It is almost impossible to convey the excitement I felt, as I climbed into the cockpit. I would never again be able to replicate this feeling. Not very many people get to sit at the helm of a genuine World War II aircraft, much less operate one. I was approaching the end of a very long journey, with just one remaining obstacle to clear. This was the day we test-ran the engine.
The day began with a series of bad omens. A clear sky turned cloudy, and then let loose with a depressing drizzle. We waited. At seemingly the last moment, the overcast gray began to break, and was dissipated by sunshine. Better. We pushed the aircraft out of the hangar. Only one wing was installed, so we braced it with a jack-stand to prevent the airplane from tipping. We then tied the tail to a tree. Battery dead, I pulled up my pickup truck with a set of jumper cables.
I approached the airplane, looking it over. A milk crate for a pilot's seat. No doors installed. Mike Weeden holding a fire extinguisher. This ensemble alone could jump-start Jeff Foxworthy's career. I climbed aboard. This was it.
I sat at the controls, familiarizing myself with the layout of the instrument panel. Once the engine was started, I would have a half-dozen gauges to monitor. I wanted to be able to identify each at a glance. I looked outside. A crowd of onlookers was gathering. Ironically, this was one occasion that I preferred not to have an audience.
Here goes. I switched the magnetos on. "Hot mags!" I called out, warning no one to touch the propeller. I pulled the primer, giving the fuel system three solid shots of gasoline. I could hear fuel cursing through the lines. I pumped the throttle three times, activating the accelerator pump and filling the bowl with fuel. Mike called out, "I see fuel dripping from the overflow - you're good to go." I noted with a smile that he never strayed far from his fire extinguisher.
One last glance of the instrument panel. "Clear prop!" I yelled out. An onlooker replied, "Prop clear!" I reached down, flipped up the safety cover to the ignition switch, and engaged the starter.
With a very deliberate whine, the starter motor caught. My forward view was now dominated by the propeller, windmilling as the engine turned over. I gripped the throttle. All I needed was for one cylinder to fire, and then catch - I'd quickly pump the throttle so as not to starve the engine of fuel. Timing was everything - too soon, and it would flood.
Nothing. No response. I disengaged the starter, feeling a sense of dread well up from deep inside. "Clear!" I called out. Again, I engaged the motor. Several seconds, and still nothing. I sat back, trying to clear my head. I saw Mike approach, so I switched off the magnetos. "Cold mags," I announced. He pulled a few of the spark plugs. They were wet, indicating that fuel was, in fact, reaching the cylinders.
Was the problem electrical? I groaned, thinking of the small fortune I had just spent getting the magnetos overhauled and timed. Mike backed off, cleared the area, and I tried again. Still nothing. What the hell?
As I sat in the cockpit racking my brain, Mike's father, Richard Weeden, stepped forward. His arms folded and with a calm but clear voice he simply asked, "Are you sure you have the magnetos hooked up in the proper firing order?"
That was it. What a stupid mistake - so elementary I debated whether or not to publish that I made it in the first place. The Fairchild has a six-cylinder engine. Each magneto, like an automotive distributor cap, has a terminal for each cylinder. Each terminal is clearly numbered. Like a fool, I wired the number one terminal to cylinder number one, and so forth. In reality, the number one terminal goes to the first cylinder to fire in the firing order, which is not necessarily cylinder number one. Idiot.
I had installed the magnetos; this was why Mike had asked me, like five times, "Are you sure they're connected in the right order?" It wasn't his fault; I was adamant that they were. But, notice the difference in how Richard asked the same question. That was it.
Having switched the wires I climbed back into the cockpit. Mags hot, area clear, I once again engaged the starter motor. On the second revolution - almost instantly, the old Ranger engine fired, caught, and roared to life. There was no sputter, no cough, and no hesitation whatsoever. Let me tell you, I have never heard a more beautiful sound in my life.
Mike ran over. "Watch your oil pressure - if it doesn't register shut the engine down." It registered. So did all of the other gauges, after a few moments of idling. Needles crept upward and stabilized. Everything was within normal parameters, and everything worked. That was it - we had cleared the final obstacle.
I sat in the cockpit, watching the gauges like a hawk and savoring the moment. The old girl growled like a diesel engine; they absolutely, positively, do not make 'em like that anymore. I brought the engine to a higher RPM. She roared.
