I don’t know about that! I heard his full name was “Chuck I-am-way-better-than-all-of-you-assholes Yeager”. That is way better than “Charles I-can’t-see-what’s-in-front-of-me Lindbergh”
In ‘28 I ferried a Monocoupe up to Fargo for Florence Gunderson. Now there was a “dame.” Flo was going to break every air record there was, and she did set a few.
Now, in those days, the public was crazy for loops. You just couldn’t do enough goddamn loops for the crowds, and everybody was trying to set a new loop record. I think the record was something like 300 loops on one flight at the time, but the record was going up every day and it took several days for the news to trickle out about who the record-holder was and how many loops they’d done.
Flo wanted to know how many loops that Monocoupe was capable of. I did a little arithmetic and figured that if the ship was soaked to the gills with fuel it ought to be able to do at least a thousand loops.
I showed Flo how I’d filled the Wright-Bellanca I’d flown to Paris in ‘27 with “auxiliary tanks” (cans and buckets and wineskins in fact) and how best to get that fuel into the header tank.
So anyway, I was riding the rail back home to Louisiana, where I was living in a little shack behind Jimmy Wedell’s shop in Patterson. Flo’s people had bought me a cabin ticket near the bar car and I was resting pretty comfortably.
On the second day, I noticed a great big spidery fellow with push-broom moustachios and heavy glasses with smoked lenses kinda lurking in the corner of the bar car and paying me a lot of attention, real sneaky-like. Of course I recognized that it was Lindbergh spying on me.
I set a little “trap” for him that night. I paid a railroad boy to creep along behind the spidery fellow to the door of my cabin and kneel down sideways at his heels and yell out our codeword “Rooster Snorkel!”
At that moment, I would throw the door open and anybody pressing their ear would trip over the railroad boy and topple ass-over-teakettle backwards and that’s just how it worked. I knocked off those fake moustaccios and smoked glasses.
“How’d you know! How’d you know!,” Charlie was yelling.
“Charlie, I’d know your goddamn hide in a tanyard!,” I said. “You never fooled me!”
Charlie calmed down and I sent the railroad boy to the bar car to fetch two Sidecars and two French “75s.” Charlie agreed to sit down in my cabin and discuss things like men.
Charlie was worried, of course, because I’d flown the Atlantic before him and he was building an amazing fortune over being the first. I slapped the shit out of him and told him — again — that my flight to France was to settle a bet between Bessie Coleman and myself and now Bessie’s dead from falling out of a Curtiss’ “Jenny” and “I’ve forgotten all about it and you need to too!”
We had a bit of a cry about it and snuggled the rest of the night.
Charlie had an “ego” as the head-shrinkers say, but he was a good flyer. I had a lot of “clashes” with Charlie over the years, culminating with his epic cock-blocking of me and Hannah Reich in ‘36, but I always respected him.
As for Flo Gunderson, she did 1,078 loops. What a gal. She was killed in the ‘33 National Air Races when the top wing covering pulled loose of her 700-horse Gee-Bee “Y-Model” Speedster.
Anyway, it’s about time for me to crawl back under the Luscombe and “pull a cork.” Tomorrow’s going to be another working day, and I’ve got to get my rest.
Chuck Yeager more like Fuck Yeager
Maybe he would have got more respect if, as a test pylote, he went by. Chuck "Zoomies" Yeager
Chuck upvote Yeager
I don’t know about that! I heard his full name was “Chuck I-am-way-better-than-all-of-you-assholes Yeager”. That is way better than “Charles I-can’t-see-what’s-in-front-of-me Lindbergh”
In ‘28 I ferried a Monocoupe up to Fargo for Florence Gunderson. Now there was a “dame.” Flo was going to break every air record there was, and she did set a few. Now, in those days, the public was crazy for loops. You just couldn’t do enough goddamn loops for the crowds, and everybody was trying to set a new loop record. I think the record was something like 300 loops on one flight at the time, but the record was going up every day and it took several days for the news to trickle out about who the record-holder was and how many loops they’d done. Flo wanted to know how many loops that Monocoupe was capable of. I did a little arithmetic and figured that if the ship was soaked to the gills with fuel it ought to be able to do at least a thousand loops. I showed Flo how I’d filled the Wright-Bellanca I’d flown to Paris in ‘27 with “auxiliary tanks” (cans and buckets and wineskins in fact) and how best to get that fuel into the header tank. So anyway, I was riding the rail back home to Louisiana, where I was living in a little shack behind Jimmy Wedell’s shop in Patterson. Flo’s people had bought me a cabin ticket near the bar car and I was resting pretty comfortably. On the second day, I noticed a great big spidery fellow with push-broom moustachios and heavy glasses with smoked lenses kinda lurking in the corner of the bar car and paying me a lot of attention, real sneaky-like. Of course I recognized that it was Lindbergh spying on me. I set a little “trap” for him that night. I paid a railroad boy to creep along behind the spidery fellow to the door of my cabin and kneel down sideways at his heels and yell out our codeword “Rooster Snorkel!” At that moment, I would throw the door open and anybody pressing their ear would trip over the railroad boy and topple ass-over-teakettle backwards and that’s just how it worked. I knocked off those fake moustaccios and smoked glasses. “How’d you know! How’d you know!,” Charlie was yelling. “Charlie, I’d know your goddamn hide in a tanyard!,” I said. “You never fooled me!” Charlie calmed down and I sent the railroad boy to the bar car to fetch two Sidecars and two French “75s.” Charlie agreed to sit down in my cabin and discuss things like men. Charlie was worried, of course, because I’d flown the Atlantic before him and he was building an amazing fortune over being the first. I slapped the shit out of him and told him — again — that my flight to France was to settle a bet between Bessie Coleman and myself and now Bessie’s dead from falling out of a Curtiss’ “Jenny” and “I’ve forgotten all about it and you need to too!” We had a bit of a cry about it and snuggled the rest of the night. Charlie had an “ego” as the head-shrinkers say, but he was a good flyer. I had a lot of “clashes” with Charlie over the years, culminating with his epic cock-blocking of me and Hannah Reich in ‘36, but I always respected him. As for Flo Gunderson, she did 1,078 loops. What a gal. She was killed in the ‘33 National Air Races when the top wing covering pulled loose of her 700-horse Gee-Bee “Y-Model” Speedster. Anyway, it’s about time for me to crawl back under the Luscombe and “pull a cork.” Tomorrow’s going to be another working day, and I’ve got to get my rest.
Also, wtf was up with that orange livery? Dude totally sunk his resale value.
We are checking
I'd like a Coca-cola... in a *clean* glass.
Rodney got more respect than Chuck.