The location is Luke Field, Territory of Hawaii. The date, oh, sometime in the 1930s. The aircraft, the Thomas Morse O-19. The 4th had obviously just done something worthy of the sizable trophy held by the officer in the middle. Given the sedate performance of the O-19, it is safe to assume the trophy does not reflect the squadron’s establishment of a new world record for airspeed.
Taken at March Field, California, in about 1933, the pilots are as follows: Front row, left to right, Squadron Commander Lt. Ralph A. Snavely, Lieutenants Lewis, Allison, and Eaker. Top row, Lieutenants Stone, Messer, Gardner, and Skaer. Although the number of B-7 (and its variants) were small (14 built in total) it marked a revolution in Air Corps bombers: all-metal, and a monoplane to boot. This revolutionary aspect can be seen when one compares the Y1B-7 with another 31st Bomb Squadron bird lurking in the background – a Keystone B-4 – which looks right out of World War 1.
A-3 Falcons of the 26th Attack Squadron, Wheeler Field.
Keystone B-5s of Luke Field’s 72nd Bombardment Squadron pay a call to Wheeler.
P-12s of the 18th Pursuit Group warming up at Wheeler Field.
The photo’s caption says the crew of this DH-4 was “O.K.”. Well, that’s good, but despite having survived the crash, their troubles were not over: They have ended up in a field full of Opuntia ficus-indica, also known as the prickly pear cactus (“Panini” in Hawaiian). This no doubt caused a lot of cursing and swearing as the crew worked their way out of the field. Additional blasphemous language was supplied by the mechanics who arrived later to haul the wreck out of there.
When this photo was taken on April 24, 1934, the 1st Observation Squadron at Mitchel Field, NY, was mainly in the business of flying the Curtiss O-1 Falcon. However, they also had this Fairchild C-8 for hauling cargo and personnel from place to place. This C-8 (31-463) was one of only 14 ever built for the Air Corps.
One would be forgiven when seeing these photos for laughing at what appears to be multiple views of one pilot’s misfortune. Unfortunately (for the taxpayer, that is) these are different aircraft on (I assume) different days. Same plane – the BT-14 – and, same place – Randolph Field. The invention of the tricycle landing gear was a welcome addition to the world of flying, especially for those who were just getting started.
In May of 1925, the mighty airship USS Los Angeles (ZR-3) paid a call to the steamy waters of Puerto Rico where, as it swung lazily from its tender, USS Patoka, it attracted quite a crowd. Judging by the number of rowboats, I would guess a tidy business was underway where, for the right price, one could get a closer look at the giant airship.
A salute to the forerunner of the world’s most famous bomber. Most of the photos taken of the 299 are well known, but here at Jivebomber’s you not only get to see them again, but in many cases, they are original 1935 photographs from long-discarded Boeing archives. Enjoy.
The Seattle Star of July 17, 1935, tells us that Boeing’s “Mystery Bomber” had rolled out the factory door only the day before.
The 299 being ogled by appreciative onlookers at Boeing Field. Another famous product of that company can be seen in the hangar – the P-26.
The 299 takes to the skies.
Artist’s conception of the Model 299 over Wright Field, Ohio.
The Stinson L-1 Vigilant seen here has had a long and interesting life. Delivered to the Air Corps in 1941, 40-3012 served all over the United States before being purchased at the war’s end by legendary Hollywood pilot, Paul Mantz. After decades of work as a camera plane, this airworthy craft now resides in the Fantasy of Flight museum in Florida. This photo shows the plane shortly after its sale to Mantz. The aircraft had last been assigned to the Air Transport Command (ATC) division in Alaska (that is the difficult to see totem pole insignia below the cockpit).
This L-1 was a rare bird. Built as 41-18912 for the Army Air Force, it was equipped with floats and redesignated the L-1F. Only a handful were so converted.
