Shamrock 22: “An Aviator's Story”

Contents

Acknowledgments

Preface:

Forward

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

To my Father…

One of the best stick and rudder men I have ever known

Acknowledgments

My Louise for her patience, Brigadier General Regis Urschler for his editing and wise advice. I thank those who read, suggested and encouraged us and there were many. Charon Johnstone Marquart, Bob Nielson, Bill Doray, our Daughters, Holly and Jill, the girl next door Sara Little for her computer skills, and the wives of the Crew for their assistance with pictures and family information, Sara Hamm, wife of our Navigator, Sue Bossert wife of our Radar Navigator, and Betty Maynard wife of our Gunner.

Preface:

SHAMROCK 22

Looking back into one’s life and rethinking experiences, people, events, emotions, satisfactions and some disappointments is both worthwhile and enjoyable. I am grateful for many things and many people. First, my lovely wife of 63 years, our two great daughters, our many friends, numerous mentors, and the fine men with whom I worked, and especially those with whom I flew for years, my crew.

During the writing of this story a thoughtful mood prevailed; it was enjoyable. I am proud of what we accomplished in Strategic Air Command. We participated in preventing World War III. My crew and I were proud to have served our country during very difficult times.

In such a book about one’s self it is difficult to omit the vertical pronoun (as it was called in Senator Barry Goldwater’s forward to General Jimmy Doolittle’s autobiography I could Never Be So Lucky Again). I have tried to limit that use. I use we often since a major fraction of my aviation life has been with my crew. We bonded, as happens in many military relationships. I was many times blessed by the fine people whom I met, knew, with whom I lived, worked, flew and to whom I listened. David Hamm, our Navigator used to say Rick runs a democratic crew. He lets us vote, and then he counts the votes and tells us who won.

During our crew days we were on the highest professional level. Responsibility was continuous, and heavy. Four 1.2 mega ton nuclear weapons, a crew of 5 other professionals, 6 wives, and 17 children, plus a fine Boeing airplane, holding nearly 35,000 gallons of jet fuel, all involved in the defense of our country combine to give a man inspiration to do things right, and well. It was serious business. Even so, there were times of hilarity and humor, for which we are grateful.

Why did we do all of the things we did, and about which we reminisce? To defend our wonderful country and deter our major adversary the USSR during the period that Mr. Churchill called The Cold War.

Why is the title of our story Shamrock 22?

In our era in the 42nd Bomb Wing, the 95th Bomb Wing and in our Airborne Alert experiences there were two periods where there was a very strong possibility that we would execute our EWO (Emergency War Orders) and exchange blows with the USSR. The most near war was the period of the Cuban missile crisis. Depending on their actions we had strong expectations we would be ordered to GO. Deterrence worked as we hoped that it would. Strategic Air Command and our nuclear force were the big stick that President Kennedy used.

Another period of tension, that didn’t last as long as the Cuban event, was when the U-2 was shot down east of Moscow. Our crew was flying Airborne Alert at the time. It was a beautiful 1May 1960. We were over the area of Wyoming and Utah and on the plan. My EWO (Electronic Warfare Officer), Bill Eaton, had the responsibility of monitoring the High Frequency Single Side Band radio continuously. Bill called me on the intercom and said Pilot, you had better listen to HF. SAC has warned us and all of the Alert Force, to standby for message traffic in 5 minutes. This was not a procedure in the book of instructions. When the SAC Command Post came on the air they said, All SAC Airborne Alert aircraft will stand by for a roll call and respond with their tactical call signs. In clear text they called each airborne aircraft by tactical call sign. Ours was Shamrock 22. We answered in turn as we were called. I had to swallow hard, when I heard our call sign and then responded with Shamrock 22.

At the time, we had no idea what may have happened in the world, but we knew this procedure was not a normal one. Something very unusual must have happened. The communication means in use was that on which we would be given the Go Codes sending us to war. We were alert, and expecting anything. After landing, we were told a U-2 had been shot down over Russia.

To remind the Soviets of our presence in the air SAC called the role of our strike force which in effect said, By the way USSR, don’t do anything dumb, as we are ready to respond and will if you launch a missile.

Enjoy our story.

Richard J. Hudlow

Colonel, USAF (Retired)

Aircraft Commander

Forward

WHY THIS BOOK?

