As a boy, Keith Ferris lived at Kelly Field, Texas, where his father was a Lieutenant in the U.S. Air Force. He started drawing airplanes from life at age four or five. He used to carve wooden models, initially in balsa then in pine. This proved useful to visualize aircrafts three dimensionally in drawing.
The aviation art of Keith Ferris
Very young, he knew that he would have a military flying career and soon realized that all his flight training manuals were illustrated byJo Kotula, an artist who was self-employed and could make his living out of his art.
Keith tried to learn aeronautical engineering but eventually abandoned it to concentrate on what he liked the most, drawing and painting. He went on to study at the George Washington University and attended the Corcoran School of Art in New York. He became a member of the Society of Illustrators of New York in 1960.
“The Aviation Art of Keith Ferris” is a superb book filled with sketches, amazing drawings and paintings, aviation facts, real aviation stories, advices on how best to represent a scene, quotes from pilots who were actually involved in dogfights. He explains that some of the most demanding challenges for the aviation artist are painting through glass and simulating rotating propellers.
The aviation art of Keith Ferris
Keith Ferris‘s artwork has appeared in the Aviation Week and Space Technology calendar and the Airman Magazine cover, to name a few. Many international companies have used his work for their publicity. Among them, Mitsubishi Aircraft International, General Dynamics and Fairchild Republic Company. His paintings are part of many collections, among which the U.S. Air Force art collection and the National Air and Space Museum of the Smithsonian Institute, Washington D.C.
The book presents paintings of the following type of aircrafts: Lockheed T-33, Boeing P-12, Wright Type A Biplane, Loening OA-1B (amphibian), Spirit of St-Louis, Grumman F-14 Tomcat about to land on an aircraft carrier, B-52 and KC-135 in a refueling operation, the Thunderbirds (F-100), Harvest Reaper F-111, Supermarine Spitfire and German Messerschmitt 109E in a dogfight, Atlas Centaur Space Launch Vehicle cutaway, China Air Force Mig-15 and a F-86 Sabre (the dogfight is over), Fiat C.R.42, F-15 and a Soviet SU-15 in a dogfight, Boeing B-17G Flying Fortress in action, Republic P-47D Thunderbolt, F-4C and F4E Phantoms in action, F-105D and F-105E Thunderchiefs in action, Mitsubishi’s A6M2 Zero-Sen and MU2, Bell 47G, PBY Catalina, Handley Page 0/400, Skylab.
There is also a very interesting story about the steps involved in creating a gigantic B-17 mural (25 feet high by 75 feet wide) for the Smithsonian Institution.
Tales of a Dakota Pilot – The way it was 1929 – 1937
This is a simple and charming little book retelling the life stories of the pilot Fred Max Roberts Jr when he was flying his airplanes in the Bismark region, North Dakota, between 1929 and 1937. The book was written by his son, Fred Marke Roberts, so that some of his father’s stories do not fall in oblivion. You will find here a good idea of how things were done in the early years of aviation.
An original and easy way of refueling
When came the time to refuel, the pilots would regularly land on a farmer’s field. They knew that somebody had noticed the landing and, most of the time, a fuel truck would be sent without any previous arrangements. The pilot had nonetheless the duty to make sure he landed close to an easy access for the fuel truck. Sometimes, to simplify the refueling process a bit, the pilot landed directly on the road, outside of the city.
This habit did not seem to have change fifty years later when I did a 2650 kilometers cross-country flight with a Cessna 170B, between St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Quebec, and Edmonton, Alberta. During the trip, I had to land in a field near Lundar, Manitoba, a Canadian province which is bounded to the south by North Dakota and Minnesota. Soon after the landing, a pick-up truck carrying fuel approached the plane. I had not made any arrangements for fuel. In my case, a precautionary landing was needed as the fuel gauges had started to give false indications. Since fuel was readily available, the tanks were topped before the next takeoff.
Landing in a field with a Cessna C170B in Lundar, Manitoba in 1981.
Killing coyotes against the county bounty
Coyotes where frequently attacking farmer’s livestock. When the situation was getting out of control, the farmers would phone Fred Max. The latter would take off with his Curtiss Junior Pusher, accompanied by an experienced shooter and they would spot and kill coyotes. Winter was the best season for hunting from the air since the coyote’s dark colored fur contrasted against the white snow.
