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Excerpts from
AAHS Journal, Vol. 65, No. 1 - Spring 2020
Table of Contents

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Allen E. Paulson: Aviation’s Adventuresome Industrialist

I had the occasion to meet with Allen Paulson during 1973 in the nerve center of his American Jet Industries facility, crowded into two former Flying Tiger Line hangars situated along the western edge of the Hollywood-Burbank Airport. From his office on the mezzanine level of one of the hangars, the panoramic view looked down on an L-188 Electra, surrounded by an army of fast-moving workers. His mechanics were “cutting it in half,” the slow-talking industrialist told me, to convert the airliner into a freighter. Resting on the carpet around the edges of his sparsely furnished office sat a dozen or so travel agency size airplane models. I would find out they represented the hundreds of airliners he had owned during his career in the aviation business.

After our meeting, I walked away with the feeling that Paulson had even more expansive plans in store than what I had seen in the hangars. Five years later, when I heard that he bought Grumman American Aviation Corporation, it didn’t surprise me one bit. The prized Gulfstream business jet program came with the company. Within a few years he made history by transforming the struggling company from a money loser into a Fortune 500 success story.

Left to fend for himself at the age of 13, Al Paulson scrubbed the floors of a hotel in Clinton, Iowa, while his mother languished in a sanitarium as a long-term tuberculosis patient. His father, reeling from the effects of bankruptcy upon losing the family farm, sought a divorce and trekked to California in search of work. Young Paulson found room and board at the hotel in exchange for the janitorial duties. Restless by 15, he bought a one-way bus ticket to California and landed a job on a dairy farm in Marin County. Two years after graduating from high school he joined Trans World Airlines as an apprentice mechanic, followed by enlisting in the Army Air Force. WWII ending before he could enter training to become a pilot, Paulson rejoined TWA and was soon promoted to flight engineer on Lockheed L-049 Constellations.

Strangely, the problematic Wright R-3350 engines that powered TWA’s fleet of Constellations failed so frequently that they later created an opportunity for Paulson to start a business. An improved lubrication system was essential for the highly stressed, hot running engines.

“As an employee I tried to give them the solution but they wouldn’t listen to me,” he said, running headlong into the oft-heard phrase, “not invented here.” The college-educated engineers in TWA’s engineering department, having little or no hands-on mechanic experience, weren’t interested in the opinion of a lowly mechanic turned flight engineer. “For someone who was not in the engineering department to tell them how to fix their engine, they just didn’t want to listen.”[1]

Paulson located a military version of the R-3350. He needed an engine to determine if his solution would actually work. “I went and bought it from a pilot who invested in surplus B-29 engines,” he said.[2] Having kids to feed, a mortgage to pay, and not much cash on hand, he borrowed $1,500 from the TWA credit union to pay for the engine.

Paulson rented a small shop to carry out the mechanical work. The 18-cylinder, 2,670-pound monster was disassembled, piece-by-piece. “I tore the engine down and really learned about its innards to figure what it would take to fix it,” he recalled. His theories about the cause of the lubrication failures would prove correct.

Paulson decided to visit the maintenance chiefs at TWA in Kansas City. They seemed eager to listen to what he’d discovered. “I modified one of the parts, put it on an engine, and showed them how it worked. It really got them interested.”[3]

In short order, he made his first sale. The modified part came from the B-29 engine he had bought. Busy in the shop, he continued to maintain a full flight schedule at TWA, the steady . . .

Allen Paulson, Clay Lacy and Jack Conroy

Battleship - Cruiser Aviation, or Sling-Shot Flyers

The advent of scouting and observation aircraft for use aboard battleships and cruisers can be traced back to February 11, 1911. It was on this date that Glen Curtiss landed his seaplane in San Diego Bay, taxied up alongside the old USS Pennsylvania and was hoisted aboard.1 This type of recovery was later to be known as a “Baker” recovery. However, there were to be many years to pass before this would become a standard operation.

On September 7, 1911, Lt. Ellyson was launched from a cable at Hammondsport, New York. This cable was suspended from a 16 foot high platform, was 250 feet long and 3/4 inch in diameter. The cable was secured to a submerged piling in Lake Keuka. The aircraft had a lined metal groove slot into which the cable fit. The lateral equilibrium was maintained by two-foot wires running parallel to the main cable on which the wing tip pontoons rode and the wire inclined down toward the shore. When the plane began to move down this cable, a man would run along each wingtip to balance the plane until the speed was such that the two men could not keep up with it. Although several successful launches were made using this method, it was decided that it was too hazardous to try aboard a ship.