Flying was growing up when I was a kid in Tulsa. One could consider it in its juvenile stage in 1920-30, certainly less than adolescence. Really, we grew up together. Flying sparked the imagination and gave anyone with spirit a look at the possibility of something better beyond the destructive atmosphere of the Great Depression. Times were tough but for those willing to work, willing to seek a life or involvement in a new era, it was a God given opportunity out of an hopelessly injured past. Aviation was an opportunity with hazard that would attract young people with the youthful outlook that It could happen to others but not to me. Aviation attracted the masses even though they were not involved in this dare devil thing. People gained some relief from the pain and drudgery of their daily struggle, and the grim prospects for the future. The attraction to air shows, or even to see an airplane that flew near town, was a chance to see the new crazy ones who thought there was something useful that could come out of this flying craze. In some cases, curiosity to see them crash was enough to draw a crowd. Crashing was always a possibility, as early airplanes were so fragile, and the art of flying was so very experimental.

The depression created a generation who wanted something better that was there instead of here. Aviation was made for the younger generation. The heroes and stars were those from the recent Big War who were flyers, and the air racing pilots who dared to go faster. The airplanes of the ‘20s were but improvements to those in use at the end of WWI. The innovative air racers pressed the state of the art, such as it was. Very few airplane makers had money for experimentation and development. Survival of the fragile industry was dependent on financial backing from true believers. They were those who set out to prove that the concept of flying could have some financial benefits. Charles Lindbergh’s flight to Paris in May of 1927 was a major catalyst to progress. The idea of going somewhere became the first of the productive application of airplanes. Businessmen began to have interest in aviation initially to move mail from city to city faster than by train. There were even thoughts of moving people by airplane. Those ideas keyed the financially fragile airplane makers of the era to create suitable airplanes to carry both mail and people.

Airports came about in large to medium size communities rather quickly as they were simple and inexpensive. A fair size grass field would do at first. Airplanes ran on the same gas as early automobiles and one could have the thrill of a new experience for a dollar or so anytime an airplane circled their town and landed in farmer Browns pasture.

Soon the airport needed to be more than a pasture, and various fields began to be marked and made easier to find from the air. Special buildings were created to store and fix the airplanes of the era. In my days on the airport by the mid-1930s, the grass field in Tulsa had become a real facility to serve and support aviation businesses. Training schools and mail flights as well as passenger flights began to be provided by investors and cities. Paved landing strips had not become universal yet but concrete ramps around hangars and hangars with concrete floors were common.

I remember Hoover Airport, in Washington D.C. As late as 1935 they had a traffic light at the end of their landing strip that was to stop cars coming off the 14th Street Bridge as that traffic crossed the airport landing strip. In large cities, Chicago, New York, Los Angeles and others, paved runways had become the norm. Airports and aircraft were addressing the need for communications to allow traffic control and the capability to pass weather information which would improve reliability and safety in flight operations. Lighting of hazards, airports and landing areas that made flying at night practical was becoming a reality.

I remember when the early mail planes began to carry a passenger or two. Soon, cabin airplanes appeared that could increase payload and hope to make a profit. It was an exciting time. I remember when NAT (National Air Transport) and Safeway Airline began flying tri-motor Ford, Fokker, and Stearman airplanes from Tulsa and were based in the big hangar adjacent to the Spartan hangar. One afternoon there was another airline type on the airport. An American Airways (later American Airlines) Curtiss Condor landed. The two pilots were in uniform and proudly showed their new airplane. My reaction was that it didn’t look like it would fly well… and Curtiss should be able to do better than that. Actually, it was a miserable airplane that was so slow that in flight rain fell vertically.

Aviation has come a long way since I was first on an airport. I have enjoyed the trip. I earnestly hope rational, peaceful progress will continue and the excitement and energy from individuals will still have a place as business and government interests invade the private world of aviation. I grew up through a depression-hardened generation that was survival and accomplishment oriented. My Father involved me in matters advanced for a child, which was contributory to my developing responsibility at an early age. I am glad that he did.

Through the years, military aviation made great strides and with the airlines, encouraged manufacturers to press ahead and expand the levels of technology. WWII required incredible progress in aviation that extended well into civil aviation. As a result, aviation has grown to be a mature and very dynamic industry.

Why this book, and what is it to leave with the reader? Enjoy one person’s remembrances of a bygone era of excitement, and the progress of a new science, aviation and its people. Within this story one can share the growth to maturity of a young man through the conflicts of the years; share his experiences in the civil and military aviation worlds that were serious, amusing, dangerous, enjoyable, and productive for his country and himself. In reality, this is about airport people, none of whom were ordinary.

