That’s the question I asked myself when I saw the 1988 made-for-TV movie “The Pancho Barnes Story” starring Valerie Bertenelli. I was a fledgling aviator at the time and just stumbled across this movie. I was transfixed.

Who was this woman who evolved from a tomboy to a southern California debutante, entered into an arranged marriage with a minister, ran away to sea disguised as a man, ended up in Mexico with revolutionaries, raced horses, raised dogs, learned to fly airplanes, become a movie stunt pilot, competed in the 1929 Women’s Air Derby, set up a dude ranch next to an airbase and taught ground school to aviators as World War II approached?

This had to be all fiction, I thought. 

A day later I was in the school library doing research. Although Hollywood did take liberties with the TV movie, they really didn’t have too. Florence Lowe “Pancho” Barnes was more colorful than a bag of Skittles—so much so that when you read about her, you will find so many stories, you may wonder how much is fiction amid the facts.

Born into Privilege and Opportunity

Florence Lowe “Pancho” Barnes was born July 22, 1901, to Thaddeus Lowe and Florence Dobbins. Her grandfather, Thaddeus S.C. Lowe established the Army of the Potomac’s balloon corps during the American Civil War, creating America’s first military aviation unit. He is credited with taking his then 10-year-old granddaughter to an aviation meet. 

In those days, air meets were little more than demonstrations of airplanes flying around pylons set up at fairgrounds. As powered flight was still an emerging technology, these events drew a crowd similar to the way NASCAR does today.

In those days, women—especially those of privilege—were expected to marry early, often for convenience or to improve the family social position. At 18, Barnes married Reverend C. Ranklin Barnes. The marriage has been described by some biographers as loveless and passionless. It did, however, produce a son, William E. Barnes.

• READ MORE: The Women of Vintage Air

According to her contemporaries, Florence Barnes did not take well to either marriage or motherhood. After a few years as a minister’s wife, she disguised herself as a man and headed to sea. Eventually she ended up in Mexico, where she rode horses and spent time with revolutionaries. It was here that she picked up the nickname “Pancho,” which was a corruption of Sancho, the name of the sidekick of fictional Don Quixote.

She returned to the U.S. in 1928 after the death of her father. His death left Barnes with a large inheritance, and—intrigued by the idea of learning to fly—Barnes used the money to buy a Travel Air biplane. She then found an instructor to teach her. Six hours of instruction later, she soloed. 

In those days, once a pilot was soloed, their training was pretty complete, as this was decades before the FAA was created and experience requirements and rules for private pilots were established.

Flying was more than a bucket list item for Barnes. She traveled around the country performing impromptu aerial demonstrations and barnstorming. By 1929 she had enough flight time to enter the first Women’s Air Derby, a cross-country race from Santa Monica, California, to Cleveland, Ohio. In order to participate, the women had to have at least 25 hours of cross-country flying and 100 hours of solo flight. These were the same experience requirements for men competing in the National Air Races.

• READ MORE: Mentoring Programs Aim To Boost Ranks of Women in Aviation

The idea of women performing in an air race was an oddity and to some, a joke. In fact, humorist Will Rogers referred to it as the Powder Puff Derby.

Despite the derision thrown their way, several of the 20 women in the race were accomplished aviators. Among them was  Amelia Earhart, who had already set several records and was the most well-known aviatrix of the day. Also competing were record setters Louise Thaden, Ruth Nichols, Blanche W. Noyes, Phoebe Omlie, and Evelyn “Bobbi” Trout. 

In the news reels, newspapers, and magazines of the day, the women were photographed wearing dresses and peek-a-boo hats. The exception, however, was Barnes, who stood on the end of the photo in her boots, jodhpurs, and jacket. She looked like she had just landed, or was ready to hike out if her airplane went down in rough terrain.

During the first Air Derby, Barnes was in the lead in the second leg of the race, but collided with a motor vehicle that pulled onto the runway during landing. Forced to drop out, Barnes came back the next year, flying a Travel Air Type R Mystery Ship sponsored by Union Oil Company.

