Before A Fall

By Dick Shead

Todd Abbin planned a career with a major airline. Mike Gilroy's dream was owning a race plane and flying it in the 1938 Cleveland Air Races. Della McClusky plans to step from waitress to actress. Events turn out much differently after they meet Georgie Pine. Georgie marries Della and tricks Todd out of an airline job. Todd and Mike are hired to fly the couple from New York to the Caribbean. What starts out as a honeymoon trip to the Caribbean turns into a nightmare journey of sabotage, survival, and death. Mike, Todd and Della will face situations beyond their imagination as they travel to a confrontation with a mob of Nazi sympathizers in Brazil.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613090817

Book preview

Prologue

Funny about accidents . It’s hard to tell whether it’s a fork in the road or just another flat tire during the drive. Whichever, your first thought is always something like, oh shit. At least that was what I was thinking as I watched my buddy Jimmy ground-loop the ‘31 Wedell-Williams racer that had cost us our souls.

The name’s Mike Gilroy, son of Sean Gilroy, Captain, U. S. Army. The Army moved us to Camp Dix, New Jersey the year I started high school. I hated the move, as I had hated all our moves, but it turned out to be a great place for a teen-ager with big dreams of flying airplanes.

Jimmy and I had planned to become race plane pilots since we met in high school. A couple of years hanging around airports had pretty well knocked the dream out of us. We both earned pilots’ licenses but Jimmy got most of the flight time. I fixed ‘em more than I flew ‘em.

Now I was standing in front of an old, greasy hangar dressed in greasy, worn corduroy pants, a greasy wool coat, and a greasy cap. Most of the grease had come from the shiny airplane tearing itself to pieces in front of me.

The Wedell-Williams model 44 was a swell airplane when it was built in 1930. Flown by winning pilots from ’31 to ’35, it was a pure racer. A low wing, tiny airframe and a Pratt and Whitney Wasp Jr. engine. The engine put out 525 horse power when everything was working right.

The one we found, however, had been around a few too many pylons. It was seven years old and everything needed work, from the prop hub to the rudder, but it was what we could afford for the jack we had.

I had collected a good set of tools, along with my experience fixing airplanes, so I could do the engine work while directing Jimmy and our friends working on the airframe gripes. We scrounged parts, made what we could, paid no one for labor, and hurried to get it airworthy before we starved to death. This was its first flight after the rebuild. I had promised Jimmy to have it ready to fly before Christmas and today was the day. We were at a small airport near Eatontown, New Jersey: Jimmy, me, and a crew of airplane nuts who had helped rebuild the racer.

Early that morning we had pushed the Wedell-Williams out of the hangar and run through the preflight check under the gray, lowering sky. It would probably snow later but the ceiling was high enough for Jimmy to take it around the pattern. The small crowd stood and cheered as Jimmy climbed into the cockpit. Their cigarette smoke drifted away in the light breeze while they watched me prop the engine.

Switch off! I yelled.

Switch off, Jimmy repeated.

I pulled the propeller around and sucked fuel into the cylinders.

Switch on!

Switch on, Jimmy yelled as he turned on the magneto switch.

I pulled the propeller down, careful to keep my body out of the prop arc. The engine started with the usual cloud of blue smoke.

We had the place to ourselves; even the hardiest souls stayed home on a day like this. The temperature was below freezing, the ground covered with a layer of snow and ice. I yelled in Jimmy’s ear, It’s gonna be colder than a well-digger's ass in that open cockpit.

Jimmy grinned. No problem. This monster engine will keep me warm.

The grass runway was, for the most part, clear of ice with a row of frozen snow running along each side of the runway. It wasn’t the best time or place for the first flight, but that’s where the airplane was and we wanted to see it fly. The controls were in trim, the engine running better than new and the timing felt right.

Because it was a hotter airplane than Jimmy had ever flown, we spent the morning with high-speed-taxi runs up and down the runway. Jimmy, wearing two pairs of pants, a leather helmet, and his wool jacket over a couple of shirts, slowly worked the speed up the point where the airplane was light on its wheels. He was getting the tail up and holding it on the main mounts for a distance down the runway, then backing off. After several runs it was time for the main event. Jimmy taxied the plane to the ramp, where we refueled the beast while Jimmy warmed himself near a fire built in a fifty-five-gallon drum.

Then Jimmy flexed his fingers, rubbed his hands together and said, Let’s do it. We watched him taxi to the runway’s end while making S-turns to see around the aircraft’s nose. He checked his controls one last time, lined up with the runway and applied power. I held my breath as the racer accelerated down the runway and the tail came up. Then a little back pressure on the stick and she was airborne.