I hope to credit and recognize my many mentors, and my Father’s wisdom in allowing me to grow up at an early age, as well as tell various stories about aviation and aviation people whom I have been fortunate to be with. There was nothing ordinary about them.

Hopefully, this read will be enjoyable and worthy of the reader’s time and interest. It is intended to present a career and life, well-lived, and productive, that has served to protect our great country. Long may she prevail.

Chapter I

THE EARLY YEARS

If I could have planned my early life I would have set it up exactly as it happened.

I have vivid memories of the Great Depression and the misery many people suffered. I do not remember ever being hungry. My Father was employed during all of those years but I do remember the sparseness that prevailed everywhere.

The principal character in my world in those years was my Father. His was an Horatio Alger story. He was one of those who came from nowhere, whose skills and intelligence allowed him to succeed in his chosen field. He was raised in small town Oklahoma, of a dysfunctional family. The strengths he had were those from his Mother, a unique character with unusual people skills and sound logic. The strengths he inherited from his Father were determination and logic of purpose. Joe Hudlow was not a tolerant man nor did he have a sense of humor.

My Dad left high school to work and support his Mother and three sisters. He was a fast learner. For a while he worked as a fireman on the railroad. Then for his first mentor, he met an important business man who became the local banker, Richard Crutcher in McAlester OK and for whom I was named.

He enlisted in the Army during WW1 at 16 and was sent to Kelly Field, San Antonio, TX as an aircraft mechanic trainee. His first and formative aircraft experience was a flight in a Jenny an Army training airplane. That experience was all it took for him to decide he would be an aviator. He was discharged from the Army when he contracted influenza during the epidemic in 1918 and was sent home to get well or die. The Army had more than it could manage of soldiers dying and seriously ill during that epidemic. When he recovered his health he started a small business doing auto repairs and rebuilding car batteries. That became very successful and gave him his first business and financial experience.

Soon he was driving on weekends to Muskogee OK, Hat Box Airport, and was buying flying instruction. At that point he was married and had an infant son, me. I was two years old in 1927 when he found a better way. That was to sell his business, move to Tulsa OK, and become a working mechanic student in the Spartan School of Aeronautics. He soon had his A&E license (Aircraft and Engine, as it was called then.) He worked and taught, paid for his flying training and obtained his Commercial Pilot License and Instructors Rating. He had come to Spartan in 1927 and by 1930, at 29 years old was running the company, the school, and the aircraft factory as Vice President and General Manager.

Determined people came from failed towns and farms accepting the challenges the new aviation world offered in those hard depression years. They wanted something better and were willing to work, risk, experiment, and learn by doing. That characterized the aviation field and people through the years until WWII began. Most people at that time were not grounded firmly with technical education. It was an exciting trial and error environment that produced success amid occasional failure. They learned to fly, to work on airplanes, to make airplanes, race them; they formed Flying Circuses and traveled doing air shows; they did parachute jumps and wing walking and built businesses. Their willingness to continue and try again identified the generation. They were those who now are called The Greatest Generation. These experienced workers and aviators became the basis for an entire expanded industry when WWII came about.

My Dad had a very close friend, Rolly Inman, who formed an air show team with his brother and sisters. The men flew the airplanes and the girls walked on wings, jumped in parachutes, moved from one airplane to another in flight. They, like so many others, flew in air shows all over the country. Rolly had a big Ford Tri-Motor (airliner) in which he did aerobatics. The closing stunt in their show was when Rolly looped the Ford from a very low altitude close in front of the audience. Rolly Inman went with TWA before the war and as Captain was flying the North Atlantic route which was the most challenging in those days, considering the capability of the equipment of the era and the weather on that route. He was killed in northern Maine while trying to land at Presque Isle. His brother was also lost flying for Eastern Airlines. The war and the flying in support thereof drew on the best and the strongest.

As aviation grew and aircraft developed more complexity and capability the training program at Spartan had to grow and meet the needs of the students and the industry. The era of the multi-engine airplane had arrived. The CAA had seen the need to qualify pilots to fly larger airplanes, having more than one engine. They created the Transport License which through the years has become the Airline Transport Pilot license (ATP.) Originally, pilots were qualified in aircraft to specific horsepower levels. Later it became obvious, and remains so today, that pilots must qualify in specific types of aircraft, thus having qualified as an ATP one then obtains a Type Rating on each type he flies. (I am qualified to those levels although I no longer exercise those privileges.)