Earhart came in third during the first derby. According to several historians, Barnes and Earhart did not get along well. They were opposites in personality and temperament. Earhart was slim and from a modest background. She was trying to work her way into the upper rungs of society, often helped by her husband, publisher George Putnam. She knew she was very much in the public eye, and good publicity would lead to sponsorships.

Barnes, on the other hand, was described as the most unlady-like aviatrix of her day, as she often wore pants and boots and a beret and smoked cigars. Both women competed for aviation sponsors and were allegedly skeptical of each other’s abilities as a pilot. Barnes often referred to Earhart as a “puppet” or “windup toy,” operating at the whim of her husband or her sponsors.

Pancho Goes to Hollywood

After her contract with Union Oil expired, Barnes moved to Hollywood to work as a stunt pilot for movies. The movie industry began in 1903—the same year of the Wright brothers’ first flight. The two industries were linked, as many people saw their first airplane on the silver screen. During the silent film era, stunt pilots routinely crashed airplanes into barns, buildings and towers for the delight of the movie going audience. Sometimes the pilots emerged unscathed. Other times they were killed or seriously injured—all to make a few bucks.

Barnes flew in several action adventure movies, including Howard Hughes’ “Hell’s Angels.” She is credited with organizing the Associated Motion Picture Pilots union which gave the pilots bargaining power to set a standard for pay and gave the pilots more control over the stunts to make them safer. The union also acquired medical insurance for pilots and, in addition to a weekly paycheck, made sure there were bonuses for performing riskier stunts.

The Great Depression hit Barnes hard, and in 1933 she used the remainder of her inheritance to buy a ranch in the Mojave Desert next to an army base. That base would later become Edwards Air Force Base.

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Barnes and her then 12-year-old son William raised chickens and cows, and sold the eggs and milk to the servicemen stationed at the army base.

Barnes’ ranch was located on the Muroc Dry Lake bed. The hardpan was a perfect runway, so Barnes put in a small airport.

As the winds of war began to blow again, the number of men at the base began to increase. Barnes, seeing an opportunity, expanded her property to build a resort where the men could spend their off-duty hours. She offered horseback riding, and also added a large round swimming pool. It was one of the first pools in the county equipped with a ramp, which she used to ride her horse into the water to cool off after a ride.

The airport Barnes built on her property was expanded. When it was first constructed, her pilot friends landed there when they visited. When the Civilian Pilot Training Program began, Barnes taught ground school to persons who wanted to learn to fly. There were stories about her being goaded into providing the training after clumsy army pilot trainees crashed on her property or accidentally dropped a fake bomb that damaged a livestock pen.

The ‘Right Stuff’ Era

At the end of the war, the base evolved into Edwards Air Force Base, where Uncle Sam developed its most secretive airframes. The pilots who flew out of there were best of the best, with egos proportional to their skill. They often met their match in Barnes, who teased and taunted them in a friendly manner, offering a steak dinner to the first man to break the sound barrier.

The Barnes ranch had blossomed into a fly-in resort and dude ranch. In addition to the airport it had a motel, a bar, dance hall, restaurant, space for a rodeo and more than 60 horses for riding. In 1947 Barnes decided to limit the visitors to the ranch, making it a club for her closest friends—most of them famous aviators. It was said that none other than famed aviation pioneer and WWII commander Gen. Jimmy Doolittle came up with the name “The Happy Bottom Riding Club.’’

Barnes’ life was one of parties, flying, and relationships—she married four times. In the 1950s, a change of command at the base put her sideways with the U.S. military, which wanted to take the land for a runway extension. There were allegations that she ran a brothel—an allegation she vehemently denied, saying the women who worked for her danced with the men who visited and that was it.

A mysterious fire destroyed Barnes ranch in the 1950s, forcing her to move. Today, the property that was her ranch is part of Edwards AFB. The remains of her famous round swimming pool and the airport can be seen with Google Earth.

In her later years, Barnes’ health began to fail. She survived breast cancer and lived a simple existence in Hollywood, surviving by giving talks about her experiences and doing horseback stunts for the movies.