I really can’t describe how it felt to see that airplane fly. We had poured our hearts and souls into it and now it was up where it was supposed to be. I yelled and gave him two thumbs up as Jimmy made a low pass down the runway. The engine ran smooth as silk as he climbed and circled the field. He couldn’t open the throttle all the way ‘til we got enough time on it to break in the new piston rings and honed cylinders, but you could tell it was going to be fast.

Jimmy picked a point at each end of the runway and made turns around them as if he were racing around pylons. We yelled and cheered as he thundered overhead. Finally he set up for the landing.

I have often wondered if I would have ever tried to fly it. I would have liked the experience. It was a lot faster and had a much higher wing loading than anything I had ever flown. As it turned out, I never got the chance. Jimmy touched down, a little fast, on the main gear. The airplane bounced once and settled into a nice three-point landing straight down the runway. I was yelling and shaking everyone’s hands when the airplane tried to swap ends.

Interesting fact about a conventional, or tail-wheel, airplane: the center of gravity, or cg, is behind the main wheels. As you apply the brakes to slow down, the cg is trying to push forward. If you don’t keep the airplane going perfectly straight, the force from the cg will try to spin the airplane around backwards.

That’s what happened to Jimmy. I heard someone say oh, oh and looked around to see a big spray of snow as the airplane took off through the unplowed area at the side of the runway. I thought, He’ll be okay as long as the landing gear holds. That’s when the right main strut collapsed. As the wheel folded under the fuselage, the wing struck the ground and crumpled. The engine stopped instantly when the prop hit the dirt and I knew the dream was over for the up-coming season.

I remember running toward the wreck. Fortunately it didn’t flip and there was no fire, but it was obvious we were out of business. We could inspect and rebuild the engine but it would be a long, slow process building or finding (buying was out of the question) a wing panel. Jimmy climbed out of the cockpit as I got to the wreck. He was shaking all over. I asked, You all right?

Yeah, crap, dumb luck—I’m not hurt. Dumb piloting for this to happen.

"What did happen?"

I was so cold I couldn’t move my legs fast enough to steer it down the runway. I think I tapped the right brake harder than the left. He shivered as he stood there. I wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the crash.

I made a circle around the wreck while mentally kicking myself for letting Jimmy fly in this weather. The damage was worse than I thought. Both prop tips were curled from hitting the dirt. No telling what shape the engine was in, so it would have to be torn down and inspected and the right wing was all but torn off. I looked at the trail of pieces scattered along the path back to the runway. Plowing through the frozen snow piled high at the side of the runway had shredded the underside of the fuselage, with parts tossed everywhere. The fellas started gathering up and straightening out the pieces, but it was obvious we now owned a large pile of junk.

Jimmy and I stared at the mess and realized we weren’t going to be racing this year. I slapped at Jimmy’s shaking hands as he started to light a butt. You trying to finished the job? Don't you see the gas leaking out? He just stared at the broken fuselage and started to shake all over.

Hey kid, you looking for a job?

We spun around to find a fella staring at me. He looked to be a big cheese, maybe thirty-five, average height, a little overweight. He had one of those thin mustaches like Errol Flynn or William Powell. He wore a full-length overcoat with fur trimming. I’m guessing the coat cost more than all the clothes I owned. From the homburg on his head to his pigskin gloves and the five-dollar stogie, it was obvious he was someone with money.

I’d put that cigar out unless you want to start a fire.  I said.

The man looked startled, hesitated before dropping the cigar and stepping on it. Name’s Georgie Pine. Guess my ol' man had a sense of humor. Anyways, I was just asking the airport manager if he knew a good mechanic. The manager said you would be available.

He said I would be available? When did he say that?

Georgie smiled and looked at the wreckage. Just about the time your buddy went ass over teakettle. He said to remind you that you owe him two months rent on the hangar.

That bastard.

I looked at Jimmy. He looked at the wreck and shrugged, I’m gonna go get a job driving a truck. You’re on your own.

I took a last look at the Weddell-Williams, silently thanked the airport manager and turned to Georgie Pine, I’m Mike Gilroy. What’s on your mind?

I’m buying a Grumman Goose for my company. I intend to take a trip down south, out of the country, and need a mechanic to ride along. The manager said you are a good shade-tree mechanic.

You sure you got the right guy. I never heard of a Goose.

