Send
some words of encouragement to Capt David Skjerven
There are nearly 3000 on the PCN mail list and I respect and honor you all, but I do not know you and your families as well as I do with some. David Skjerven went through new hire class with me and I always was impressed with his style and way. David and I were also based in ORD together and he has been a big contributor to many many PCN postings. He also has a large old ORD base following and he single handedly faithfully organizes the “DC9 Layover” where old guys come together for a beer and cheap pizza and do a little hanger flying.
David’s wife Caryn, died suddenly a few days ago. Here is her Flown West post: https://pcnflightwest.blogspot.com/2024/04/caryn-m-skjerven-wife-of-dl-capt-david.html
These are two salt of the earth type people and though you may not know them, they would befriend anybody. I thank you in advance for treating my colleague and friend with such care.
PLEASE DO ME A FAVOR AND SEND VIA EMAIL OR USPS WORDS OF ENCOURAGEMENT AND SYMPATHY:
Capt David
Skjerven
615 EDGEBROOK DR
CRYSTAL LAKE IL
60014-5613
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
This pair flew 172 hours, 32 minutes straight in the sky over
Fort Worth in 1929. Why?
BY RICHARD SELCER MARCH 30, 2024 5:00 AM
The
plane flown by Reg Robbins and James Kelly was refueled in the air during their
record-setting endurance flight, using a
A
series of developments in the 1920s put Fort Worth on the cutting edge of
aviation: creating one of the first airlines (Southern Air Transport),
inaugurating the first scheduled passenger service in the Southwest, being a
stop on the first “powder puff” air race, and being home to a dirigible
refueling base.
In
1929, that same pioneering spirit drove a couple of Fort Worth flyers, Reg
Robinson and James Kelly, to set a world endurance record for time in the air:
172 hours, 32 minutes. Take that, Charles Lindbergh! Their historic flight
started at Meacham Field on Sunday, May 19, at
11:33 am, and they circled the
city until landing triumphantly at 4:05 pm on May 27 — a total of eight
uninterrupted days in the air.
They
not only broke the previous record of 150 hours, 40 minutes, set by U.S. Army
Air Corps pilots, they also shattered the record of Germany’s Graf Zepplin
dirigible. No one had ever spent that much time in the air.
Twenty-six-year-old Reginald L. Robbins and
23-year-old James Kelly were partners of convenience. Robbins was an
old-fashioned daredevil whose day job was railroad mechanic. After World War I
he bought a surplus airplane and took up barnstorming, which meant flying from
one small town to another taking the locals up – pretty girls for free, others
for a price. In May 1929 he was married and had a 6-year-old son.
Reg
L. Robbins and James Kelly flew a Ryan Monoplane B-1 Brougham named “Fort
Worth” during their record-setting endurance
flight
in 1929. Courtesy UTA Libraries, Fort Worth Star-Telegram Collection
Kelly
was a recent acquaintance and a new husband, having married just six weeks
before. He was known as “Cowboy” because before taking up flying only a year
earlier he was a cowhand on an east Texas ranch. He gave up his horse to move
to Fort Worth and enroll in flying school. Nine months later he had his pilot’s
license.
It was Robbins’ dream to break the existing
flight record. Neither man had much money, and the project would require a
deep-pocketed investor. The Army’s record had been set by a five-man crew
flying a trimotor monoplane with the financial backing of the War Department.
Robbins and Kelly finally found a backer in the Texas and Pacific Coal and Oil
Company, which agreed to furnish all the oil and gasoline they would need at no
cost. It would be good public relations.
James
Kelly is shown with an unidentified woman in this photo taken before his
endurance flight with Reg L. Robbins in 1929.
Kelly
was killed in a plane crash less than a year later. Courtesy UTA
Libraries, Fort Worth Star-Telegram Collection
The
plane they flew was a second-hand Ryan monoplane. (At this time most private
pilots were still flying biplanes.) It was the same kind of plane flown by
Charles Lindbergh in his historic flight across the Atlantic two years earlier.
It was powered by a Whitney Whirlwind engine rebuilt by Robbins. They named
their plane “Fort Worth” in honor of their hometown.
They customized the plane for the mission by
installing additional gas tanks and building a catwalk under the nose to
service the engine in-flight. They also installed a special instrument to keep
track of their altitude for record-setting purposes. (It would show they hadn’t
secretly landed somewhere in the night). Their average speed during their 172½
hours in the air was 65 mph.
Reg Robbins, who set a record for endurance flying with James Kelly in 1929, is shown at the controls of his Howard monoplane
at
Fort Worth Municipal Airport (Meacham Field) in 1937. He retired from
flying in 1976 and died in 1985. Fort Worth Star-Telegram
Collect
UTA Libraries, Fort Worth Star-Telegram Collection
The trickiest part was not flying the plane
but refueling it and lubricating the engine in mid-air. They accomplished the
former with a primitive version of the technique adopted by the U.S. Air Force
after World War II to fly vast distances over oceans and hostile territory. In
its primitive form it consisted of lowering a 27-foot rubber hose from a fuel
plane to a port on the top of the “Fort Worth,” then while the pilots of both
planes kept their aircraft steady, the fuel filled their tanks. This process
had to be repeated 17 times during the flight.
