For Openers
It may be expected that, upon reading Keith Geber's "They Call It Aeronautica" (pg. 8), many old-timers will be poignantly reminded of the origins of the great oldies that are constantly popping up as magazine articles, kits, and on the flying fields. To most of us, aeronautica is camp—but of a higher order than Trommers beer cans, etc. And, whereas people had stopped building things like Zippers, Brooklyn Dodgers, and Buccaneers, a long time ago, and the sound of a Brown had not been heard throughout the land for a generation, until the second coming, there are model magazines that have never—or seldom—missed a 30-day deadline for nigh onto 50 years. Editors have come and gone like dynasties of Egyptian pharaohs and even their present owners have but hazy ideas of how their properties really began. We shall leave their stories to others.
We are sure, however, that the affable Jim Sunday won't mind our talking about the origins of R/C Sportsman—the respected tabloid-style monthly. Although MAN impressively rolls on like Old Man River, and Flying Models—the direct descendent of Flying Aces, remembered for Phineas Pinkham, Joe Archibald, Arch Whitehouse, etc.—long ago found the Fountain of Youth, the great, great granddaddy of the R/C Sportsman was variously named Air Trails, then Bill Barnes Air Adventurer, Bill Barnes Air Trails, Air Trails again, Science Frontiers, Young Men, American Modeler and, finally, R/C Sportsman. Introduced in the twenties by Street & Smith, it was later owned by Conde-Nast (the big New York fashion publisher), Potomac Aviation Publications, of Washington, D.C. and Reno. Having dispatched this long-winded introduction, it becomes possible to conjure up things the way they were.
Street & Smith, founded in 1855—that is correct—was known for about 75 years as the greatest pulp publisher on earth. (Life, with its picture format, signaled the end of the great days of the pulps.) Does Buffalo Bill ring a bell? How about Frank Merriwell? Well, then, how about dime novels? S&S ground them out by the millions, with several presses spewing out 12,000 an hour each, 24 hours a day, year in and year out. It was the richest publishing house in the world! 'Twas either $25,000,000 net for 15 years straight or $15,000,000 net for 25 years straight—the detail eludes us. In terms of pre-war dollars (when $30 a week was classy for an editor), it took a sale of 60,000 at a dime each to break even, and five of perhaps 80 house magazines sold better than a million copies each a week.
One pulp, all air fiction, was called Air Trails. Somehow it became Bill Barnes, with of all things, a model department edited by Wakefield winner, Gordon Light. That's what winning the Wakefield could do for you in 1935. If you are not an old-timer ask Dad if he remembers Bill Barnes. The 60,000-70,000 word novel was ostensibly written by George L. Eaton, who was really two guys named Chuck Veral and Harold B. Montanye (a WW I aviator) who took turns meeting the monthly deadline. A guy named Carlson who conducted the Air Adventurer's Club did not exist. Staff members played his part at air shows, dismaying the idolaters at the changing of shifts. Illustrations were made by the immortal Frank Tinsley who painted the covers. The art editor was a hook-nosed guy named Lawlor, who with a cape swept across his face and a sinister slouch sat upon his noggin, posed for the Shadow figure—come now, you have heard of that. "Only the Shadow knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men..." It was a place where authors like Victor Hugo, and artists like Winslow Homer, had made their input. Where the great had been commonplace, and you constantly bumped into the likes of Joe Johnson, one-time heavyweight champ. Or find at your desk aviators like Lee Gerbach and Swanee Taylor and, of course, great old-timers of modeling like Louis Garami—who carried his proffered models in a brown paper bag, gave you a glue-spotted piece of gray cardboard from a laundered shirt for a plan. Well, at its peak, S&S got AT up to 231,000 readers, well over 100,000 more than anything since in the modeling field, and at a time when the census bureau said we had 50 million less population. What happened doesn't matter. We all have models to build, so let's just say to Jim out thar in the far west, that he can do what he does so well, thanks to Gordon Light winning the Wakefield 40-odd years ago... and to a couple of other bright young guys (Street and Smith) who began it all for him before Lincoln was president.
We hope this won't put our busy editorial friends on the spot but we are building another RC job. Good gosh, what next?, we can hear them saying. This constant exposure to AMA modelers in MA was just too much. If logic had played a part, we would have devised a trike-gear low wing with a 2/3-1/3 airfoil, a simple box fuselage, sheet balsa tail, and more wing area and less power than you'd approve of. Keep it light and it would be easy to fly and stunt a bit. It is more than a matter of reflexes. We like to watch things fly while breathing easily. You see, there are no basic trainers in model aviation—just primary jobs and lively stuff. (Oh, George Myers said we should make something like a Bridi Trainer with a 40, and wear it out, rather than something you repair and repair until it must be thrown away.) Incidentally, if you disagree, write a letter to the editor and we'll try not to be crushed.