By 1929 the need existed for the Spartan School to train pilots for the then Transport License. That brought with it a need to have a suitable multi-engine airplane. Dad had been looking for the right one to buy, and heard of one in St Louis, at Lambert Field. He and Doc DeCelles, the sales demonstration pilot, flew to St Louis to have a look at it. They arrived, met the airplane owner, looked it over, and found the owner wanted more money for it than they could afford. Dad even had all the cash the company could spend with him! They realized they couldn’t make a deal on the airplane called a Flamingo, a tri-motor that looked like a Ford. (I have never found reference to such a tri-motor airplane name and cannot imagine why, if it were a Ford, they didn’t call it that.) It looked as though the trip was for naught. It had become too late to return to Tulsa so Dad and Doc went into town to a hotel for the night and to have a look around town. As luck would have it, they heard of a crap game upstairs in the hotel so they had to take a look. (Here is where this story comes off the rails for me, as my Dad was not a gambler.) They went to the site of the game and there was the owner of the airplane, in the game. At that point, so the story goes, Dad got in the game, with company money, and before the night was over won the airplane in the crap game! The more likely scenario is the owner needed money to stay in the game and as Dad was there with money to buy the airplane the sale was consummated with cash on terms that were more favorable to his budget. The next day he flew the airplane to Tulsa and Doc flew the other airplane home. He did not get any instruction or check out, just got in it, started the engines and flew it home. That was typical of the era. I remember the airplane. They used it for a number of years. It was the noisiest airplane I had ever heard. It still looked like a Ford to me.

My early years were on the airport in Tulsa, OK and we lived at the airport. In my world, that of my Father’s, were people whom I knew, and knew of. He discussed them with me as my experience and sphere expanded on the airport. His descriptions and evaluations of various people and their capabilities were of high interest to me. With a boy’s tendency to admire what was right and respect those deserving respect, I was comfortable, one-on-one, as the people whom I encountered were not unknown to me.

My Father was careful to define for me where I could, and could not go on the airport. He also seemed to set me up with someone to do various things without my knowledge that he had done so. In reality, he supervised what I was doing without my awareness of his involvement and oversight. I felt as though I was on my own, making my own decisions within the general guidelines he had set for me. I developed a strong sense of operating within the rules. Therefore, as I felt that my decisions were my own, I could measure them against the prospect of losing access to the airport if I moved out of the approved zone.

As an example, twice a month we would move all the flyable airplanes in the big Spartan hangar, (big to me) outside, wash or dust them, start the engines, warm them up, check the magnetos (test the ignition systems). Then, after the hangar sweeping was finished, push the airplanes back into the hangar. I must have been 7 or 8 years old (1932-33). I had done a lot of flying with my Dad and others and was thought to be good at it although, of course, I had not flown solo. Actually, I was so small that in most airplanes I couldn’t see out enough to solo. I was working with one of the boys (students) in the engine run phase of the bi-monthly engine run up. I was not allowed to prop the engine (pull the propeller through to start.) I would be in the cockpit, start and run the engine. The student, an adult, would prop the engine and I did the run up and ignition test. This particular man and I had done this job on several other occasions. I remember his name, last name Nail, so it followed that he was called Tack. He was a good guy; I trusted him and liked him. As Tack was to prop the engines, it followed that he had a lot of confidence in me. He was doing the dangerous part of the job. On this morning, we were about to start the engine run process on a beautiful little single place airplane I had long admired and I had expressed that to him. The airplane was a type that would be from WWI, low mid-wing, small three-cylinder engine, the wing trailing edges were scalloped as they did not have a straight strip of wood inside the trailing edge. The flying wires were connected to the landing gear and the landing wires were connected to a post in front of the single cockpit and to the upper wing surface, about 2/3rds out toward the wing tips. It was real cool to me. I could easily visualize the Red Baron sitting high in the cockpit. As I got into the cockpit and was strapping in Tack said to me Why don’t you just go ahead and fly this thing? You can do it, who would know? I’ll pull the chocks when you are ready. My normal level of confidence told me that I could fly it; I did have a lot of stick time. Then it occurred to me that I would be in big trouble if my Dad found out, and he would! I realized that I would lose my access to the airport. Then the thought came to me, Has my Dad put Tack up to this to test me? I told Tack No, not today, let’s get the run up done. Tack lost my respect that day. I couldn’t trust him as he had tried to set me up. I never asked my Dad if he had put him up to test me. I have always felt that he did. I didn’t feel that my Dad had violated our mutual trust as I realized, as smart as he was, he should have been concerned to know if I could resist the temptation to fly. After all, at 7, I was in an airplane with the engine running. The opportunity was there.

