final Toast would be no exception. However, given the enormity of the mission and the fact that this would be their final reunion, the event was to be open to the press.
I was able to obtain press credentials in order to attend the sacred event, which was why Pat Weeden and I flew to Dayton, Ohio. The Final Toast of the Doolittle Raiders was to be held at the National Museum of the United States Air Force, at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, just outside Dayton. The event would include speeches from top U.S. Air Force personnel, a flyover of B-25 aircraft, interviews with the surviving Raiders, as well as the toast itself.
For all of this, Pat and I would have front-row seats.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