Not many have. It’s a brand new design, a twin engine amphibian. He looked smug with self-importance. A group of my neighbors commissioned Grumman to design a plane they can use to commute from Long Island to New York.

I took a deep breath, wow, sounds like the guy does have money. What does it pay?

I’ll pay you thirty dollars a week. He hesitated. You’ll need to live on the estate. Make it twenty five a week and I’ll supply room and board until we leave. Then thirty.

Again. Wow, better take this job if he’s gonna give his money away. So, where you planning to go? And when?

It’ll be a few months. I have the plane on order. We'll be flying down to the island of Mustique in the Grenadines. Me, my wife, you and the pilot.

I think it over, not long. Yeah, I’ll take the job.

Good, here’s my card. Come see me at my office in New York tomorrow and we’ll work out the details. He looked again at the Weddell-Williams, shrugged and said, Tough luck. He spun around and walked away. Never did look at, or speak to Jimmy.

I checked out the card. It read; Georgie Pine, Feeling Fine Sugar: the sugar that makes you feel fine. Guess that explained the trip to Mustique, wherever that is. As I put the card in my pocket, it hit me— funny about accidents.

One

So, two and a half months pass and I’m riding in the back of a ’34 Buick with the chauffeur and a pilot up front. We were on the way to Bethpage to take possession of a brand new Grumman Goose. The drive took us through the Long Island countryside. The trees and fields are starting to have a green tinge as a sign of the coming spring. The sky is clear with a few cumulus clouds and a light, offshore breeze. Perfect for flying.

I listened to Todd, the pilot, jawing with John, the chauffeur. John usually drove old man Pine around in his Packard limo, but Georgie had talked his father into loaning him for the drive. Today John transported us in the odd-jobs car.

Georgie preferred to do his own driving in his ’36 Cord breezer. Turns out he lived at his parents’ place in Hampton Bays. His father was a bank president and had the money, land, and attitude to go with the title. Georgie wasn’t married yet, but the wedding would take place in April and the trip would serve as the honeymoon.

I had just met Todd the day before. I hadn’t made a good impression. I was finishing up a cup of joe after breakfast with Cora, David, and John when Georgie opened the front door of the servants’ quarters and walked in. Another fella followed him in, wearing khaki pants, a white dress shirt, and a leather flight jacket with a fur collar. He took off a snap-brim fedora, somewhat the worse for wear, as he entered the kitchen.

David rose to his feet as Georgie said, This is Todd Abbin. I’ve hired him as my pilot. He’ll be living with Gilroy for now. Introduce yourselves. Then, Gilroy, I want you to change the oil in my Cord. He nodded to everyone and walked out.

Todd watched him leave and turned back to the others, Hi. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.

David shook his hand, not at all. This is my wife, Cora, and John Higgins, the chauffeur. I’m David Johnson, the estate manager. Cora is the housekeeper on the estate. I’m sure you will want to confer with Mike Gilroy here, Mr. Pine’s mechanic.

I offered Todd my hand. I’ll show you where we live.

Great. My stuff’s outside.

Cora asked, Have you had breakfast? I can whip you up some eggs.

Yes, I have. Thank you. I guess I’ll get settled in. He nodded at John and we walked down to the house he and I would share. It had two bedrooms, an indoor toilet, an icebox and a stove. We could have a twenty-five pound block of ice every day if we wanted. It was near the parking pad, which would be handy when working on the Goose. I had been here since Christmas and liked the place. It sure beat sleeping on a hangar floor.

I watched Todd throw his suitcase on his bed and look around. He was close to six feet tall, black hair, about twenty-five years old. With his mustache and slicked-back hair, he reminded me of pictures of Howard Hughes. I couldn’t place his accent but knew he wasn’t from New York.

I’ll see you later, I said, I better get to work on Georgie’s car. Todd waved.

I was excited. If Gerogie had hired a pilot, we must be close to getting an airplane.

I drove the Cord to the work area and got out the tools to change the oil. While I worked, my mind was on the Goose and the fact that Georgie had hired a pilot. After parking the car back in its garage, I headed back to the house to clean up.

I found Todd inspecting my tools. He smiled when I walked in. Well, I guess we signed on for a trip down south. Are these all your tools? It’s an impressive set.

Yeah, I’ve been collecting for several years.

I see we have a parking spot for the bird.

The grounds were big enough to land just about any kind of airplane. The airfield was a half-mile square of grass, large enough that landings could always be made into the wind. Right now it was a little soggy from the melted snow. A concrete pad cut into the grass where the Goose would park and a nearby shack would be handy for airplane parts and supplies.