As I look back on this incident I have to conclude that my routine association with adults on the airport was developing a strong ability to judge smart from stupid, and I had learned to think for myself. My Dad would have been pleased I was capable of that level of judgment at 7 or 8 years old. I am sure he was, and had become more confident of me. I am also sure he planned the test. Life was good for me on the airport.

In the years my Dad ran the Spartan Company I was given a number of summer jobs in all the shops except the wood shop. Rightly, he reasoned the hazard of the various saws and wood working machines was not worth the experience for me and I never asked to work there. I had noticed most of the men working there had a finger or two missing. I had busy summers as I sanded propeller blades in one (a very dirty job). I worked in sheet metal forming by hand, using wooden patterns. I worked in the engine shop and on the flight line. I swept hangars and washed airplanes and occasionally flew.

One of my favorite memories of that era involved the beautiful Spartan Executive airplane. The company encountered a manufacturing problem back in the tail. They had not designed enough access to allow space for installing the vertical fin. There was no one in the plant who could get far enough back to buck the rivets that attach the vertical fin. That is when my years of apprenticeship on the airport came to mind. The Production Supervisor asked my Dad if I could come out to the plant after school or on Saturdays. (I recall we had moved into town so I could have better elementary schooling.) They needed someone who could crawl back in the tail far enough to buck (flatten the back) of the rivets attaching the vertical fin. I was called into action. I was a tall slim kid with long arms and that is what was needed. It’s good to be needed and I was happy to help and be part of the Executive crew. I volunteered to come every day, of course. I do remember how uncomfortable it was laying on the fuselage floor frames and how noisy a rivet gun is inside the fuselage. Every time I see one of the beautiful Executives I get misty eyed. I take a lot of pride in being involved. The Executive was a gem. I will tell about its gestation in a later chapter.

Of the shop jobs, the one I enjoyed most was the engine shop. I washed parts, did a lot of wrench work removing parts, cylinders, exhaust pipes and accessories on engines being overhauled. I learned a lot about how engines work, how to operate them, and the things not to do. Engines at that point were rather simple compared to those that came later with blowers, fuel injection, and constant speed propellers. It was a good place to start. The shop boss, Paul Langer was patient and put me on jobs I understood, because he explained what I should do and how. Paul was a good man and I appreciated my time with him, even today. We were doing a top overhaul on an engine and could do it with the engine still installed on the airplane. The job amounted to removing all the cylinders, inspecting and cleaning, or replacing pistons, wrist pins and piston rings. We took the cylinders into the shop where Paul inspected the valves, springs, and push rods, cleaned and replaced as necessary. Then he installed the valves and ground them in with a compound that seated the valves so they would not leak pressure. When he was finished with a cylinder he brought it to the airplane where I was on a stand, level with the engine. We then compressed the rings and mounted the cylinder on the stud bolts. I finished off by installing a washer and nut on each stud bolt. I tightened down the nuts and Paul brought out the next cylinder. I had done my job when we had installed all seven. Paul brought out a torque wrench, which I never had seen before and put the final touch on the installation. He tightened the mounting nuts to the proper inch/pounds of torque. We gave the engine a ground run, there were no oil leaks and all was checked normal. I went with Paul back into the engine shop, cleaned up the tools, put them away and then cleaned me up. About that time my Dad came into the shop and asked Paul Is it ready to go? He said Yes Ed, it’s ready to fly. My Dad said, Good, I’m on my way to Shreveport. He looked at me and said, I’ll see you tomorrow. I went home but said nothing to my Mother about my day. Went to bed and had trouble going to sleep, I wondered how the engine ran. I felt very responsible and said a prayer that my Dad got there OK. The next morning when I went to the hangar and walked past Dad’s office, his secretary said to me, Your Dad called, and asked me to tell you that the engine is running fine. He really understood how I thought; I was impressed. That awareness and consideration was why so many people respected him. He was an excellent example for a growing young man.