The other harrowing job required Kelly to make his way along the catwalk to a
perch just behind the propeller from where he could grease the engine’s rocker
arms.
Reg L. Robbins, left, and James Kelly received international attention for their record-setting flight in Fort Worth in 1929. Courtesy Richard Selcer
As they circled overhead day after day, crowds on the ground watched the “Fort
Worth” fly into and out of sight regularly. Their quest attracted international
attention; they were followed by newspapers and radio stations across America
and Europe. Will Rogers in his syndicated column quipped, “Those boys have
forgot how to land.”
With
no radio, Robbins and Kelly had no way of knowing the world was watching. Their
communication with the ground was via their wives’ handwritten notes conveyed
to them in a mail pouch dangled on a line from the refueling plane. For their
part, they periodically flew low enough to drop messages of their own to their wives
and supporters. Mrs. Kelly dubbed these communications, “sky calls.”
The
record-setting flight was a grueling experience in many ways. There was no
toilet on the plane and only cold snacks for the seven days they were aloft.
Toward the end of the flight the wooden propeller cracked, causing the plane to
vibrate uncontrollably. By the time they landed, the two men were practically
deaf. The last night in the air they also had to fly through a “blinding rain
storm” that cut visibility to zero and tossed the plane about like a leaf. They
took turns flying while the non-flyer snatched a few hours’ shuteye in a
hammock.
The experience left both men bleary-eyed and exhausted before the en
in 1929. Courtesy Richard Selcer
The waiting crowd at Meacham Field, estimated
at more than 25,000, welcomed their hometown heroes back to terra firma with
cheers. They had bested the previous world record by 22 hours. Their relieved
wives were the first to greet them when they climbed out of their plane. One
distinguished member of the crowd was famed British aviatrix, Lady Mary Heath
who had heard of their historic flight and came to see it for herself.
The
city rolled out the red carpet for them. Star-Telegram publisher Amon Carter,
Fort Worth’s “Mr. Aviation,” hosted a gala victory party at the Fort Worth
Club. The two celebrities weren’t even allowed to bathe and change clothes
before their motorcycle-escorted trip to the club. A downtown businesses group
calling themselves “Progressive Fort Worth Merchants” took out a full-page ad
in the Star-Telegram congratulating them. The ad crowed that Fort Worth was
“air-minded” because of its mild climate, central geographical location, and
public spirit.
Both
Fort Worth daily newspapers beat the drum for the record-setting
accomplishment, but they were not alone. The Austin American called it “as
astonishing as any chapter in American aviation.” The Tuam Herald of Ireland
also sent congratulations for the Americans’ “splendid achievement,”
acknowledging “the world-wide honor and renown they have brought to their
native Texas and to Fort Worth.”
Nor was Texas Gov. Dan Moody remiss in
recognizing the pair. He made them lieutenant colonels in the Texas National
Guard attached to his personal staff.
Robbins’
and Kelly’s flight helped cement Fort Worth’s status as an early aviation
center. By coincidence, the day before they landed, another Fort Worth pilot,
Jimmie Mattern, took off in his rebuilt Cessna for San Antonio to enter the San
Antonio-to-St. Louis trophy race.
His
goal was to win the Gardner trophy and the $10,000 prize money that went with
it plus “bring additional honor to Fort Worth as an aviation peer.” Borrowing
from both Charles Lindbergh and Robbins and Kelly, he named his plane “Planet
of Fort Worth.” It was men like these that made Fort Worth the aviation capital
of the Southwest, home to Meacham municipal airport, three decommissioned World
War I training fields, and several flying schools.
Robbins
and Kelly not only put their names in the record books, they made a financial
killing. Before they even took off, several air transport companies
collectively promised them $50 apiece for every hour they spent in the air.
Post flight, the Fort Worth Chamber of Commerce added to their take with
$12,000 raised through subscriptions. They were also contacted by national
magazines eager to pay them for their story, and vaudeville promoters offering
to put them on the stage. They had become national celebrities.
Alas,
their story did not have a happy ending. Jim Kelly was killed in a plane crash
less than a year later while flying from Oklahoma City to Fort Worth. His plane
was caught in a storm and went down near Alvord, Texas. He joined a long list
of aviation pioneers who died prematurely doing what they loved, including
Vernon Castle, Wiley Post, and Amelia Earhart.
Reg
Robbins, the daredevil of the two, entered another endurance race in 1931 from
Seattle to Tokyo with mid-air refueling. However, he had to drop out at Nome,
Alaska. When not racing he ran a flying school in Fort Worth until hired as
chief pilot by Brown & Root of Houston. He retired in 1976 and died in
1985.
Reg
Robbins’ and James Kelly’s claim to history was overshadowed by Lindbergh’s
historic flight and other events in aviation in these same years, but it
deserves to be remembered for the feat it was. And it happened right here in
Fort Worth.
Author-historian Richard Selcer is a Fort Worth native and proud
graduate of Paschal High and TCU.
Read more at: https://www.star-telegram.com/news/local/fort-worth/article287178890.html#storylink=cpy
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