Capt. Washington I. Chambers and his small band of naval aviators2 were determined to develop a system so that an airplane could be launched from a ship without the ship having to come to a stop and hoist the aircraft over the side. At this time, it was realized that in order to develop a catapult, it would be necessary to use compressed air to achieve the momentum necessary to launch an airplane. Even though there were no funds for this type of project, the team was able to salvage a scrapped cylindrical air tank and some hoisting gear from the USS Oregon. The project was undertaken at the Washington, D.C., Navy Yard.

On July 31, 1912, after the catapult had been installed on the Santee Dock at the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, Md., everything was ready for the first attempt to launch an aircraft using a compressed air catapult. Ellyson climbed into the cockpit of a Curtiss AH-3, ran the engine up to full power and gave the signal to fire. The next thing that Ellyson knew was that he was in the river. What had happened was that no one had thought to secure the nose of the float down. The result was that when the catapult was fired, the nose of the plane rose up such that when the plane left the catapult it was in a nose high attitude and stalled. The plane was a wreck, but Ellyson was uninjured.

The catapult was returned to the Navy Yard in Washington, D.C., so that the necessary alterations could be made. It was then installed on an old coal barge that was two feet above the water. On November 12, 1912, Ellyson once again climbed into the plane for another try. Full power was applied, the signal to fire was given. “Wham!” The next thing that Ellyson knew was that he was flying.

A means had now been found for getting an aircraft into the air in a short distance, but better yet, it would permit operations of aircraft at sea without having to stop the ship in order to launch its planes. Unfortunately, it would take another 21 years before a way would be found for a ship to recover its aircraft while underway.

On April 15, 1915, the first successful catapult shot was made at Pensacola, Florida. This catapult had been designed by Naval Constructor H.C. Richardson, who would later gain fame for his part in the design of the NC boats. This catapult . . .

Naval Aircraft Factory built VE-7, A-5970, is catapult launched.

The Lockheed Hudson

The traumatic effect WWII had on individuals and families is self-evident. Many companies were also deeply affected — negatively and positively. Some, such as Brewster, were so ineptly managed that they could not survive the rigors of fast changing technology and greatly expanded production rates. Although the giant Curtiss-Wright survived as a corporate entity by retreating to other endeavors, its once-proud name would not appear on any successful postwar airplane design. For others blessed with sound management and engineering capability, it was an opportunity to expand and rise to the challenge. Lockheed was fortunate to have been one of the latter.

The year 1938 was on the threshold of this traumatic period, and it was a year of considerable opportunity for Lockheed. While it would be nearly three years before U.S. involvement, WWII was imminent in Europe. The British and French governments were especially concerned that their home industries could not keep up with their defense needs if war did break out. The U.S. aircraft industry was the world leader in airline type airplanes, but it had not generally kept up with the latest developments in military airplanes. Nevertheless, it was considered to have the potential for both quantity and quality in such airplanes. Accordingly, both governments turned to the U.S. that year to supplement their home production.

The British Purchasing Commission arrived in the U.S. in April prepared to spend millions of dollars for American warplanes. Although Lockheed was a small manufacturer of airliners, it was included in the commission’s itinerary because the British believed a military version of the Super Electra might be useful as a navigational trainer. Lockheed had other ideas. As reported on August 29, 1937, by the New York Times, use of the Super Electra as a bomber had been considered during its original design. Lockheed was, therefore, not at a loss for ideas when the pending visit of the British team was announced. What it lacked was something concrete in the form of a mockup to show the British how it could be done. In lieu of the three months typically required, Lockheed craftsmen worked feverishly day and night to complete a wooden mockup in 10 days.

The British team was quite impressed with the potential of the Super Electra as a bomber. Minor changes in equipment location were suggested, and the team was further impressed with Lockheed’s ability to incorporate them in the mockup overnight. As the British team did not have the authority to sign contracts, Lockheed was invited to London for further negotiations. The importance of the British contract to Lockheed was evidenced by the composition of the team that traveled to London—Courtland Gross, Carl Squier, Kelly Johnson, Richard A. Von Hake, and a contracts expert named Bob Proctor. After two months of negotiations, the British Air Ministry finally signed the $25 million contract on June 23, 1938. The successful operation of Electras by British Airways and the pending delivery of its Super Electras were undoubtedly very positive factors in the negotiations.