The people in the company work force and the students were a fine lot and they were good to me. They liked me, hopefully because of me, not because I was the boss’s kid. They used to have parties now and then at night in a big park near the airport and would ask me to go. They would pick up their girlfriends in the Spartan bus. We would spend the evening around a big fire, cook, eat, and sing and have a good time. I liked the girl friends, it occurred to me that I should bring a girlfriend… but I really didn’t know any girls I would want to invite. As it got late I would sleep in the bus and sometimes wake up in the student barracks in the morning.

Dad was a flight instructor in his early years and about 1930 he was badly injured while propping an engine for a student pilot. The process of propping was very simple from the standpoint of the person in the cockpit. He operates the ignition switch and does with it what the person propping tells him to do. The first action in the process was to pull the prop through a couple of times with fuel ON and switch OFF to prime (put fuel into the cylinders). Before priming begins, the man at the propeller calls Switch OFF. The person in the cockpit verifies and calls out Switch OFF. Then it is safe to pull the propeller through several blades. Next step is to get the blade to be pulled thru in the proper position so both hands can grip the blade. The person on the prop stands in the right place so he can pull the blade down smartly and move back to avoid being hit by the propeller when the engine starts. YES, it is dangerous so must be done correctly. When ready, the man on the prop calls Switch ON. The person in the cockpit calls, Switch ON, then places the switch to Both position. If the engine fails to start on the first try, starter calls Switch OFF. At that point the pilot turns the magneto switch OFF and then calls Switch OFF, not before. When my Dad was hit, the student called Switch OFF before he actually moved the magneto switch, and was slow to do it. Dad pulled the prop thru to position a blade for the next start attempt and when he did that… the engine started. He was hit and his left arm seriously injured. He was in hospital for months. He was blessed with a brilliant surgeon, a Dr. Glass, who worked to repair and save his arm, which he did.

During the time he was in hospital my Mother would drive in our Model A Ford to visit him on Saturday and Sunday. She would leave me with the boys, students, who would put me to work or find something to occupy me. This was a highlight of my young life. One of the senior pilots on the airport, who had been my Dad’s flight instructor, was Jimmy Hazlip, later a famous racing pilot and international aviator. He had a Ford Tri-motor and on Saturday and Sunday would sell rides for a trip around Tulsa at $1.50 a seat. They put me with Mr., Hazlip as his co-pilot and I would fly all day Saturday and Sunday. This way they knew where I was and what I was doing. I was in heaven. I will always remember flying that airplane. It was very noisy, the control wheel was very big and wrapped with chord and shellacked. I couldn’t sit in the co-pilot seat and see out so I would stand and fly. The controls were heavy and it was a lot of work but I loved it. My ambition was to be able to sit in the seat and put my feet on the rudder pedals. I needed to grow to do that. I could see out if I stood up, so that was the way it was.

I was able to fly with Mr. Hazlip for several months until my Dad came home to recuperate, When I started flying the Ford, the boys told me that I could fly as long as I didn’t tell my Mother; I never did. When Dad was home they told him about my co-pilot job and finally he told my Mother. Mr. Hazlip was a fine man. He and my Dad are both in the Oklahoma Aviation Hall of Fame and well deserved.

When the Boeing 727 came into being in 1959-60 I won a bet with some of my Air Force friends who had flown with Boeing on a demonstration flight, and were gloating that they were the only Air Force pilots with three-engine time. I said, Hold on, I have Ford Tri-Motor time.

NIGHT AIR MAIL TO PONCA CITY

One of the very memorable things I look back on with pleasure is one of those life experiences we have, and remember. A bit before sundown, in some seasons, I would ride my bike to the Passenger Terminal and wait for the evening mail plane to arrive. It was part of a great scene and one that formed one of my early ambitions. Every evening the airplane would arrive and park in front of the new terminal building on the paved ramp. I could never be sure what type aircraft it was as I had no one to ask. I don’t think it was a Boeing 40 as it wasn’t that large. It could have been a Pitcairn Mailwing or one of the Stinson biplanes. It was beautiful and big with a Pratt Whitney Hornet engine. The pilot would land, taxi to the front of the terminal and swing around to park. He would shut off the engine while still rolling slowly. The ground man would chock the wheels and come around to remove the mail. By then the pilot was standing up in the cockpit and would watch the crewman remove the mail pouches and then accompany him into the terminal. He was responsible for the US Mail! John Wayne could have played the part very well. He wore a leather jacket, helmet and goggles with the earflaps pulled up. He wore riding britches and riding boots with a gun belt and what looked like a big .45 caliber pistol. He would stay in the terminal several minutes then slowly walk back to the airplane. By that time the ground crew, one man, had placed a battery cart and an electric starter by the airplane. Hero pilot climbed to the cockpit, stood in the seat, reached to turn on the fuel, set the throttle, and turned on the ignition switch. Ground had installed the starter in the receptacle behind the engine and at the wave of a finger (no words spoken) engaged the starter. That beautiful sound of a round engine starting with white smoke and flame out an exhaust all happened. It was grand! Pilot now slides down into the seat, ground pulls the chocks, and airplane gracefully moves away and out onto the grass. While rolling, he increases the power, checks the magnetos, then when on the desired heading, all the while rolling, pilot applies power and the airplane moves off across the grass and into the dusk/setting sun toward Ponca City. I would watch him disappear into sundown colors in a clear sky. I wasn’t sure where Ponca City was, but imagined it must be some big and influential place to require a night mail delivery. This operation was inspirational to me. My ambition became to fly the night mail to Ponca City. My Dad was amused.