In March 1975, after failing to show up for a speaking engagement, a friend went to check on her and made a sad discovery. Barnes, who was living alone at the time, had been dead for several days. Her remains were cremated and her son, a pilot himself, received special permission from the USAF to scatter her ashes over the land that had once been her ranch.

Learn More about Pancho Barnes

• “Pancho: The biography of Florence Lowe Barnes” by Barbara H. Schultz
• “The Happy Bottom Riding Club: The Life and Times of Pancho Barnes” by Lauren Kessle
• “The Legend of Pancho Barnes the Happy Bottom Riding Club” available from Amazon

The post The Legendary Life of Pancho Barnes, Aviatrix appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Once it is airworthy—volunteers project a first flight by July 2023, in time for EAA AirVenture at Oshkosh—the classic business air transport will be used to promote the history of women in aviation as a flying exhibit for the Vintage Flying Museum in Fort Worth, Texas.

According to Bill Goebel, the museum’s volunteer crew chief for the restoration project, the Beech Super 18, N13JC, was the last airplane Cochran flew. “She was in her mid-60s at the time when she owned the airplane [1969-1971], and stopped flying it because she was unable to renew her FAA medical certificate due to illness. Aircraft logbooks indicate her last flight was on April 4, 1971,” he says.  

However, Cochran’s ownership of the radial-powered twin is only part of its storied past. 

After losing her certificate, Cochran sold the 1954 E18S-9700 model to Anthony Productions—the copyright holder for The Merv Griffin Show and Dance Fever.

“Merv actually flew the hell out of it,” Goebel says. “He basically used it instead of driving the [Hwy.] 405.” 

Thanks to the detailed logbooks of Griffin’s corporate pilot, the names of the rich and famous, who traveled with him around the Los Angeles area and on junkets to Las Vegas and Palm Springs, were fastidiously documented. According to the flight logs, the list of celebrity passengers included: Clint Eastwood, Burt Reynolds, Leslie Uggams, Gene Hackman, Wayne Rogers, Dinah Shore, Arthur Murray, Dick Carson, Jan Michael Vincent, Marty Allen, Pamela Mason, Doug McClure, and others.

“[And] Dar Robinson, a big stuntman from the era, jumped out of it over Caesars Palace in Vegas,” Goebel says.

It is this history of transporting Hollywood actors and actresses that inspired the twin Beech’s new moniker: the Hollywood Bomber.

“While Jackie is part of the story, she is not the whole story,” says Goebel, an FAA-certified airframe and powerplant (A&P) mechanic with inspection authorization (IA), and an FAA-designated engineering representative—vintage (VDER).

“[The Beech Super 18] is an absolute reflection of corporate aviation in the ’60s and ’70s. It’s really neat, the connection with Hollywood….A lot of famous people flew in this thing—and that’s what you did in the ’60s and ’70s and these were the kinds of corporate aircraft [used], and that’s the story and it’s a great story to tell.”

To note: Goebel acknowledges the Beech Super 18 is not and was never a “bomber,” but he thought it was a catchy misnomer for the project, and the Vintage Flying Museum (VFM) agreed.

Bringing the Aircraft Back to Life

The Beech Super 18 came to the museum in 2019 after serving as a maintenance trainer for Tarrant County College. The aircraft sat outside for most of its 30-year lifetime at the college, exposed to often-harsh North Texas weather conditions.

After learning that Cochran owned and flew it, the college then started “restoring” it, says Goebel, who served on and chaired the aviation advisory committee at the college for several years. “They started basically disassembling it; unfortunately, they didn’t get a lot put back together.”  

“It’s one of the larger projects we’ve taken on,” admits Bill Gorin, A&P, IA, and the volunteer director of operations at VFM. “You’re taking an airplane that’s been asleep for 40 years, basically, and trying to wake it up and get it flying again.”

Because of its extended time outside in the elements, every steel screw was rusted and is being replaced, he says. “We’re having to change a lot of nuts and a lot of screws.” The airplane’s belly skin was also replaced, owing to corrosion that was likely caused by an onboard potty.

While the Pratt & Whitney R-985 engines are mid time, they remain a question mark for the project. “We’ve inspected the engines, but there’s still a lot of unknowns with them,” Gorin says. 