The British purchase of American airplanes wasn’t met with enthusiasm by everyone. C.C. Grey, editor of the British Aeroplane, was vehemently critical. This was not unusual since Grey was critical of all American airplanes and frequently engaged in wars of words with his American counterparts. Regardless of whether he was prompted by perceived logic or just prejudice, history would prove him decidedly wrong. The war conditions became so grave that the home industry could not have produced enough warplanes to resist the Nazi aggression!

The British order, the largest ever placed with an American manufacturer at that time, was for 200 airplanes with an added incentive — the British would take as many as could be delivered by December 1939, up to a maximum of 250. Because the airplanes . . .


Disaster Photos to New York by Airplane

At Parkwater Field in Spokane, Wash., Nick Mamer, later famed for leading the nonstop coast-to-coast round trip flight of 1929,[1] inspects his airplane’s new gas tank. The 65-gallon tank he’s fitted more than doubles the fuel capacity of his open cockpit, two-bay, Standard biplane. He and partner A. A. Bennett will need the increased range afforded by this tank as they begin their unusual mission Friday, September 14, 1923.

Two weeks earlier and more than 5,000 miles west of Parkwater, terror strikes. At exactly two minutes before noon, Saturday, September 1, houses splinter and brick walls tumble. Roof beams split and tiles collapse, hurling clouds of dust across carts, streetcars, roads, and the river.

The cries of those trapped but not crushed fill the murk. As the dust settles, a few surviving structures poke defiantly through the vast white coverlet. A severe earthquake has struck the island of Honshu, devastating both Yokohama and nearby Tokyo.

Smoke issues from wreckage and explodes into orange flames. Fire, sustained by dry, splintered timbers, shoots outward on jets of gas from broken pipes. Hundreds flee to the river to escape the flames, but are incinerated by a scorching wind – a front of fire driven at high speed by its flaring internal energy.

Since its opening in the late nineteenth century, the bay-front City of Silk has flourished on international trade. Now ships rest capsized in its harbor, locomotives lie overturned near twisted rails, and bodies float in its rivers and canals.

A great hotel on the seafront has collapsed, crushing guests and staff alike. Yokohama’s homes and shops are ablaze, its citizens and merchants severely burned or dead. The tsunami and firestorms following the earthquake have created an annihilating catastrophe that is estimated to cause more than 140,000 deaths.[2]

Anchored in Yokohama’s harbor is the 23,000-ton Empress of Australia, a Canadian Pacific Steamship passenger liner.[3] Tugboats gather to assist in preparation for sailing. Passengers line the rails, waving goodbye. The earthquake hits, the ship is flung side to side and the nearby dock is ripped to pieces. In the confusion, the assisting tugs disappear. One of the Empress’s propellers becomes entangled with the anchor cable of an adjacent freighter, preventing its escape.

First Word
Listeners across the globe first learn of the Honshu catastrophe from scratchy voices on early crystal sets or via crude 1920s radio receivers.

The Sunday, September 2 New York Times headline screamed “GREAT EARTHQUAKE AND FIRE RAVAGE TOKYO AND YOKOHAMA; MANY PERISH, BUILDINGS COLLAPSE; SURVIVORS FLEE IN PANIC; FIRES RAGE IN WHOLE TOKYO DISTRICT[4] is a report that relied on a message relayed by Radio Corporation of America (RCA) from an employee at an RCA station in undamaged Tomioka, a town 140 miles north of Tokyo. The employee bases his information on coverage in a morning newspaper printed in Sendai, a seacoast town 200 miles north of Tokyo. Carr Van Anda, Times managing editor,[5] is troubled with the report’s dependence on a remote, unverified source.

A decade earlier, Van Anda earned praise for coverage of the sinking of H.M.S. Titanic.[6] The Times’ coverage left rival dailies like Pulitzer’s . . .

Nick Mamer climbs into the Standard.