A few years later, in 1952, I was in the B-47 school at Wichita KS to check out in the new B-47 Strategic Bomber. We had a first phase that was 10 hours in a T-33. That was the trainer version of the then-new jet fighter the P-80. I was on a solo flight and was passing over Tulsa at about 22,000 feet. I looked down on the Tulsa airport with good thoughts and remembered the Mail Plane. A quick look to the north and west and there was Ponca City, a modest city 60 miles away and along the Arkansas River. What a contrast. I had realized time changes things forever. He really wasn’t flying off into the distant unknown. Our scale and perspective changes as we gain experience!

ABOUT PEOPLE – 1934 TO 1940

I was still living at the airport, my favorite place. I hated to go into town because it usually was to go shopping with my Mother and one of my Dad’s sisters, or my Grandmother. However, I coveted visits with Granny. She was a real person, a survivor, gentle, but could be as hard as nails, or as hard as she needed to be at any time. I admired much about her, except she could shade the truth at times and she had no perception of the importance of time. Even so, all one could do was shake his head and smile. She was many people, and those persons that she could become could be a surprise.

Granny married my Grandfather Joseph Washington Hudlow before the turn of the century. He was a dashing man who was an outdoor type and had traveled extensively as a young man, born in 1880. He told me that in his teens he rode a horse from St. Joseph, MO to Sacramento, CA, and returned through Colorado. He was in Cripple Creek, CO in a saloon when Bob Ford, who shot Jesse James, was making money showing off his prowess as the man who shot Jesse. He was bragging about that when someone shot and killed him.

Somewhere along the way Joe developed into a dedicated teetotaler, maybe as a result of experience in saloons. He was a mountain man and how, or why he settled in Oklahoma I could not fathom. He was a conservationist before there was such a term. Joe was physically a small man of strong principals who had a bad temper. Maybe it was a good thing he stayed out of saloons. My Dad did not have a lot of kind things to say about him, as his childhood was not filled with joy. I have been told Joe had a degree from the University of Arkansas as a mining engineer. I do know that he taught school for a time in Arkansas with his degree and new wife.

Joe took a job managing some gold mines in the states of Sonora, and Chihuahua, Mexico, near Nacozari, camping and living off the land. He taught Granny to shoot both to protect herself from bandits that were everywhere, and to have her help with hunting. That was a hard life but they survived it, and as best that I could tell from Granny, she loved those days.

My Father was born in Mexico in 1901 and that is an interesting story too. At birth he was healthy but she could not nurse him and there was no source for milk. She told me that Joe got a Concord Coach and a team of horses (bought, stolen, or commandeered) and he rapidly drove them to Juarez, a border town across the river from El Paso, TX. It took them three days to get there. They camped for the night just outside of the city on a hillside, within sight of the town and El Paso. He told me he shot a rabbit and made gruel and fed the broth to the baby. The baby took it, gained strength and from that point began to come around. They did not go back to Mexico. He became a merchant and a strong conservation advocate. My Dad inherited much of the strength they showed, resourcefulness, determination, and creativity. Granny was a classic. For sure, They don’t make them like her anymore. Outwardly she was a cultured Mississippi Lady, well mannered, gracious, with her soft blue eyes and gentle Natchez accent. She should have been the Lady of a plantation in the old South.

