Dixie Wing, Commemorative Air Force

Flying The Dauntless

By DAVE HIRSCHMAN (dhirschman@ajc.com)

As a long-time aerobat, there was little about this warbird that should have appealed to me. The hulking SBD Dauntless didn't have inverted fuel or oil systems, and it couldn't stay in an aerobatic box. It wasn't even a biplane.

Ever since being imprinted by Pitts Specials at an early age, the rowdy little aerobats have been my frame of reference for all other aircraft. From that standpoint, the oil-dripping Dauntless just didn't compute. It's big (just under 10,000 pounds at max gross), brutish and bathed in oil. From the leading-edge slats, to the massive dihedral in the wings, to the ADF mast, to the Swiss-cheese dive brakes, to three bombs hanging from its belly and wing racks--everything on it seemed calculated to increase drag.

The Dauntless looked like the aerial equivalent of Dr. Doolittle's two-headed Push Me-Pull You: the 1,200-horsepower Wright 1820 up front screamed "go fast!" while the rest of the airframe argued "slow down!"

Photo Copyright CAF

But even an ignorant aerobat like me recognizes the Dauntless's unique place in American history. The "Hero of Midway" helped turned the tide of World War II in the Pacific by sinking four Japanese aircraft carriers in 15 fateful and furious minutes on June 4, 1942.

From 18,000 feet, 33 SBD pilots rolled their planes to inverted, pointed 70 degrees nose down, aimed at the specks of Japanese ships below and held steady until they were just 1,500 feet above the wooden decks. They pulled up to nine Gs after releasing their bombs, sucked in the dive brakes and raced for home as close to the blue waves as they dared fly.

When I learned that the Dixie Wing of the Commemorative Air Force near my home in Atlanta had such a plane, I wanted to see it and touch it. And when I learned that my years of sport flying in tail wheel and aerobatic planes qualified me to fly it--once I made a $5,000 donation to the CAF and passed the necessary check rides--I knew I'd have to try.

The first qualification flight was a back seat T-6 checkout with John "Skipper" Hyle, a CAF check pilot in Atlanta, with lots of landings and a few simulated emergencies. It continued a few weeks later with a trip to Midland, Texas, for an interview with the top CAF brass, and a second T-6 check ride with Randy Wilson, a member of the organization's "Sky High" wing there.

The interview seemed to be going pretty well until one of the inquisitors asked with narrowed eyes, "what makes you think we should let you fly our P-51 Mustang?" My eyes got wide as I wondered whether they were so impressed with my resume that I was being promoted on the spot. But they quickly deduced a paperwork error was the culprit, and they quickly fixed the mistake with a dab of Whiteout.

The CAF classifies the SBD as a "fighter," so flight evaluations take place in the North American T-6. Aspiring pilots must have logged 200 hours of T-6 time. That wasn't much of a hurdle for military pilots of a certain era since they all learned in T-6s or SNJs and had ready access to them in military flying clubs.

But for a civilian flier like myself born in 1961, it was a pure luck that I met the T-6 flight time requirement. Ten years ago, David Peeler of Memphis, Tenn., had allowed me to use his T-6 for my commercial check ride. At the time, it was the only "complex" airplane I'd ever flown. Then, three years ago, I stumbled into a dream weekend job giving aerobatic rides in Steve Collins' T-6 here in Atlanta. So, miraculously, I met the magic number.

The Midland check ride was particularly enjoyable because Randy is a patient teacher and an aerobat at heart, too. The hour-long flight included low-speed loops (started at 150 miles an hour IAS at 9,000 feet), incipient spins and a variety of stalls.

Then it was back to Atlanta to fly the Dauntless with Jim Buckley, chief pilot at the Dixie Wing. I'd already been reading the Dauntless flight manual in preparation for my chance at becoming a 21st Century Dauntless flier, and I wanted to be ready.

Jim is a veteran airline pilot, aviation mechanic and beer connoisseur. He seems to implicitly understand big radial engines, cantankerous old airframes and pilots of all ages. When I showed up at the Dixie Wing's hangar on a cool, crisp September morning, I put on my Nomex flight suit and walked straight to the airplane. I had read and re-read the manual, and I couldn't wait to launch into the still morning air. Jim recognized my over-eagerness and directed me out of the hangar, then sat me down in an office for several hours of ground school. We went through all the aircraft systems, CAF regulations and Dixie Wing procedures--of which there are many. Jim is a practical guy, and he emphasized safety and longevity.

Especially the airplane's longevity. "A parachute won't do you any good in this airplane," he deadpanned. "If you survive the crash, we're going to kill you."