The pad has tiedown points in the concrete and the field ought to be big enough to land anything.

After checking out the field and shack, we walked back to the house and I started a pot of coffee. I asked, So how did you get this job?

Todd pulled out a deck of Chesterfields, absently-mindedly offering one to me and sat, not saying anything. The silence was getting awkward when he said, Georgie pulled me out of an airline school.

Just then we heard a car slide to a stop outside. The door slammed and Georgie walked in. He immediately started yelling at me. You stupid, lazy paddy. You got oil all over the steering wheel of the Cord. He walked up and wiped his hands down my shirt, leaving dark oil stains on it. You go clean it up right now. For two cents I’d fire you. Go on, while I talk to Abbin.

His rant shocked me. He had criticized me before but not like this. I realized I had not wiped off the steering wheel after driving the car back to the garage, but it didn’t justify the name, especially in front of someone I had just met. I grabbed some rags and ran out to the car.

Maybe I should quit before I get the bum's rush. But after cleaning up the car, I decided I had invested too much time to just grab everything and leave. I had figured out long ago that Georgie was a first-class asshole.

I walked back into the living room as Georgie was saying, ...tomorrow, the chauffeur will drive the two of you to Bethpage. Pick up the airplane and bring it right back here, and don’t go anywhere else.

Yes, sir.

Georgie looked me over. Is it cleaned up?

When he got up close you could see the first signs of a heavy drinker, red veins on his nose and cheeks. The pot gut probably came from no exercise and too much booze. He was always sober around me but the signs were there. Yes, sir.

He stared at my grease-stained work clothes. Either of you own a suit?

Todd answered in the affirmative, Yes, sir.

Surprised at the question, I answered, No sir, never needed one.

Well you do now. He spoke to Todd, I haven’t said anything to the kid, but I’ve been watching him. When you fly me to New York, both of you take some of that salary I’m paying you and buy some clothes. I want you to look presentable for my wife and my friends when we leave on the trip. He looked at me. Get Todd’s advice about what to wear. I’m not requiring a uniform, but you should both look perfectly dressed.

Okay, enough’s enough. No one had told me how to dress since I left home. I could feel my face turning red as I drew a breath to tell Georgie what he could do with his job. Todd must have been watching me. He dug his elbow into my ribs and said, Sure, no problem.

Georgie asked me, Something you want to say?

I stared back, counted to ten. No, sir.

Good. See you in the morning. He walked out and we heard him drive away.

Todd let out a sigh of relief, I can see I picked a chickenshit boss. He always like that?

Not always. I try to stay away from him as much as possible.

How did you get your job?

I grimaced. He offered me a job just after my buddy crashed our airplane. It had to be a coincidence—but still, kinda spooky how he happened to be around. I suddenly thought about what Georgie had said. Does this mean the Goose is cooked?

Todd smiled, Affirmative. We pick it up tomorrow and fly it back here.

You got any time in a Goose? Whatcha been flying?

Well... he looked around. I’m checked out in the DC-3 so I don’t think the Goose will be a problem. But... He leaned in closer and gave me a grin, Georgie doesn’t know I have never made a water landing or takeoff. He sat back and watched me for a reaction.

I shrugged. People been building and flying seaplanes since the beginning, how hard can it be?

You a pilot

Yes, haven’t been able to fly much, but I got my license.

Todd nodded. Water creates some special problems, ranging from hard-to-judge height when it’s calm to just damn hard when it’s rough.

I had been looking at his leather jacket, and I suddenly recognized it.  The Navy just started issuing those flight jackets this year. Where did you get one?

Todd glanced at the jacket. I’m in the Navy reserve. I just went on inactive status.

No kidding! What were you doing?

Flying the F4B. I was in a dive bombing squadron.

The F4B was an elderly, biplane fighter made by Boeing. No longer up to dog-fighting a modern fighter, it was used for other purposes. Wow. How did that come about?

I was in the ROTC in college. They paid my tuition and sent me to flight school, so I owed the Navy some time after I graduated. I just finished the obligatory part.

You went to college? Which one?

OU.

OU?

Oklahoma University. In Norman.

I’ll be damned. You’re an Okie? I thought they all moved to California.

He smiled. Only the farmers. The dustbowl missed us city dwellers. What’s your background?

I told him about growing up an Army brat; my parents were now in the Philippines; and Jimmy and me trying to get into air racing. Sounds like Georgie did you a favor keeping you from starving. That’s a rough row to hoe.