I remember a visit to Oklahoma City when we went to a park called Spring Lake. There was a midway of sorts there, a large wooden roller coaster, swimming pool and the usual park things. I went with Granny and her daughters who were employed as secretaries in and around the state capital. We went to the park with two of the girl’s boyfriends. They were very attentive to Mrs Hudlow who graciously enjoyed them and turned on the helpless lady act. We walked along the midway and came to a shooting gallery where the boy friends encouraged their dates to try and shoot at the clay targets and such. They had a good time showing the ladies how to do this shooting thing. One asked Granny if she would like to try and shoot. True to form, she turned on the helpless act and they took pains to show her how to hold the rifle, how to sight and to squeeze the trigger. They were shooting .22 caliber repeating rifles with about 20 shot magazines. Granny went through the instructions gracefully, she shouldered the rifle, chose her target and steadily aimed at a row of clay pipes set up as targets and in rapid wire shattered an entire row of clay pipes. The young men were stunned. She then gracefully handed the rifle to one of them and said Thank you, that was very enjoyable". They were speechless and the gallery operator awarded her some sort of teddy bear or cupie doll with high praise. All that was part of her style.

Granny was ultra-proud of my Father. She saved every newspaper article about him, what he did and said through his life in the spotlight in Tulsa

ED HUDLOW AVIATOR AND

BUSINESS MAN

You couldn’t call Ed Hudlow anything but a Man of Action or even a Man About Town. He was unique. Flyers (as they were called in those days) were rare and seen as Dare Devils in most circles. He dressed the part, olive drab uniform, flashy wings on the shirt, leather jacket and an overseas cap as they were known then. He was handsome, a good and ready smile and a twinkle in his eye. I read a clipping from the TULSA TRIBUNE that read Spartan’s Ed Hudlow walked into the coffee shop of the Mayo Hotel looking like the competent aviator he is. He is one of those guys who will pick up a pool cue and ask, How do you use one of these", and then proceed to run the table.

A story about him that circulated around was true, and typical of his story style; down town at a Monday morning civic meeting someone said to him Ed, I was out at Mohawk Park golf course yesterday morning very early and there was an airplane flying off the golf course. Was it one of yours? My Dad said, Yes, it was me. I had just taken off on a business trip to St Louis and my engine began to lose power. I looked for a place to land. There was no one in sight on a long fairway on the golf course so I landed there. The engine continued to run at low power. I ran it up to high RPM, checked the magnetos, it ran fine, so I turned around and took off down the fairway. As soon as I got off the ground it started losing power again, so I landed on another fairway. You know, before that morning was over I had shot a forced landing on every par three hole on that golf course.

Except for Charlie Short, the airport manager at Tulsa, Ed Hudlow was liked by everyone he ever met. He had strong criteria though, as I do, for selecting his friends and associates. When I was an adult and we were reminiscing about those days he said to me, When you were a kid you had an uncanny ability to evaluate people. You could spot a phony right away, and I never knew you to be wrong. You may not remember, but I used to ask you what you thought of so-and-so. I do remember him asking me about people. I was a good observer and listener.

There were people in aviation in those days that migrated from airport to airport looking for opportunity, a job, or money they could make or get from anyone. They borrowed their way and felt rather clever about it. I still have a very nice pocket watch on which Dad loaned a man $20.00. I remember his name and could give a description of him today. I never saw him around the airport again.

I had access everywhere and could sit quietly in a group talking. Who could care if a kid was there? That type person would talk around and ask about someone that might be a soft touch and an easy mark for a loan or a meal. It didn’t take long for me to sort an honest person from a useless one who, in those days was called a phony. Now they would be called a B. S. Artist. My early developed people analysis capability has been very valuable to me many times in my life, from settling into four high schools and various situations in the Army, and Air Force, and in business after retiring from the Air Force.

Now, about Charlie Short: He was the airport manager in Tulsa in those days and had the idea the airport was his personal property. It seemed as though he wanted to run it as his own fiefdom. Of course, that didn’t impress, or go too well with Ed Hudlow. He operated the largest business on the airport and more airplanes than anyone else. As a result of Short’s attitude, Ed took it upon himself to harass Charlie when it was convenient. Their conflicts became general knowledge and became sort of a sideshow around the airport. On one occasion when they had a big squabble, Ed was leaving on a trip and had filed a flight plan to Dallas, Love Field. Charlie was in a rage and had threatened to get a warrant for his arrest. When Ed took-off he buzzed Charlie’s office building and put on a show of arrogance. Charlie called Dallas to have him arrested.