A Mutual Fiasco: The American Fokker F-11

Although one of the lesser known products of the American Fokker factory, new information on the Fokker F-11 flying boat/amphibian series is still to be found. Such makes it worthy to bring wider attention to the history of this unsuccessful model. The mere knowledge that only 5 of the 21 boat hulls that were built transformed into completed aircraft (of which three were eventually sold) gives rise to this. Hence this review that also highlights the financial fiasco of this model for both the Dutch and American1 Fokker companies. It also provides an opportunity to refute a persistent misunderstanding about the identity of the third aircraft of the type.

Dutch Fokker Metal Hulls
In the Netherlands, the Fokker company (called Nederlandsche Vliegtuigenfabriek N.V. or NVNV in short) developed in the early 1920s a small series of metal hulled flying boats/amphibians. All were single engine biplanes with a small lower wing fitted to the hull and designated as B-types. The series started with the unsuccessful B.I amphibian for Colonial use by the Dutch Navy, which flew for the first time in October 1922. It was followed by the small B.II, a reconnaissance flying boat, for which a provisional order of six aircraft was received to be operated from a new cruiser class of the Dutch Navy. The single prototype was completed in October 1923, but was sold back to the factory early in 1925.[2]

A Flying Boat for America
In January 1926 the next type was ordered by the Department of Colonial Affairs for use in the Netherlands East Indies, but the B.III flying boat did not pass the contractual trials in the Netherlands. The sale fell through, but soon afterwards Fokker succeeded in interesting its American subsidiary in the purchase. Modified as B.IIIc and now fitted with a cabin hood, the Atlantic Aircraft Corporation (AAC) delivered the aircraft to Harold S. Vanderbilt.[3]

In the meantime, far more ambitious designs appeared on the drawing boards of the AAC. One of them was a proposal of July 21, 1926, for a large navy monoplane flying boat, probably called PA-1[4] with a wingspan of 108 ft 4 in. Powered by three Pratt & Whitney Wasps and with a calculated endurance of nearly nine hours, it seemed to be intended as a new generation U.S. Navy patrol aircraft, replacing the ancient F-5L and PN-series. By the way, the same wing appeared on the XHB-2 heavy bomber design study for the USAAC on a drawing of September 21, 1926. However, both projects failed to become what would have been the largest U.S. Fokker aircraft ever built.

Both the purchase of the B.IIIc and the PA-1 proposal illustrated Fokker’s attention to an American market for flying boats. The Austrian Alfred A. Gassner, employed by AAC at the time, started designing monoplane developments of the B.III, taking shape under the American designation F-50. One of the designs was an outgrowth of September 1927, called F-50D: a modern-looking high wing flying boat for 15 passengers, equipped with two Pratt & Whitney Wasp engines that were situated side by side on top of the wing.[5] In November, the hull of a slightly larger military version (Navy Class VT) was drawn under the same type designation.

The direct predecessor of Fokker’s first American flying boat to reach construction appeared on the drawing board in mid-October 1927 as the ‘Wasp Boat’ with a single pusher engine pod on top of the wing and designated F-50E.[6] At the end of November, the boat hull was further engineered7 and ready to be built. For practical reasons, the wooden wing was . . .

American Fokker F-11 prototype

Turbulence on the Flight Deck

Over 60 years ago, one of labor’s longest running and most acrimonious disputes took place in the cockpits high above the American landscape. Spanning three presidential administrations was the conflict between the Air Line Pilots Association (ALPA) and the Flight Engineers International Association (FEIA), both affiliated with the American Federation of Labor-Congress of Industrial Organizations (AFL-CIO) with organization being deeply divided over the interrelationship of duties and responsibility in the cockpit. The struggle reached its zenith with the acquisition of turbojet aircraft that precipitated a series of costly strikes that virtually grounded major air carriers at a time when they were struggling with the financial burden of new aircraft.

Prior to WWII, copilot mechanics or flight engineers were commonplace on aircraft flying international routes. The most well known were those serving on Pan American Airlines and American Export Airlines flying boats.[1] In 1947, in recognition of the complexity of transport aircraft and after a series of accidents — none of which was caused by the lack of a flight engineer — President Truman recommended the Civil Aeronautics Board (CAB) hold hearings to determine if additional help was necessary to assist in operating large four-engine aircraft.[2]

J.E. Wood, ALPA’s vice president, testified “that pilots for several years have viewed with great alarm the trend toward the complexity of modern aircraft.”[3] Wood recommended that in the future, all commercial four-engine aircraft be designed with a flight engineer station and all current commercial aircraft would benefit from an additional set of eyes looking outside the cockpit.