At least we were our own bosses. I don’t like the idea of him telling us what to wear.

Todd laid it out for me. This still beats looking for work. Every job has some kind of uniform. From the banker to the baker, they all have to know how to dress. Don’t let your pride go before a fall. I had to agree.

We broke out some of my Goose manuals and Todd familiarized himself with the cockpit layout. I went through the starting procedure with him and Todd familiarized himself with the V numbers. If you don’t know what they are, take a flying lesson.

So there we were in the Buick going to pick up the airplane. John wore one of those double-breasted jackets with buttons up both sides all the way to the shoulders, a billed cap and knee-high boots. I asked him, Did Georgie make you buy that uniform?

John glanced down at his front. No, I work for Mr. Pine, senior. He suggested it. We all do what Mr. Pine suggests. The Pines like their staff to dress appropriately.

Did you have to pay for it?

Of course. We all buy our own clothes.

I must have looked upset. Todd said, Don’t worry, Mike, we’ll find something more our style, and gave me a wink. I sure hoped so.

Todd was dressed similarly to what he was wearing yesterday: khaki pants, a clean shirt, no tie and the flight jacket. That was as dressy as I wanted to get.

About nine o’clock, John dropped us off at the Grumman plant. I was familiar with the place. After I had explained that I needed some Goose knowledge, Georgie enrolled me in a week-long class for mechanics taught here at the factory. The class was a basic once-over of the Goose, including the Pratt & Whitney engines, the fuel and electrical systems, and the airframe. The trainees got to start the engines, even taxi one around the ramp. But they wouldn’t let me fly it. This is a mechanic’s course, you don’t need to fly it, they told me. I didn’t push it. I did learn what systems required watching and what parts and tools I was likely to need.

A bonus to the class was seeing all the different production lines at the plant—the Navy fighters on the ramp, the old F3Fs and the new F4Fs, the major product just starting to come off the assembly line.

I wonder why the Navy decided to start naming their fighters. The FF, F2F and F3F hadn’t been named (other than everybody called them flying barrels) but the F4F was called the Wildcat. The F2A coming from Brewster was named the Buffalo. Must be a new marketing gimmick.

There was a line for the J2F Duck, a really odd, if you’ll pardon the pun, duck. It is a bi-plane with a single, centerline float and two small wing floats. Standing on wheels extending below the centerline float, it seemed to tower over everything else on the ramp. The Navy shoots them off battleships so they must be pretty good for stout.

Then there was the Goose production line. I was surprised to learn this was Grumman’s first monoplane and their first multi-engine design. The various paint schemes coming out the factory door showed that this was a civilian airplane. We got a tour of the Goose line so I knew just how it was put together. That could come in handy for diagnosing problems.

From the looks of the lobby, they didn’t get much walk-in business but it was staffed by a good-looking receptionist. Todd smiled and said, Hi, we’re here to pick up a Goose.

The receptionist glanced at me, then smiled and concentrated on Todd. Hi, I’m Ann Heldt. Would that airplane be for Mr. Pine?

Right. I’m Todd Abbin and this is Mike Gilroy.

Ann gave her hand to Todd. Please have a seat and I’ll get someone to help you." She gave us coffee and kept up a conversation with Todd. He seemed to have a pleasing affect on women.

Soon a middle-aged fella who looked like a clerk came down the hall. Hi, I’m Bob Booth. I do initial acceptance testing for Grumman. That was impressive. He tested the Navy’s fighters before the Navy did! We shook hands and he asked Todd, Are you the pilot?

Actually we both are, but yes, I’m the pilot in charge. I’m Todd Abbin, and this is Mike Gilroy, the mechanic and co-pilot. It felt good to be included.

I was told you have lots of experience and to turn the plane over to you, but if you’ve got the time, I’d like to give you a flight check.

Todd nodded. Definitely. Always glad to get advice from the expert.

I was a little surprised. But Georgie said to get right back.

Georgie isn’t here and I never turn down training in an unfamiliar airplane.

Booth smiled. Good thinking, it shows you do have lots of experience. He led us to the flight line.

And there she was. I had seen quite a few G-21s on the flight line while taking the class but this one was clearly better. NC973SP must have been washed that morning; her cream color paint and red trim was glistening. I liked the way the split windshield curved over the top like a movie star’s eyebrows. The nose, jutting up as the airplane sat in its three-point position, reminded me of a snooty dame with her nose in the air. Sometimes it is hard to be humble.