We see a rather rare photo here: a pre-war P-36 sporting a bare metal finish with national insignia on its fuselage. Perhaps this can be explained by the fact that in late 1940, the Air Corps was conducting experiments with camouflage as well as the placement of the national insignia. This P-36 is assigned to Maxwell Field’s 23rd Composite Group – the unit that carried out such testing.
Carl Ben Eielson earned his wings during World War I with the Army Air Service, became a post-war barnstormer, then headed north to Alaska and began making a name for himself. He flew the mail to remote towns where only dog sleds had gone before, started an airline, became a polar explorer, and made the first flight over the North Pole from Alaska to Norway. He died on a rescue mission in 1929, but his legacy lives on (Eielson Air Force Base, Alaska, is named in his honor).
Eielson’s aircraft of choice during his bush pilot days in Alaska was a Curtiss JN-4D “Jenny”, seen here. Weathered and beaten with the faded name “Fairbanks” emblazoned on its olive-drab fuselage, this aircraft (AS 47358) managed to survive and is now on display at Fairbanks Airport in Alaska.
His passenger is Mrs. Ladessa Nordale, wife of Fairbanks newsman Hjalmer Nordale. Mrs. Nordale later became a prominent Alaska judge. One her more interesting cases involved her ruling on whether an automobile constituted a whorehouse. Despite such establishments being illegal, a young lady (of easy virtue) was plying her trade in the back seat of her Cadillac (business must have been good). Judge Nordale ruled the Cadillac was indeed a den of ill-repute and put the motorized entrepreneur out of business. This provided some comedy given that the judge herself drove a Cadillac.
When this photo was taken May 28, 1934, Major Muse was commanding officer of Crissy Field, San Francisco. A somewhat stout gentleman, Muse must have found the P-12 cockpit (or those of most pursuit ships of the day) a rather tight fit. There is what appears to be a pole or staff protruding from the aft fuselage – no idea what it’s for.
When the British airship R.34 crossed the Atlantic in 1919, she and her crew became instant celebrities. Taking off from Britain on July 2, the crew battled winds, storms, freezing conditions and a rapidly dwindling fuel supply before arriving 108 flying hours later. Hovering over a field in Mineola, NY, the airship discharged its first cargo – Major John Pritchard – who parachuted down in order to organize the landing party below. This was necessary due to the fact there was no one in the United States who had any experience in handling such a craft. As the photos illustrate, obviously Pritchard was successful. He also became the first man to arrive in America by air (and parachute).
The first photo shows R.34 resting after its journey. Scattered and stacked all around are hundreds of hydrogen cylinders to provide gas for the trip home. Why the whole place wasn’t blown to kingdom come is probably a miracle in itself.
Photo #2 is interesting in that the men of the 278th Aero Squadron decided to use the R.34 as a backdrop for their group photo. At this time, the 278th was being disbanded at Mineola, and the arrival of R.34 was obviously inspiring. This is the only explanation because the 278th certainly had nothing whatsoever to do with airships (other than trying to shoot them down, should the opportunity present itself.).
The last photo is an example of how the R.34 compared to the Woolworth Building in New York City. It being, in 1919, the tallest building in the world Woolworth’s was always a handy prop for comparison (ocean liners, airships, etc.).
Sporting some rather bizarre camouflage paint schemes, P-36 Hawks of Selfridge Field’s 27th Pursuit do some fancy flying for the camera. Contrary to popular belief, the camo paint was not part of some war game exercise but rather for display – the 1939 National Air Races in Cleveland, Ohio. In theory, the water-based paint could be easily removed. In practice, that was not quite so: broad areas were washed clean, but the paint adhered itself into every panel seam and rivet head.
Fast forward: In the early 1980s, a pair of A-10s from my base in Alaska were given a water-based “Arctic white” paint job over their normal dark green. Used only for a one week exercise, the white paint was then given a rinse. Same results as in 1939. Every place that was not a smooth flat surface had white paint clinging to it. Every panel, rivet, and screw head was highlighted making for two hideous-looking A-10s. Eyesores that they were, the two aircraft were parked together at the far end of the ramp.