Previous to the hearings, ALPA at its 1946 convention, passed a resolution recommending all four-engine aircraft be required to carry a crewmember whose exclusive duty was that of a flight engineer.[4] The vice president of operations of the Air Transport Association (ATA), Milton Arnold, immediately leveled charges of featherbirding and cited labor costs that would approach $1.5 million annually for United and American Airlines operating an aggregate of 60 DC-6 aircraft.[5]

The CAB adjourned with the recommendation that amendments to the Civil Air Regulations (CAR) Part 04 (B) be proposed requiring that a flight engineer station be provided on all four-engine aircraft certificated after December 31, 1948. The new rules promulgated by the CAB amended both Part 61 and 41 of the CAR’s and read: “After December 1, 1948, an airman holding a flight engineer certificate shall be required solely as a flight engineer on all aircraft certificated for more than 80,000 pounds maximum takeoff weight, and on all other aircraft certificated for more than 30,000 pounds maximum takeoff weight where the Administrator had found that the design of the aircraft used or the type of operation is such to require engineer personnel.” The 80,000 pound maximum take off weight was an intentional limit to exclude the Douglas DC-4/C-54 because of the economic burden on air carriers currently operating the type.

The phrase solely as a flight engineer was objected to by some air carriers because it would restrict their freedom of action in developing multiple roles for flightcrews and crew utilization.[6] The phrase was deleted and it was left to the airlines to choose whether the third seat would be occupied by a pilot or flight engineer. This unwittingly opened the door for labor strife that would span the next 30 years.

The CAB ruling, political and unsupported by evidence, only affected the three aircraft; the Lockheed L-049 that already had a flight engineer station, the Douglas DC-6 that only had a jump seat, which precluded the flight engineer from reaching any controls, for an extra crewmember and the not yet in service Boeing B-377. Boeing initially designed the B-377 for a two-man crew and maintained that the safest cockpit was one with the least amount of crewmembers. Milton Arnold (ATA) contended that the minimum flightcrew was established at the time of certification and that the present CAR’s adequately provide guidance.[7]

In July 1948, American Airlines (AAL), operating a fleet of 50 DC-6s, immediately filed for relief citing — “that the addition of a flight engineer would constitute a hazard to safety . . .

Forum of Flight

The FORUM is presented as an opportunity for each member to participate in the Journal by submitting interesting or unusual photographs. This issue features a combination of material. In addition to images submitted by members, the Society is scanning its slide archive contributed by members old and new, and a number of interesting shots have been pulled from the sliides that have been scanned. Unfortunately, in many cases the contributor information has been lost. Where known, we acknowledge them.

Negatives, slides, black-and-white or color photos with good contrast may be used if they have smooth surfaces. Digital submissions are also acceptable, but please provide high resolution images (>3,000 pixels wide). Please include as much information as possible about the image such as: date, place, msn (manufacturer’s serial number), names, etc., plus proper photo credit (it may be from your collection but takenby another photographer).

Send submissions to the Editorial Committee marked “Forum of Flight,” P.O. Box 3023 Huntington Beach, CA 92605-3023. Mark any material to be returned: “Return to (yourname and complete address).” Or you may wish to have your material added to the AAHS photo archives.

Fairchild Republic A-10 Thunderbolt II

News & Comments from Our Members

Forum of Flight Vol. 64, No. 4, Winter 2019

In the most recent Forum of Flight, this editor made a mistake in crediting the above photograph to someone other than the photographer/contributor. We want to make sure everyone knows that this photo was taken and submitted by long time member Don Jay. We want to thank him for his contribution and sincerely apologize for incorrectly attributing his work to another.

Hayden Hamilton
AAHS Managing Editor

Justin H. Libby (1938-2020)
Over the years your editor has had the opportunity to work with a lot of AAHS members. Some, like Justin H. Libby, have become friends as well. It is with regret and deepest sympathies that I must report the passing of Dr. Libby on January 28, 2020, after a long battle with cancer. After a period of duty with the U.S. Air Force, Justin earned a doctorate degree in history and became a history professor at Indiana University in Indianapolis. He still found time to contribute a number of articles to the Journal during this period, the last of which was published in the issue preceding this one.
The following is a list of the articles Dr. Libby contributed to the Journal:

  • Edwin C. Musick, Master of Ocean Flying Boats
  • Trans World Airlines: The Creation of a Global Airline by Jack Frye and Other Founders
  • Pan American Grace Airways: Silver Ships of the Andes
  • The Quest to Conquer the Pacific Ocean’s Vast Horizon; Magellan’s of the Air: Clyde Pangborn, Hugh Herndon and Harold Bromley
  • Lester Maitland and Albert Hegenberger; and the First Nonstop Flight to Hawaii
  • On The Wings of Discovery: Muir Stephen Fairchild; The Life and Times of an Aviation Pioneer and Patriot Harold Ross Harris
  • North Star Rising; Part 1: Col. Lewis Hotchkiss Brittin
  • North Star Rising, Part 2: The Dream Becomes a Reality, Croil Hunter: Grand Horizons
  • North Star Rising, Part 3: Unlimited Horizons, Donald Nyrop and the Growth of Northwest
    Airlines into a Major Domestic and Intercontinental Airline
  • Flying the Waves: A Pacific Venture over the Horizon, Robert Six and Dominic Renda and the Creation of Air Micronesia, the Airline that Could and Did
  • Great Visionaries: The Life and Careers of Paul Revere and Thomas Elmer Braniff
  • William Bushnell Stout (1880-1956); Entrepreneur, Inventor, Aviation Prophet
  • Man Shall have Wings: Mandarins of the Air: The Life and Careers of Paul Wurtsmith, Iven Kincheloe and Thomas Selfridge
  • Elmer Fowler Stone, and the Origins of Coast Guard Aviation
  • A Life in the Heavens: Irving Krick and the Art of Weather Forecasting
  • More than a Pilot: The Life and Career of a True Aviation Pioneer: Robert N. Buck
  • He Dared to Succeed: James Henry Carmichael and the Formation of Capital Airlines
  • Across the World by Air on the Wings of Discovery: Harold Gatty, Pioneer of Transoceanic Flight
  • The Life and Times of Ralph Damon

. . .

Vought A-7D Corsair II, 72-0223

President’s Message

In these unprecedented times, we have seen world priorities change overnight. Circumstances that were not on anyone’s radar suddenly become life as we know it. With the COVID-19 virus and its impacts sweeping every country, we want to first implore our members and families to employ every effort to minimize this virus’ impact on you and your loved ones’ health.

As you see by our Annual Meeting Event Update, in this issue, we had in late February postponed our meeting date as a precautionary measure. Making the move early ensured members that travel plans could change without penalty, and gives us more time to better understand how this situation will develop and affect upcoming events. We’ll make sure to update you on the changes and exciting new venues we’re planning for at our October Annual Meeting.

With a ‘social distancing’ protocol now standard practice for many business operations, we will be working to implement more of our operations offsite, and continue our image archiving activities, such as ‘Plane Spotter,’ that can be performed entirely over the internet.

We have mechanisms, with our new bookkeeping processes, to process memberships without having to make volunteers come into the office. We can continue to scan our 35mm slide collection for the digitizing effort, all remotely. And, we continue to fine tune our new ‘Plane Spotter’ program, that will allow AAHS members and other interested enthusiasts help identify AAHS archive photos via a simple internet interface.

AAHS operations will continue, albeit a bit slower perhaps. The implications for the aviation industry are tremendous, however, and have already affected commercial aviation operations significantly. Boeing’s stock is down 75% since the beginning of the year, and airlines, who could not find enough pilots to fill committed travel routes are now reversing course and performing layoffs as global air travel is severely curtailed.

Some smaller charter and private airline operations have capitalized on a small silver lining in this pandemic, offering flights with just a few passengers in specially sanitized aircraft flying in and out of small and private airports, to get passengers more safely to distant destinations.

Another small opportunity, for me anyway, has come about as a result of the many commitments I had that are now cancelled. I have time to work on a few AAHS articles that have been on my literary back burner for a few months now. In partnership with Steve Johnston, Airport Manager, Kingman Airport, I’m documenting the early military and current uses of historic Kingman Airport, of Kingman, Ariz., as well as a review of a newly published book about fellow AAHS member Bert Zimmerly’s father and his involvement in early airline service in the Northwestern U.S. Perhaps this new environment might also be an opportunity for you to begin that research you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t had the time.

For now, let’s stay “On Course, On Glideslope…..”.

Jerri Bergen
AAHS President