The farmers, on their horses, were following the aircraft’s manoeuvers to spot where the coyotes had been shot. They then brought the dead animals back to their farm. Few minutes later, the aircraft would land as close to the farm as possible and the pilots picked up the coyotes, bringing them back to the county’s bureau in order to receive the published bounty for each killed coyote.
Super Cub and wolves shot from the air in Northern Ontario, Canada, on an aviation postcard dating from the sixties.
The American Midwest farmer’s hospitality
When a pilot landed in a farmer’s field, as a stopover on a long cross-country flight, he would often be offered a meal with the farmer’s family. If darkness was an obstacle for the continuation of the flight, the pilot was often offered a bed for the night. The next morning, after breakfast, and as a thank you gesture, the pilot would offer the farmer a courtesy flight.
A practical way to lower the costs associated with a long cross-country flight
An easy way to reduce the costs associated with a long cross-country flight was to offer airplane rides to villagers who had come to meet the pilot once at the destination. The pilot landed, waited a bit and knew that, soon, few people would come to him to ask for a ride.
The pilot Fred Max Roberts Jr hanging to the wing of his monoplane
A major concern for any pilot landing in a field was to find a fence to tie the plane as soon as possible to protect it from the strong winds blowing over the Midwest plains. But really strong gusts would sometimes break the ropes.
The pilot tells the reader that he was once immobilized in the middle of a field while a storm was quickly approaching. He got under the wing of his monoplane and hanged to it in order to add some weight. But that was not enough. A strong gust lifted the plane, broke the two tie-downs and sent pilot and plane flying at about ten feet in the air. Fearing that his plane would continue to climb without him at the controls, the pilot let go. The plane maintained a level flight while backing until it suddenly rolled and crashed.
Pilot and passengers are caught in flight by a tornado
Flying and meteorology manuals teach every pilot the necessity to avoid thunderstorms because, among other reasons, of the extreme ascending and descending air currents that are present in a well-developed cell. The pilot Fred Max Roberts Jr not only went through a thunderstorm but survived a tornado while he was in flight. His story was published in many newspapers at the time. Some of the articles are reproduced in the book.
As the pilot tells it, meteorological forecasts and weather observations were not as easily accessible as they are today. During a flight with passengers in his Waco 90 biplane, the sky suddenly darkened and the weather degraded rapidly. The pilot tried his best to fly between two important cloud formations. He could hardly see his instruments due to the lack of light, even if the flight was made during the day. He was fighting to avoid being disoriented.
Suddenly, the plane started to gain altitude rapidly by itself. The pilot nosed his ship downward and applied full power. This was useless. The aircraft was still rapidly climbing, tail first. Then the ascent abruptly stopped and a dive ensued. He pulled on the stick to bring his Waco to a level flight, but the rapid descent continued. Having no other choice, he applied full throttle and set his plane for a normal climb. Again, the descent continued until the Waco was at about 500 feet above ground level.
Eventually, they got out of the storm and landed at White Rock. Fred Max then realized that his passengers, sitting in the open cockpit Waco during the storm, had not fasten their seat belts and were hanging for dear life to a brace running across the front of the passenger cockpit.
Those are some of the tales a reader can find in “Tales of a Dakota Pilot”, an unpretentious book but nonetheless a publication that might very well surprise many young pilots, as the 1930’s way of flying so differed from what a young pilot lives when he integrates today’s world of aviation.
(Precedent story: the flight from St-Jean-sur-Richelieu to Edmonton)
In order to accumulate flying hours, I needed to become a flight instructor. The course was undertaken and my license obtained, after successful written and flying exams. Already having logged enough flying hours as pilot in command, I was able to receive a Class 3 license immediately. Technically, this meant that I did not have to receive permission from a chief instructor before I authorized a student to fly alone for the first time.
In order to study certain maneuvers with the greatest possible accuracy that I would have to teach, I sometimes practiced unusual flying exercises. This meant I needed to check the behavior of the aircraft if a student mishandled the controls before I could correct him. With enough altitude, you could afford a fair amount of improvisation.