According to Goebel, the plan is to track the engines’ performance with oil analysis and monitoring, eventually overhauling both engines using a rotable in order to keep the aircraft available.

Of course, if a large-enough donation comes in, Gorin says they will overhaul the engines much sooner. “It’s about $50K per engine, plus the cost of the accessory overhauls. We would love to find someone to donate that, as well as upgrading the old generators to modern Jasco alternators.”

The museum has established a GoFundMe account for monetary donations. The current fundraising goal is listed at $103,000.

Before it goes airborne, the Hollywood Bomber will have new, updated avionics and be completely rewired. Some upgrades are also planned, including adding external oil filters on the engines. “There’s a pre-oil system out there that’s available for it, to pre-oil the engines before you start them, so that way you’re not starting the engines on dry bearings,” Gorin says.

A new paint job and restoring the interior, including new upholstery, will likely be the final touches for the project—most likely after it’s airworthy.

“The biggest challenge is just trying to get all the parts,” Gorin says. “If people want to donate money, or parts, or services, we’re a nonprofit, it’s all a tax write-off for anybody who’s interested.”

The project has already received several donations. These include: an S-Tec autopilot from Genesys; fabrics for the interior from Duncan Aviation; clocks from Davtron; fuel cells and installation from Southwest Airframe and Tank Services; and a spar X-ray from Apex Inspections.

Volunteer Labor Fuels the Project

Goebel, who is documenting the restoration project on his YouTube channel, HangaRatz, says without the support of volunteers, the restoration project would be at a standstill. “Everything is pro bono as far as labor goes. It’s all just community helping this aircraft get back [in the air],” he says.

Some of the volunteers have never worked on an airplane before, and Goebel says that’s OK. As the A&P of record, he is teaching and coaching the volunteers through the entire process.

For example, “The instrument panel was hand-crafted by volunteers who have never built one. No computers. No CAD. No high-speed routers. Drills, punches, and files. And it’s a gold-plated example of their capabilities and efforts,” Goebel says.

One of those volunteers is Abigail Kennedy-Dominguez. The high school senior started helping with the project before the COVID-19 pandemic slowed its progress. Early-on, she says she learned some of the basic skills and techniques to help maintain the airplane. Now that she’s older, she’s been able to participate in more hands-on activities, including helping to cut and file the new instrument panel, sealing and patching holes in the fuel bay, fitting patches for antenna holes in the belly, and taking apart old seats so they can be reupholstered.

“I believe that it’s important to maintain a woman’s touch on this plane,” Kennedy-Dominguez says. “Jackie Cochran created a legacy for all women in aviation by introducing the idea that women were just as capable as men when it comes to flying (and all things). I think it would be disrespectful for us to ignore that legacy by restoring the plane with a group solely made of men. A woman made that plane glorious, and women should be involved in returning it to glory again.”

Katrina Lorenzen and her husband, Joey, are also helping with the project. When they’re not working on the Hollywood Bomber, they’re building a Van’s Aircraft RV-7A at their home. From transcribing the Beech Super 18’s logbooks to drilling out old rivets, removing the mounting stations and helping final fit and rivet filler plates to patch the old holes, she’s integrally involved with the project.

“This plane has a rich history and the more stories we uncover, the more driven and connected we feel to the project. We are all committed to getting her in the air and off to share with everyone we can,” Lorenzen says.

A Female-Centric Vision

Lorenzen and Kennedy Dominguez’s contributions to the Hollywood Bomber project align well with the museum’s vision of using the flying exhibit to celebrate women in aviation, past, present, and future.

“It’s all about showcasing aviation opportunities for women,” Goebel says.

Gorin agrees. “Ideally, what we’d love to see is that airplane flown and maintained by women. I would love to see it go to shows with a couple of women flying it and women maintaining it. That would be better for the next generation than the current generation.”