Then it was time to meet Willy Dickerson, the Dauntless crew chief. He's a retired Northwest Airlines mechanic, and he's devoted thousands of volunteer hours to keeping this particular Dauntless airworthy. "Son, let me tell you about this engine," he began in his slow Southern drawl. "Two things were true when the Wright Company built the 1820: Oil was cheap, and soap was cheap." His point, as I would soon come to appreciate, was that Wright engines were meant to throw oil. If you like clean airplanes, Willy said, bring a bucket and scrub brush.

Jim Buckley demonstrated the exotic, three-handed procedure involved in starting the engine. Then he told me to climb into the back seat for the first part of our flight. The gunner's cockpit has a stick, rudder pedals and a throttle -- but it's quite different from the rear seat of a T-6. There's no instrument panel in the back of the Dauntless, and the forward view is blocked by a massive armor plate meant to protect the back of the pilot's head.

I followed through on the controls as Jim taxied to the runway, and I reviewed the pre-takeoff checklist with him as he got the Dauntless ready to go. With 20 gallons of oil, it takes a few minutes for the oil temperature to warm up. As Jim lined up with the runway centerline, a few things felt familiar. First, he locked the tailwheel in place (same as my old Pitts S1!). Then he pushed the throttle forward, and the acceleration was dramatic (ditto!). Jim was using a bunch of right rudder to keep the nose on the centerline (not that I could see the centerline from my vantage point). And pulling 46 inches of manifold pressure, that Dauntless jumped off the deck in less than 800 feet of ground roll. Once Jim got the gear up and the plane configured for cruise, he let me take over the controls for a few steep turns, lazy 8s and imminent stalls in clean and dirty configurations, and a simulated go-around.

The Dauntless has delightfully light ailerons, and it is well balanced and obedient across the middle part of its speed range. The plane's never-exceed speed is a ridiculously high 425 miles an hour. "Economy cruise"--a real misnomer in an airplane that drinks 60 gallons of fuel an hour at its most efficient cross-country power setting--shows about 170 mph indicated. We seldom got more than half way to the red line during our maneuvers. In the "Handling Characteristics" portion of the Dauntless manual, a scant few paragraphs told only that its flying qualities are "normal for airplanes of this type." It also warned that the left wing tends to drop in a stall. I'm sure the Dauntless would do fine positive-G aerobatics--but that's definitely not part of the CAF's mission for this airplane. There are only three flying Dauntlesses in the country, so I vowed to suppress my aerobatic impulses and fly the Dauntless in the middle of the flight envelope. Jim made a textbook overhead approach and landing, shut the airplane down and said it was my turn to get in front.

Strapping into the Dauntless for the first time, a few things jump out at you. First, the cockpit itself is big and roomy. The sliding canopy, left open during ground operations, including takeoff and landing, accentuates the feeling of open space around you. Then, when you look at the instrument panel, you quickly realize that nothing is quite where you expect it to be. The Dauntless was designed long before anyone thought of cockpit standardization, so it takes time to figure out where the proper dials and levers are hidden. The landing gear and hydraulic system handles, for example, are on the right side of the cockpit floor. And the dive brake handle (even though it's inoperative in this airplane) is right next to the flap handle. I'd sure hate to accidentally deploy the dive brakes. The propeller control lever is on the back side of the throttle quadrant. And the switch that controls the cowl flaps is next to (and looks just like) the magneto switch. I'm sure it's just a matter of time before I'll attempt to close the cowl flaps in flight and inadvertently shut down the engine! The cockpit's dominant feature is a sliding navigation table that emerges from the base of the instrument panel. The plotting board is about the same size as an airline tray table, and it sits about as close to the pilot's lap. Fortunately, this airplane has a GPS, so I wouldn't need the giant whiz wheel. But the plotting board hinted at the skills wartime Dauntless pilots needed to fly hundreds of miles over featureless ocean, identify their targets, and find their way home.

Jim asked whether I wanted him to ride in the gunner's seat for my first flight, or wait on the ground. Having just seen how blind the back seat is, and how little influence the person back there has over what goes on up front, I decided to be merciful. I asked him to monitor the radio while I flew solo. He didn't seem disappointed as he stepped off the trailing edge of the wing. Then, tipping his hat, he and sent me on my way. Alone in the front cockpit with the rumbling Wright in motion, I wondered if leaving Jim on the ground was my first big mistake.

Call me a skeptic, but throughout the process of joining the CAF, the Dixie Wing and the flight checkout, I always suspected that there was a catch. Something would come up to prevent me from actually flying the Dauntless or the other magnificent CAF airplanes. Surely, some unexpected rule or policy or personality would trip me up at the last minute. I had always heard the CAF was a flying club for airline and former military pilots, and a civilian flier like myself could never really get the keys to an airplane. During the long scavenger hunt required to collect the necessary approvals, I never let myself get too excited about flying the Dauntless because I didn't want to be crestfallen when I inevitably discovered there was a grandfather clause, a poll tax or some other disqualifier in the fine print. Now, suddenly, there were no more obstacles. I was actually taxiing this historic airplane to the runway for the purpose of flying. Each of the Wright's nine cylinders puts out more horsepower than the entire engine of the Cessna 150 I had first learned to fly, and the Dauntless's tail wheel is larger than the main landing gear of my old Pitts.