So I decided, during one of these specific exercises, to simulate a student who had inverted the maneuvers required to stall an aircraft and bring it to a spin. The plane turned completely upside down and I heard noises indicating that the stress on the structure was possibly important. Needless to say, I decided to abandon some experiments, realizing that it was quite possible that certain leased aircraft had previously been engaged in similar exercises. We all want to end a flight with our aircraft intact…
A group of flight instructors working in St-Jean-sur-Richelieu in 1981
At the St-Jean-sur-Richelieu flying club, we were now eleven certified instructors. However, the number of new students was stagnating in the economic uncertainty of the late 70s to early 80s. A global recession was raging and unemployment soaring. Some airlines went bankrupt, others were freezing the hiring of new pilots. Eleven instructors in the same flying club was a lot for so few customers. The pay was meager.
Among the students I trained during the period when I was a flight instructor, the first to successfully fly solo was an Egyptian. He arrived in Quebec with a group of a dozen compatriots. Their ambition was to receive all of their training in Quebec and return to Egypt as pilots for the national carrier EgyptAir.
Two Egyptian students at a St-Jean-sur-Richelieu flying school in 1981
My student had talent and learned quickly. But there was a student in the group that many instructors tried to train without success. Each of us thought that our own method might not have been appropriate so we encouraged him to try flying with other instructors. But it became clear that aviation would never be the field of activity in which he could progress and make a career. No instructor ever agreed to let him fly solo, and this, even after the student had spent months trying to understand the basics of flying: when came the time to execute the learned concepts, even after multiple demonstrations, he could not do it. He was simply not a safe pilot. I guess he changed his plan after the St-Jean experience.
(Precedent story: the commercial pilot license / a tire bursts on landing)
On a hot summer day of 1981, I was asked to fly a Cessna 150 to the Montreal Pierre-Elliott-Trudeau international airport to pick-up one of our flight instructors and bring him back to St-Jean-sur-Richelieu. The winds were blowing from the northwest, so runway 28 was being used. While I was in final for that runway, the air traffic controller realized that he did not have enough separation between my plane and a heavy one that was also in long final. He told me “Increase your speed, there is a Boeing 727 behind you”.
It is very easy to increase the speed of an airplane while maintaining an altitude. You just push the throttle and the speed increases. However, when the aircraft is above the threshold of the runway, it needs its specific speed to touch the ground otherwise it continues to fly until the appropriate speed for landing is reached. It seemed to me that the Cessna floated for an eternity before finally touching the runway. But it eventually worked out well and I exited the runway before an overshoot was required for the Boeing.
So I parked the aircraft near Transport Canada’s offices and waited for the instructor for about thirty minutes. Clouds were rapidly covering the sky in this late afternoon, with all the humidity and an already high temperature. When the instructor finally showed up and we proceeded with the taxiing procedure, the air traffic controller told us: “You must accept radar vectors for your departing route because of the weather.” What weather? A cold front was at work, but nothing serious was visible from our position. So close to the airport terminal, all we could see were towering cumulus, nothing else. We accepted his offer in order to be allowed to leave the airport.
The take-off was made from runway 28. I made a left turn toward St-Jean. We soon understood why radar vectors had to be followed. A storm had developed between Montreal and St-Jean. We observed what looked like five cylinders created by heavy rain. Lightning was also occasionally visible. We had to fly between the cylinders to avoid the most problematic areas. We tightened our seat belts just as the first bumps were being felt, making our altitude vary considerably. Knowing what I know today about flying in bad weather, I would not attempt another flight like this one, especially without an onboard weather radar.
The flight ended nicely with a smooth landing in St- Jean, outside of the problematic weather area. A few weeks later, I was asked if I would accept to be captain for a long flight across Canada. This unexpected offer represented a great opportunity, especially since it would allow me to log more than forty additional flying hours.
(Next story: a visual flight (VFR) from St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Quebec, to Emonton, Alberta)
A few months later, I got my commercial pilot license. It was now time, as for all pilots, to accumulate flying hours in order to gain experience as captain.