Believed to be one of only a few women in the U.S. to found and direct a flying museum, Charlyn “Chuckie” Hospers, couldn’t agree more with the vision for the Beech Super 18, and she’s already creating educational curricula and displays to accompany it. For example, a traveling exhibit of display boards the museum designed and built—available through the Texas Trail Lakes Region—salutes women’s contributions to aviation and World War II. “Two of the panels are on Jackie Cochran, and we have panels with Rosie the Riveter…and we have Wally Funk [and others],” she says.

Forming a Flying Museum

Hospers and her husband, William “Doc” Hospers, purchased the museum’s 9-acre site and two hangars—one a B-29 World War II-era hangar—located at Fort Worth Meacham International Airport (KFTW) in Texas in 1988. “We actually started with a B-17 Flying Fortress that we had for 31 years,” she says. The couple were co-founders of the B-17 Co-op, which to this day supports owners of the famed World War II bombers.

Hospers recalls her first introduction to the B-17 that would ultimately become the museum’s first aircraft. “It turned out when my husband came home with the B-17 Flying Fortress, he didn’t tell me at first,” she says. “He flew it in and had me meet everybody out at the airport. And he took me by my hand and led me underneath the wing of the aircraft, and he said, ‘What do you think of this?’ And I said, ‘What is it?’ And he said, ‘It’s ours.’ That’s how it started. He had taken a big stick and painted my name on the side of the nose of the B-17. He knew what he was doing.”

Hospers says she got on the “bandwagon,” learned to fly, got her taildragger endorsement and her multiengine rating. “We had it [the B-17] for 31 years, and we flew it to airshows and it was all volunteers that maintained it and kept it flying,” she says. Following Doc’s death in 2010, she sold the B-17 named Chuckie. Today, the vintage bomber is owned and operated by the Erickson Aircraft Collection in Madras, Oregon.

A former FAA runway safety expert, Hospers says “it’s amazing” how far the museum has come since it was incorporated as a nonprofit in 1990. Today, several other aviation-related nonprofits call the museum home, including the CAF Invader Squadron, PGM Aviation, Greatest Generation Aircraft, and the Fort Worth chapter of the American Rosie The Riveter Association.

“We have almost 30 aircraft on display now [about 50 percent airworthy], and some very rare and valuable,” Hospers says.

The famed flying B-29 Superfortress FIFI and B-24 Liberator Diamond Lil called VFM home for seven years before moving in 2021 to the Commemorative Air Force’s new headquarters at Dallas Executive Airport (KRBD). And, the space they left has already been filled. “We actually have a waiting list for aircraft,” Hospers says.

Hospers, Gorin, and Goebel and their team of volunteers are working diligently to get the Hollywood Bomber back in the air. Gorin, who is a pilot, says one day he’d like to fly right seat in the aircraft—after he gets a couple more ratings. “[But] I’d rather stand back and watch the ladies fly it, that would be more rewarding to me.”

Specifications: Beechcraft Super 18 E18S-9700

The post Restoring a Beech Super 18 to Former Glory appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

If you are a pilot and you watch television shows or movies that feature aviation, chances are good this phrase comes out of your mouth from time to time. Very often Hollywood takes liberties with aviation. 

Breaking the Laws of Aerodynamics

One of the first aviation movies I saw post-student pilot certificate was Always, Steven Spielberg’s remake of the A Guy Named Joe, a World War II fantasy drama involving a pilot killed in action who doesn’t quite cross over to the other side—and stays around to help his buddy. Always, shot in the late 1980s, features wildland firefighting instead of military pilots. There’s a scene where the pilot of a fire bomber is trying to stretch a glide to make it to the runway. He’s below the tree line when there is a gust of wind enabling him to avoid the approaching obstacles. 

I had less than 20 hours in my logbook when I first saw that movie, but even I knew that was hogwash. A friend who flew for the forest service and had a similar opinion of the scene told me, “Once you are below the treeline, that’s it. You’re down.”

Sometimes TV producers do silly things with airplanes in an attempt to “get a laugh,” such as the time The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour had the pair in Alaska flying as passengers in a V-tailed Beech Bonanza. Lucy remarks on how hot it is, and thinking she is opening a window, starts cranking on what looks like the lever actuator of a car window. The lever is mounted on the ceiling of the cockpit. The lever, of course, in the Bonanza actuates the trim wheel. The aircraft tumbles crazily out of control while a canned laughter track plays. (Brace yourselves; my instructor voice is about to come out of my mouth.)  

