Kelly (5 page)

“Dear Johnson,” the letter began. “You will have to excuse the typing as I am writing here at the factory tonite and this typewriter certainly is not much good.

“You may be sure that there was a big celebration around these parts when we got your wires telling about the new find and how simple the solution really was. It is apparently a rather important discovery and I think it is a fine thing that you should be the one to find out the secret.… Needless to say, the addition of these parts to the horizontal surfaces is a very easy matter; and I think that we shall wait until you get back perhaps before we do much along that line.”
Some specifics followed on the cowl tests for Pan Am. Then,

“Well, I guess I’ll quit now. You will be quite surprised at the Electra when you get here, I think. It is coming along quite well. Sincerely, Hibbard.”

It was typically generous of him to stay at night and type a letter himself in appreciation of the work of a new, young engineer. It meant a great deal to me.

When I returned to the plant, I was a full-fledged member of the engineering department. I was number six. There were James “Jimmy” Gerschler, George Prudden, Carl Beed, and Truman A. “Tap” Parker. The quarters weren’t much, the roof leaked, but I was an honest-to-God aircraft engineer. I worked not only on the aerodynamics of the airplane, but on stress analysis, weight and balance, anything and everything they threw at me. And, of course, more wind-tunnel testing. From that, I became the logical choice to be flight test engineer on the airplane when it was ready to fly.

And because I had the latest advanced mathematical training, I was given the job of analyzing the retractable landing gear for Jimmy Doolittle’s Lockheed Orion 9-D, a modification of the basic Orion. That was my first contact with any of the famous early aviators who would frequent the Lockheed plant. Others included Amelia Earhart, Wiley Post, Sir Charles Kingsford-Smith, and Roscoe Turner. Doolittle, of course, was an early record-setting pilot, both military and civilian, with a master’s degree and doctorate in science from M.I.T. Then he was flying for Shell Oil Company, landing in out-of-the-way fields, cow pastures, and other unprepared strips.

Retractable gear was standard for the Orion; it was the first successful application to commercial aircraft. It streamlined the plane considerably and allowed a top speed of 227 miles an hour. It was the fastest plane in service in its day and flew for Varney Speed Lanes between Los Angeles and San Francisco on a schedule of 65 minutes.

For the kind of service Doolittle required of the plane,
however, the gear needed to be strengthened. This job was tough. It required the best math I knew. To be sure the gear wouldn’t come off, I doubled all the tube gauges. It cost us about 15 pounds in extra weight, but the gear worked reliably.

Every six months, Doolittle would bring the plane back to the factory to have everything tightened up. He was a hell of a good flyer and always the finest type of person. He and I are friends to this day.

When the time came for the Electra’s first flight, Gross hired Edmund T. “Eddie” Allen, probably the best and most experienced test pilot of commercial aircraft at that time. The Lockheed pilots had no twin-engine experience. Allen alone flew the plane for the first time on February 23, 1934.

“Soaring gracefully into the air on its maiden flight, the sleek all-metal airliner flew easily, marking another great stride in commercial speed development of air transportation,” a local newspaper reported glowingly.

The Electra was the fastest multiengine transport in the world at that time, the first able to cruise faster than 200 miles an hour. Allen averaged 221 miles per hour over a speed course shortly after first flight. Later, at 10,500 feet, the calibrated airspeed meter showed the Electra would cruise at 203 miles an hour. The plane became popular not only with airlines in the United States, but overseas as well.

In Eddie Allen, I had an excellent teacher. After the first flight, I flew with him as flight test engineer through the entire initial flight test regime—dive tests, stalls, spins, everything. It was an excellent indoctrination to the art, skill, science, adventure—all that goes into flight testing. He taught me what it was all about, what was important, what to record. And he was unflappable.

On one occasion we had to boost the Electra to its design dive speed, about 320 miles an hour, to prove that the airplane was free of flutter and control problems. We had the airplane loaded with lead bars to simulate the full gross weight. We took off from the old runway behind the factory in Burbank and climbed to about 12,000 feet. Then Eddie pointed the airplane
down in a steep, screaming power-on dive.

Establishing a foothold in the aviation industry. Kelly in his early role as a flight engineer
.

At 6,000 feet when I was expecting he would start to pull out, there was a horrendous bang, and everything was flying around the cockpit. I looked over at Eddie to see what he would do, if we were going to try to jump or not. He was holding the stick with one hand, pulling back on it to bring us out of the dive, and with the other brushing insulating material from his face.

“Got something in my eye,” he said matter-of-factly.

The windshield on the pilot’s side of the cockpit had blown in, pulling some insulation with it and covering Allen’s face. Obviously, we redesigned the windshield.

After the initial test phase, consisting of perhaps a dozen flights, Allen checked out Marshall Headle and he took over as Lockheed test pilot for the Electra. I flew with him on this and other aircraft for a good many years. When I ended my career as flight test engineer I had accumulated 2,300 hours.

I have a philosophy that those who design aircraft also should fly them—to keep a proper perspective. The engineer
knows where the quarter-inch bolts may be marginal, what the flaps are likely to do or not do. I’ve shared the concern of the pilot. I figured I needed to have hell scared out of me once a year in order to keep a proper balance and viewpoint on designing new aircraft.