I chose to accumulate hours by making short cross-country trips and offering first flights to people of all ages. The evenings were particularly popular because there was little convection and most passengers appreciated a smooth ride for their first flight in a small aircraft.
A Tire Bursts on Landing.
Despite my best intentions, there has still been an occasion where I had to perform an unusual landing. It was during a busy time for air traffic control. Many aircrafts were in the St-Jean-sur-Richelieu (CYJN) airport’s circuit pattern and the controller asked me if I could make a short landing with my Grumman Cheetah (AA-5A). He was counting on a minimal roll after the landing so that the aircraft could exit the runway as soon as possible.
All pilots know how to make a short landing. This is part of the basic training and I accepted this restriction. This can, however, be complicated by the fact that sometimes we had to fly an aircraft with particularly worn out tires. I remember (and I should not be the only one) having had to use an aircraft on which we could see the rope under what was left of the rubber sole. School aircrafts are generally safe. You just don’t want to be the one using the plane the day before the tires have to be changed…
So I began the approach toward runway 29 on a particularly hot summer day. Touchdown was smooth. I applied the brakes without blocking the wheels, while pulling on the control column at the same time that the flaps were returning to their initial position. A pilot does not block the wheels when breaking as the friction decreases and the length necessary to stop the aircraft increases.
At the same time, blocking the wheels increases the risk of loss of control of the aircraft. With these manoeuvers, my aircraft was supposed to stop quickly. However, a few seconds after landing, it started to vibrate and move to the right. I had no other choice but to apply a lot of pressure on the left brake and use full deflection on the left rudder trying to keep the aircraft centered on the runway. Nevertheless, the aircraft slowly headed toward the right side of the runway while slowing down. The landing ended with the left wheel on the runway and the right wheel in the grass.
During the last few seconds, it became obvious that I was dealing with a flat tire. The passengers were not too bothered by the incident because they only started to realize what was happening when we were almost immobilized on the grass. The tire was completely twisted but still on the wheel. Equipment failure is something a pilot knows he will have to deal with from time to time. So considering that it was part of the job, I continued to accumulate flying hours during the following weeks and months.
(Precedent story: Accidental night flying…without night rating.)
The night flying rating was completed during the following weeks. I then had to accumulate hours of night flying, so I took advantage of a cold winter evening without clouds or wind to do a round robin trip from St-Jean-sur-Richelieu. I brought along three passengers in a Grumman Cheetah and headed towards the Eastern Townships.
The St-Jean-sur-Richelieu control tower was closed at the time of our departure. Runway maintenance followed an irregular schedule as the work was being done by civil servants from the municipality who were also responsible for street maintenance in the city. In cases where freezing rain fell, followed within hours by a significant cooling in the temperature, the runway condition would deteriorate rapidly. We sometimes had to wait until the next morning before a team came in and tried to bring the braking conditions on the runways to an acceptable level.
This is what I realized as I was taxiing towards the threshold of runway 29. The landing light illuminated what appeared to be a smooth and icy surface rather than a paved one. The braking index of the three runways provided by the city was useless. I still had the option to cancel the flight because there was no emergency. We could also accelerate slowly and use the rudder smoothly. The airplane would take off in seconds in the cold air.
I chose the second option, the winds being calm and the plane took off easily. Soon, we could see the lights of the surrounding towns. It was a smooth night ride for the passengers. After an hour of flight, we returned to the airport. The controls had to be dealt with carefully, in order to avoid any skidding. Aware that I was landing on an ice rink, and that there must not be any swerve to one side or the other of the runway, the approach was made as slowly as possible and the brakes were not applied after touch down. I let the aircraft gradually lose its momentum while rolling down the entire length of the runway.
I am convinced today that those passengers remember that night flight positively, if just for the beauty of the city lights and the absence of turbulence. It was also an interesting experience for me, as I was having the feeling of controlling a boat rather than a plane on a runway.
(Next story: The Commercial Pilot License – A flat on landing)
Note: For this real story, since I did not have a camera with me in the aircraft in the 1980 flight, I reproduced the flight on a simulator using a Piper Cherokee (which is the closest I could find that looks like the Grumman Cheetah).