Slowly, deliberately, I went through the checklist. My mouth was dry by the time I made my first radio transmission: "Douglas 82 Golf Alpha, taking runway three one for southeast departure…" I stowed the laminated checklist, then double-checked the abbreviated "cheat sheet" engraved on the left side of the canopy frame. Fuel selector on the left main tank, fuel pump on, flaps up, trim set, low blower, prop full forward, canopy open, tail wheel locked. Acceleration was brisk, and the noise level just kept increasing. Each time the growling sound of the propeller made me think I had added enough power, a glance at the manifold pressure gauge told me to keep pushing the throttle up. Outside, the noise kept growing louder as the manifold pressure rose to 40 inches. I kept the tail wheel low, and the plane surged off the runway. I tried to keep the pitch steady as I transferred the stick to my left hand and raised the landing gear with my right. Then I reduced the manifold to 35 inches, brought the prop back to 2,300 RPMs from 2,500, and configured the plane for a cruise climb. There was surprisingly little wind in my face as the plane accelerated to 180 miles an hour. But tiny whirlwinds tugged and snapped the fabric around my shoulders as the speed increased.

Over the open farm fields south of Atlanta, I went through he same maneuvers that Jim and I had practiced an hour earlier. With the dramatically improved visibility in the front cockpit and the additional information the instruments provided, placing the plane where I wanted it seemed almost second nature--even though I was so new to it. After about 20 minutes of flying, it was time to try and put the Dauntless on the ground. The pre-landing cheat sheet on the right side of the canopy frame kept me from leaving out anything critical: fuel pump on, landing gear down, tail wheel locked, flaps down, cowl flaps open, prop full forward. Final approach was 95 miles an hour, and the controls felt light and positive even as the airspeed gradually diminished. Crossing the fence at 90 miles an hour, a slight flair, then the plane's main landing gear touched down, and I pinned them on with forward stick. The tail wheel didn't have far to fall since the Dauntless stands at a much flatter attitude than a Pitts (or a T6), and I let it roll the full length of the 5,000-foot runway. Once the Dauntless touches down, it tends to roll straight. But the brakes and pedal position require jabs to the top part of the brake pedals instead of the smooth application of brake and rudder together. By the time I had done three takeoffs and full-stop landings, I was ready to consider my first solo hour in the Dauntless a success. The plane has its idiosyncrasies. But like anything, or anyone, that's lived through as much as the Dauntless has, it's entitled to them.

During the next few months, I got to fly the Dauntless on two long flights to air shows in Texas and one short trip to South Carolina. On my first fuel stop after a four-hour leg from Atlanta, I was shocked to find the oil level in the Dauntless was down almost four gallons. Not quarts, gallons. The left wing root was coated in a slippery film so that just standing on it was treacherous. I called back to the hangar and asked Willy if I should ground the plane right there. In his soothing voice, he reminded me of the first thing he told me about Wright engines. Oil was cheap and soap was cheap. Remember?

Photo Copyright CAF

Highlights of the airshow season were flying photo missions with rare aircraft such as a Wildcat and a Helldiver. Being in the Dauntless so close to its contemporaries was like seeing a three-dimensional, colorized version of the World War II movies I'd grown up watching. The cloth helmet I've worn during years of aerobatic flying comes in handy in the Dauntless, too. It resembles the caps Navy pilots wore in the days when this dive-bomber was new. Mine carries the IAC logo across the top and a Pitts patch on the back--but no one in the CAF seems bothered by the non-military insignia.

At airshows, people ask lots of questions about the Dauntless, so I've been reading everything I can get my hands on about them. And the more I learn, the more amazed I am--especially by the people who flew these tremendous planes. Watching the deep blue wings as they slide through the air, straight and level at 12,500 feet, I can only imagine what it would be like to pull into a vertical dive to 1,500 feet--especially if people on the ground were shooting back. As I approach a 4,000-foot runway to land, I wonder what it must have been like to sight down a straight-decked aircraft carrier. And when the GPS goes dark and I get vectors from air traffic controllers, I look at the plotting board and shudder at the thought of navigating across a vast ocean with only a compass and a clock.

The more I'm around the Dauntless—and the more I'm around people who flew them, built them, fixed them or have some other connection to them--the clearer it becomes that this drab, blue/gray hunk of aluminum and steel is an American touchstone. Flying it is the most challenging and rewarding thing I've done in aviation since my initial solo. I'll always be an aerobat. But the Dauntless has changed my frame of reference--and I'll never look at a warbird, or a World War II vet, in quite the same way again.