What kind of sick people laugh at an airplane going out of control?

Stock Footage 

In older shows (1950s to early 1970s), aviation scenes often relied on recycled stock footage to cut down on expenses. Hogan’s Heroes was famous for recycling footage, the heck with continuity. In one scene, what looks like a person comes out of the Douglas C-47 on a parachute. On the way down, the person becomes a box that lands in the bushes. 

B-17s take off for a bombing mission and magically become B-24s. 

One of my favorite episodes, Flight of the Valkyrie, involves the prisoners building an airplane for someone to escape in. The escape airplane is cobbled from a “downed allied airplane” that in reality appears to be part of a T-34 or similar trainer with tandem seating and a greenhouse canopy. When the escape aircraft flies away, it has become an Ercoupe. 

Aviation Reality Shows

Reality shows are a different breed. I spent 10 years in television, most of it as a reporter/producer, so I understand for every three-minute segment, every 60-second scene, hours of video footage and interviews have been recorded. Putting them together to keep the audience engaged is a challenge.

In reality shows, although the situation or task performed may be nothing dramatic to a well-trained pilot or mechanic, the underlying music—that suspenseful, staccato violin—can have you on the edge of your seat as a baritone-voiced announcer dramatically intones the seriousness of the situation with phrases like “a race against time.”

Recently, I had a chance to watch an episode of Ice Airport Alaska, which is set at Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport (PANC). The teaser description for the episode is this: “A 747 cargo aircraft has alerted the Air Traffic Control Tower they have a landing gear malfunction. Without wheels to touch down, the pilot may have to perform a ‘belly landing,’ putting the undercarriage of the fuselage directly onto the frozen asphalt as it lands at 170 mph.”

It was kind of cool to learn about the training the staff at the airport do, and to see how the team works together. The “gear emergency” turned out to be one tire that had blown on takeoff. The landing gear had 16 more tires all intact, so fortunately, the landing wasn’t an issue. 

There was a FOD patrol right after the landing to make sure no rubber was left on the runway—as the driver of the airport vehicle noted it was a piece of rubber that hit the fuel tank on Air France’s Concorde in 2000 resulting in the horrible accident that killed 113 people and injured six more. 

As I watched the segment, I thought about all the different ways landing gear can be deployed in an emergency—there is always a back-up system. I would have liked to hear about that.

Small Airplanes Can’t Dump

Sometimes, aviation is vilified by poor writing from the aviation-challenged.

I was working as a writer at a television station while simultaneously building my hours toward a commercial certificate. The station had a “designated aviation reporter.” He was not a pilot, but understood the airline business. On this particular day, he had written a story about a Cessna 172RG that had a gear issue and what a miracle it was that no one was hurt in the belly landing at the local airport. The script stated “the pilot dumped the fuel before attempting the landing to cut down on the risk of fire.” 

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I had about 240 hours, of which 50 or so were in a 172RG. I was required to know the systems backward and forward. I knew that there’s no mechanism to “dump” the fuel in flight. I mentioned this to the producer and the script was changed to read “the pilot flew around for several hours to use up the fuel to lessen the risk of fire.” I guess I stepped on some toes, because the next day, I was getting yelled at by the assistant news director, who told me that I was never to touch one of the aviation reporter’s scripts again because I was not the aviation reporter. 

“Even if the script is factually incorrect?” I asked. I showed her my pilot certificate, told her my experience, and then as I had my logbook with me, showed the notation of my flight time as I explained the fuel system of the aircraft and why “dumped the fuel” was incorrect. (I should note the other stations and the local newspaper reported the pilot “flew around for three hours to burn off the fuel” before attempting to land.)

The assistant news director looked at the lines in the logbook, then looked up at me and asked, “How do I know you just didn’t write that in there?” 

I came perilously close to asking if she had eaten the whole bowl of stupid that morning.

And that was the day I decided to quit.

The post When Hollywood Takes Liberties with Aviation appeared first on FLYING Magazine.