Shortly after obtaining my private pilot license, in 1980, I was asked to pick up a plane parked in Earlton, Ontario, three hundred nautical miles northwest of St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, and bring it back to St-Jean. To get to Earlton, I was in the company of an experienced pilot and we left together on a single-engine Grumman Cheetah. For the return flight, each pilot would fly his own plane, following one another. My companion would lead in his aircraft because he had all the necessary navigational charts to get us back to St-Jean.
Along the way we had to deal with a cold front which delayed our arrival to St-Jean. Before the journey started, I was assured that we would arrive before darkness. It now seemed a bit tight.
A nice evening light over the parc de la Vérendrye.
My companion had accelerated the pace. Two facts became obvious: first, the sunset was beautiful. Second, I did not have my night flying rating. This sunset meant that there was about thirty minutes left before total darkness.
I called him on the radio to enquire if he still believed that we would reach St-Jean on time. He answered that we were at the limit.
I then enquire about the possible existence of a button that would illuminate the instruments at night. The button was found and soon the instruments took on a pinkish color. Then came the questions about the essential tools for a night flight. He named the few.
Réserve du parc de La Vérendrye at night time.
With minutes passing by very quickly it now seemed impossible to arrive before the official night time as we had not yet crossed the Montreal Pierre-Elliott-Trudeau control zone.
Approaching Montreal, I tried to communicate with my companion but there was no more reply. The only navigational fix available for this improvised night flight was the small red rotating beacon on the tail of his aircraft. Strangely, its intensity was gradually weakening. My companion was getting away, his plane being a faster one.
Montréal in sight. It is the first time that I see Montréal from high above during the night. I did not expect I would do so while flying a plane without holding a night rating.
I increased the power and adjusted the mixture to gain a few knots, while focusing on the little red dot that could direct me to St- Jean-sur-Richelieu. I was not too happy with my performance. I should have insisted from the beginning, to have a copy of all the documents. But this flight seemed so simple. Lesson learned.
We flew through the Montreal international airport control zone. In the night, the strobe lights of big airliners were visible on the approaches to landings or during take-offs. Abusing the engine a little bit, I gradually decreased the distance from my companion’s aircraft. Unable to hear anything due to the lack of documents that would provide the local frequencies being used, I simply followed the aircraft ahead of me.
Suddenly, the distant red beacon started going down in the night. I supposed we were getting close to St-Jean-sur-Richelieu. My companion was certainly communicating with the airport control tower to announce his intentions. This was a frequency I knew by heart. I ran the risk of calling him on the tower frequency to ask for tips to land at night. The answer was short and uncertain, because he knew that radio communications were recorded. The only advice he could find was: “I do not know what information to give you, take your time.” The air traffic controller heard this and offered me the presence of emergency vehicles, an offer I politely declined.
A Lake Buccaneer seaplane pilot flying in the area heard the communication and told the controller: “Advise him to turn his landing light on!” I replied that it was not functional. It had been observed during the pre-flight checks at St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, but it was not supposed to be a problem since we were flying during daytime only.
The first step towards a landing is to know the relative position of the plane from the airport and its three runways. When you have never flown at night, the view is different and requires an adjustment. Once the runway in use was identified (runway 11), the next step was to imagine that the flight instructor who trained me was sitting next to me. He would require good positions in the circuit, exact altitude according to each leg of the circuit pattern, appropriate speed and flap degrees, and finally an approach with a suitable angle.
At the time, all I knew about night flying boiled down to one eminently practical aspect: there was a wooded area at the beginning of runway 11 and I did not want to descend too much and hit the top of those trees, invisible in the night. However, being too high above the runway threshold would mean that the wheels would touch too far away past the threshold and the remaining runway length would be insufficient to stop the aircraft the ideal way, that is to say in one piece.
During the final leg of the approach, although my attention was fully dedicated to the procedures, I could feel that the rhythm of my heart had accelerated. On short final, everything happened quickly. The plane flew above the wooded area, the runway approached rapidly and the two wheels of the main gear touched the runway gently. The brakes were applied immediately and everything was over.
The main issue was now solved. I requested guidance from the air traffic controller to taxi down to the flying club. He jumped on the opportunity to ask me, a smile in his voice: “Are you going to take your night flying rating now?“!