Those early experiences doubtless were important in shaping my own method of operating. A lot of engineers don’t like pilots. Even more pilots don’t like engineers. All of the engineers’ requirements are not always met by the pilots. Engineers don’t always act on the pilots’ complaints. The problem essentially is one of communication.

I decided early in my career that I would try to avoid this division by doing two things primarily. I would fly as much as possible with the pilots when we had an airplane that would hold two persons, and accompany them on dangerous tests, including first flights. I’ve been on nine. Then, when the relatively run-of-the-mill work came along and I might not be with them to observe first hand, my door would always be open to them. They could come and tell me what they thought should be done. I didn’t always follow through, but generally I found their suggestions were very, very helpful. With one exception, the pilots and I have had a fine relationship, with mutual respect, and, I think, affection.

The Electra flight test program went smoothly—until one near-disaster threatened to bring it to a halt. At the conclusion of a strenuous series of tests required for U.S. government certification, and with a representative of the Civil Aeronautics Authority on board, test pilot Headle lowered the gear for landing—but only one wheel came down. The left-hand gear would not respond.

We had just been awarded our “ticket” on the Electra, certification by the CAA, at Mines Field, now Los Angeles International Airport. Hibbard and I were driving back home in his big, red LaSalle cabriolet smoking cigars and celebrating the event.

Neither Hibbard nor I smoked ordinarily, but this occasion seemed to call for the gesture, especially since the cigars had
been presented to us in congratulation by the CAA group. We arrived in Burbank in time to witness the landing.

Lockheed’s engineering department in the 1930s. Spare, close-knit, and solidly dedicated, the staff set the tone for the company’s—and “Skunk Works”—efforts in the decades to come
.

There was no radio communication with the plane, but the frantic waving of the group on the ground, and a check of his instruments, indicated the trouble. Jimmy Doolittle was among the observers. He volunteered to go up with a message. Gross and Hibbard dictated as Doolittle chalked on the side of his Orion’s black fuselage, “Try landing at United—good luck.” United now is Burbank-Glendale-Pasadena Airport. It had a longer runway than the factory landing strip, and fire-fighting equipment. Having jettisoned the lead ingots used for full-weight tests, and all extra gasoline, Headle made a beautiful landing on the right wheel only. The only damage was to a wingtip that dragged on the ground. The problem turned out to be simple to find and inexpensive to fix. The landing gear shaft had sheared; it was replaced by one twice as large.

But we didn’t know that immediately. And the fledgling aircraft company couldn’t afford that kind of delay in delivery—and
payment. So everyone except the six of us in engineering and those in the shop required to work on that airplane was laid off, and the payroll for everyone was skipped for a few weeks—including my $83 per month. We had to get the airplane fixed and get it re-approved before it could be delivered.

First delivery of the Electra was made to Northwest Airlines in July of 1934. And paychecks were issued again.

In those early days, I was so devoted to my work and so eager to get on with it that I didn’t always consider others’ reactions. Hibbard had to take me out behind the barn, figuratively, for a talk several times. Once it was because I had not taken an extra flight mechanic along on an Electra test flight, and, instead, had moved the lead bars myself to shift weight in the airplane. They weighed only 55 pounds apiece, and I reloaded them with just one man, Dorsey Kammerer. He filed a complaint with the union. I had thought I was doing the right thing, saving time and money. But it had cut one man out of a job and his flight pay.

“Kelly,” Hibbard explained, “you’ve got to learn to live in the world with all of these other people, and the sooner you learn that the better off you are going to be.”

He was right. Hibbard taught me that it is much better to lead people, not to drive them. Drive yourself if you must. But not anybody else.

And Kammerer and I became very good friends. He worked for me for many years as crew chief, and a good one, on our experimental airplanes.

There was good camaraderie at the factory when I joined the force. Perhaps it was because there were so few of us, about 200 at the time of the Electra’s first flight. Robert Gross played piano at the company party afterward. I had my first drink of alcohol in a celebration of that event at Neil’s drugstore, a social center for us across from the factory. It was Snug Harbor bourbon. It tasted more like dregs from the bay, I thought.

For recreation, we played softball during the noon lunch period. When the engineering department became big enough, we had two teams—the engineering group and the
shop team. I played left outfield and loved to hit the ball. Hibbard did some pitching. We also played some touch football.

They were a fine group, the men I went to work for at Lockheed—Chappellet, Hibbard, Robert Gross first and then his brother Courtlandt. I was fortunate to have begun my career in a company of gentlemen. Very knowledgeable they were, but also considerate and thoughtful. It was a good start. I learned a great deal from all of them over the years.

P
AYMASTER FOR LOCKHEED WAS
a tall, good-looking young woman, who occupied an office right next to the other chief officers. Actually, her title was assistant treasurer, and the “front” offices at that time were on the first floor of a big, two-story, red-brick former ranch house. The engineers’ room was upstairs. The first time I saw her she was working on the accounting books. Her name, I discovered, was Althea Louise Young.

She would walk through the offices and out into the factory on payday to distribute checks, so I didn’t need an introduction. She would have checks, that is, when there was enough money. I remember three times when there wasn’t. Everyone always was happy to see her coming!