And if you think that's exciting, tune in next week when we fly it for the first time.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
The day began with a series of bad omens. A clear sky turned cloudy, and then let loose with a depressing drizzle. We waited. At seemingly the last moment, the overcast gray began to break, and was dissipated by sunshine. Better. We pushed the aircraft out of the hangar. Only one wing was installed, so we braced it with a jack-stand to prevent the airplane from tipping. We then tied the tail to a tree. Battery dead, I pulled up my pickup truck with a set of jumper cables.
I approached the airplane, looking it over. A milk crate for a pilot's seat. No doors installed. Mike Weeden holding a fire extinguisher. This ensemble alone could jump-start Jeff Foxworthy's career. I climbed aboard. This was it.
I sat at the controls, familiarizing myself with the layout of the instrument panel. Once the engine was started, I would have a half-dozen gauges to monitor. I wanted to be able to identify each at a glance. I looked outside. A crowd of onlookers was gathering. Ironically, this was one occasion that I preferred not to have an audience.
Here goes. I switched the magnetos on. "Hot mags!" I called out, warning no one to touch the propeller. I pulled the primer, giving the fuel system three solid shots of gasoline. I could hear fuel cursing through the lines. I pumped the throttle three times, activating the accelerator pump and filling the bowl with fuel. Mike called out, "I see fuel dripping from the overflow - you're good to go." I noted with a smile that he never strayed far from his fire extinguisher.
One last glance of the instrument panel. "Clear prop!" I yelled out. An onlooker replied, "Prop clear!" I reached down, flipped up the safety cover to the ignition switch, and engaged the starter.
With a very deliberate whine, the starter motor caught. My forward view was now dominated by the propeller, windmilling as the engine turned over. I gripped the throttle. All I needed was for one cylinder to fire, and then catch - I'd quickly pump the throttle so as not to starve the engine of fuel. Timing was everything - too soon, and it would flood.
Nothing. No response. I disengaged the starter, feeling a sense of dread well up from deep inside. "Clear!" I called out. Again, I engaged the motor. Several seconds, and still nothing. I sat back, trying to clear my head. I saw Mike approach, so I switched off the magnetos. "Cold mags," I announced. He pulled a few of the spark plugs. They were wet, indicating that fuel was, in fact, reaching the cylinders.
Was the problem electrical? I groaned, thinking of the small fortune I had just spent getting the magnetos overhauled and timed. Mike backed off, cleared the area, and I tried again. Still nothing. What the hell?
As I sat in the cockpit racking my brain, Mike's father, Richard Weeden, stepped forward. His arms folded and with a calm but clear voice he simply asked, "Are you sure you have the magnetos hooked up in the proper firing order?"
That was it. What a stupid mistake - so elementary I debated whether or not to publish that I made it in the first place. The Fairchild has a six-cylinder engine. Each magneto, like an automotive distributor cap, has a terminal for each cylinder. Each terminal is clearly numbered. Like a fool, I wired the number one terminal to cylinder number one, and so forth. In reality, the number one terminal goes to the first cylinder to fire in the firing order, which is not necessarily cylinder number one. Idiot.
I had installed the magnetos; this was why Mike had asked me, like five times, "Are you sure they're connected in the right order?" It wasn't his fault; I was adamant that they were. But, notice the difference in how Richard asked the same question. That was it.
Having switched the wires I climbed back into the cockpit. Mags hot, area clear, I once again engaged the starter motor. On the second revolution - almost instantly, the old Ranger engine fired, caught, and roared to life. There was no sputter, no cough, and no hesitation whatsoever. Let me tell you, I have never heard a more beautiful sound in my life.
Mike ran over. "Watch your oil pressure - if it doesn't register shut the engine down." It registered. So did all of the other gauges, after a few moments of idling. Needles crept upward and stabilized. Everything was within normal parameters, and everything worked. That was it - we had cleared the final obstacle.
I sat in the cockpit, watching the gauges like a hawk and savoring the moment. The old girl growled like a diesel engine; they absolutely, positively, do not make 'em like that anymore. I brought the engine to a higher RPM. She roared.
And if you think that's exciting, tune in next week when we fly it for the first time.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