Sentiment won out. There is no old-timer thing in radio—if there were, you might have to build a Rudderbug with escapements—so we picked on a manly-stick 6½-foot cabin job (R/C Special) that was published in Mechanics Illustrated in 1948. We had designed it and Walt Schroder built it—and if Walt is still as good as he was then he'll have to stop calling himself the "bearded one." Frank Davis (Davis TV and Hobbies, Portsmouth, VA) had a copy of the old magazine. Frank has built several of them over the years — has one now with foam wing, and a flock of changes. He recalled that his first one weighed 13 pounds, yet was the only thing in his neck of the woods that could take off — and on a 35! Ours had an Ohlsson 60, and most of the time free flighted all over the northern Connecticut woods. Because we were free flighters, it had a huge stab — which usually hooked Walt in the back of the neck when he threw it. But it was pretty — Jim Walker thought it was a Stinson.
We've scaled it down for a 19. If we can find a daring test pilot, come spring it'll be airborne. Not an old-style floater, it should keep us from nodding off — if we ever get it finished. The Cox Sanwa 4-channel (but no ailerons) is a far cry from the Good Brothers of the late '40s. (MA's advertisers have good radios, but we can't fly them all at once.) That had a single hard tube, and the receiver with batteries weighed well over a pound. It idled at about 7.5 mills, and on signal dropped to about 4.5. The current change closed a relay which triggered the escapement. You stuck a meter into the fuselage side to check it out. As idle fell off at the field, you'd have to keep resetting the relay, to keep it within the on-off range. The transmitter required a dipole with wires strung like a transatlantic radio station. The radio was as reliable as anything today, for all of that — provided you understood it. It had whimsical characteristics which space won't permit us to thrill you with. But among them was a trick to determine proper antenna length. You cut off 1/4 inch at a time, noting the idle current reading as you touched the antenna, and after much snipping, you'd perceive a 1/10 mil rise. That was it! One winter, we set up the system indoors, and twice a day would find a new antenna length, unset and reset the relay, detune and retune the transmitter, then run down the turns on the escapement. After three months of that, free flighting was ended forever.
Good Lord, how many pieces of wood we used to employ. Show the builder no mercy, designers seemed to say. Once we've kept a sacred oath to finish the damned thing, our next design will seek, above all, to cut down on the number of pieces, the glue joints, and the structural riddles. The next time, it will be foam-core wings, iron-on covering — the whole ball of wax. Reborn old-timers, drop-outs who are coming back and newcomers: as Ken Willard keeps saying, "KISS" (Keep it simple, stupid.)
ONE CANNOT MENTION Jim Walker just once, any more than the guy in the TV ad can eat one potato chip. Jim was the only great showman this hobby ever had. Oh, there are many famous people, but no one ever dominated the field the way that Walker did. Certainly, he is the only one to whom the adjective "legendary" can be applied. His name still clangs like a bell, although his fantastic career was cut short in the 1950's.
We first met him shortly before the war when he invited us to an indoor demonstration of gas model flying. He had this model (later known as the Fireball) connected by two steel wires to a pair of handles. We held one while he held the other, and off we went. We were not impressed. Who would want to fly a captive gas model in circles? In 1940 he demonstrated the thing during the Chicago Nats, and was considered quaint for his pains. He was into radio at the time, flying a cute trike job with engine control. It was years before anyone had anything like it; after the war he was the man to beat in RC at many a Nationals.
Jim's company — American Junior Aircraft — excelled in ingenious aircraft. Before the war he produced things like the Interceptor, a folded wing catapult glider which spread its wings high in the air; and the Hornet ROG, with its plastic prop and nose bearing; and hand launched gliders that have never been excelled.
But we remember him best as a showman. Thirty years ago he had this one-man act. He would fly three Fireballs simultaneously maintaining their spacing in the circle by means of two-speed points on each engine. Since even the great Walker had only two hands, the motor control for the third model was actuated by clenching his teeth; and the model was controlled by lines that ran to the top of his special helmet.
Or he would start one model from his hand and play out the lines with a U-Reely handle—all 200 feet of them! Then he would reel it in to his hand, and take a bow. He was a spectacular stunt pilot. Balloon busts were done the hard way. He'd fly over the balloon, cut back power, and hover the ship motionless above the balloon. Slowly, he'd let the model sink until a pin in its tail punctured the balloon, and then he'd climb it out and resume circling. Stories about him abounded, one wilder than the other. One of our favorites concerns his RC lawnmower act. This was a genuine lawnmower (he had removed the reel after following horses in a parade), which he put through a marching drill.
On this occasion Jim was featured act at the Sportsman's Pier in Chicago. His three orange Fireballs were lined up in the performer's ring. Jim made a grand entrance, marching into the ring with his faithful mower following in his wake. Jim had a hidden control in his belt buckle and, unknown to him, the switch was accidentally turned off. The mower swerved toward the Fireballs, and spewed out a cloud of orange chips. It brought the house down. But what tore up Jim was the cries of, "Encore! Encore!"
To write just a few paragraphs about Walker diminishes him. It can be said without exaggeration that anywhere he went, wherever he was, regardless of circumstances, he always brought down the house. We could stand another Jim Walker.
Transcribed from original scans by AI. Minor OCR errors may remain.