The design had a high-wing to keep the wings out of the water, and a Pratt and Whitney radial engine on each wing. Outboard of the engines were floats to stabilize her on the water. She looked worth every cent of the $65,000 I knew Georgie paid for her. Bob took us on a preflight walk-around, pointing out features and details to check from the mooring cleat on the nose to the elevator balances at the tail.

A two-part door was on the port side, aft (hey, it is part boat! The lower half opened like a regular door and the upper half, curving over the top of the fuselage, was hinged at the top. We climbed aboard and checked out the passenger compartment; we had four leather seats, two on the starboard side facing forward and two on the port side with a small table between them. Shelves and a cabinet were on the forward bulkhead either side of the cockpit door. The bulkheads and the overhead were done up in some jazzy, light-colored upholstery and the windows had curtains covering them. I poked my head into a small compartment at the aft end of the cabin. Hey look, Todd, we got a john.

Don’t get too excited, who do you think is going to clean it? Suddenly it wasn’t that big a deal.

We admired the surroundings while Bob stowed the boarding ladder, then led the way forward. We had to duck under the wing beam to check out the cockpit. Todd, you take the pilot’s seat. I’ll fly co-pilot, and Mike, you can watch from the door after we take off. Sorry, there won’t be time to get you up here in the pilot’s seat. We checked out the switches and flight gauges on the instrument panel and the engine controls and instruments located on the cockpit overhead. This arrangement simplifies the cables and wires routed to the wing-mounted engines.

A small problem with radial engines: since the cylinders point out from the crankcase like the points of a star, the oil circulating through the engine can drain into the lower, upside down cylinders when the engine shuts down. If there is too much oil in these cylinder heads when the engine starts, the pistons will hit the oil and try to compress it. Since liquids don’t compress, you can wind up bending the connecting rods. This is called hydrolock. It’s best to check that you don’t have a hydrolock by letting the starter motor turn the engine through two complete revolutions, thus ensuring each cylinder has a compression cycle, before switching on the ignition. The thought is that the starter doesn’t have enough power to turn the engine if a piston hits a pool of oil.

Todd reached up for the starboard starter switch. He knew the drill—letting four blades of the two-bladed propeller go past before turning on the magnetos. The engine started with a satisfying rumble and a cloud of blue smoke. After they were both running, I settled into a passenger seat and buckled up, resigned to the fact that I couldn’t get into the cockpit.

After the workout Todd got, I was glad I wasn’t flying the plane. Just as we lifted off, Bob pulled the port engine throttle to idle. The Goose quickly started to yaw to the left. Todd stepped on the right rudder pedal and raised the left wing slightly; at the same time he re-trimmed the plane and adjusted the climb rate.

As I’m sure you know, that is the worst possible situation to be in when taking off in a twin. Bob yelled over the engine noise. Losing either engine will cut your climb ability by eighty percent because of the additional drag. If you lose the left, or port, engine before you have enough speed for the rudder to take effect, you will roll in to the left. It’s not nearly as bad to the right. I wouldn’t have done that if we were near gross weight but we are pretty light right now and you handled it well. Bob brought the idling engine back to full power. Then it was on to flying at the minimum controllable airspeed, stalls, sixty degree banked turns on one engine, and an instrument approach back to the airport. Now I knew why Todd was the pilot and I was the mechanic.

After the flight, we went back to Grumman’s cafeteria for lunch and sat around jawing and drinking coffee. Bob gave a Todd a critique of his performance. Basically, Bob thought Todd did especially well. If you ever need a job, let me know.

Thanks, I may when this trip is over. What’s she like on the water?

Handles really swell. It will come right up on the step on takeoff. Landings are smooth, just hold a little nose up and let it settle. But I’m sure you know all this.

Yeah, but they’re all different.

Bob nodded, True. Well, thanks for shopping Grumman and we will treat you to a tank of gas. We all stood as he said, Nice meeting you. I’ve got to get back to work. I’m checking out a new modification on an F4F this afternoon. We all shook hands, he headed to his office and the two of us returned to the flight line.

This time I got the co-pilot’s seat and checked out my kingdom. Most of the instruments were on Todd’s side; I had airspeed, altitude and slip and bank. I did have rudder pedals, but only Todd had brakes. Todd started the engines and told me, Make the radio calls.

Farmingdale tower, Nan Charlie niner three seven sugar peter at the main ramp. Taxi for takeoff.

Seven sugar peter, Farmingdale tower, taxi to runway one five, wind, one four zero at six, altimeter two niner niner three. Advise when ready for takeoff.

Seven sugar peter, roger.

Although we had only been on the ground an