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A Recollection of Roosevelt Field By William Wildhagen, LIEFC My first recollection of Roosevelt Field is going there all dressed up on a Sunday afternoon to see the spot where Rene Foncks Sikorsky crashed and burned. A large charred area indicated the spot. Nearby a propeller had been driven into the ground. A wreath was draped on the propeller and several more lay at its base. Commander Byrd’s trimotor monoplane America was kept in one of the dark green hangars near Post Avenue. The plane’s wingspread was too big to put the plane in the hangar either nose first or tail first. So it went in sidewise. I thought it was quite ingenious (though I did not know there was such a word at the time) the way the plane was rolled in and out of the hangar. Each wheel rested in a four-wheel dolly, the dolly being very low to the ground. The dollies in turn ran along a track. The track ran from halfway in the hangar to about thirty or forty feet outside the hangar. When moving the plane in or out, five or six men pushed in the area of the wheels and one man guided the tail using a two-wheel dolly. Not far from the America’s hangar was the ramp. The ramp was made of earth and covered with wooded planking. It was maybe fifteen feet high and sloped gently into the runway. The low end was toward the west. It was used to give the overloaded planes extra momentum for the takeoff. The America used the ramp; also Old Glory and The American Girl. All three planes landed in the Atlantic, Old Glory’s crew was lost. As a little boy of nine, I remember running down the ramp with my arms outstretched, pretending I was a plane taking off for Paris. What ever happened to the wreckage of the America? Was it salvaged? Brought back to America? Or what? Another time I saw artist paint a flag on the side of the Bellanca Monoplane Roma. I remember my father saying, "See, with a curve of his brush he makes it look like the flag is waving". In later years my father suggested that I become a sign painter. Maybe he had it in mind when we saw the Roma, maybe even before that. I never did become a sign painter. I had a theory that the rudder of an airplane was moved by pushing a stick on the floor of the plane; that is, you pushed it with the right foot when you wanted to go to the right and with the left foot when you wanted to go to the left. The only way to prove the theory was to look into the cockpit of a plane. Easier said than done, especially if you are ten years old and get chased if anybody sees you near a ship. Finally my chance came; it was in one of the long hangars on the western edge of the field. Nobody was in the hangar (except some birds in the rafters) and a Jenny was waiting to be looked into. I managed to get my two most likely dirty hands on the cockpit combing, my right foot in the step, hoisted myself up and, triumph of triumphs, saw the rudder bar. I quickly lowered myself to the hangar floor and got out of there fast. I suppose the above isn’t important in a lifetime, but in my mind I can still see that rudder bar. It was worn shiny by the many feet that rested on it. One day while walking in front of one of the old hangars on the north side of the field, I noticed a rope hung across the entrance. This was to keep out the public, most of all kids. Being a kid, I had to run my hand along the rope as I walked by. Yes you guessed it. I got a bit of a shock from the wire that was wrapped around the rope. The men in the hangar laughed. I laughed also, to show that I could take a joke, or was it to give them the impression that I knew the wire was there all the time? During nearly every visit to the field, I would see something different, new or historical. One of the outstanding days was the day I saw a Curtis P6E Hawk. There she was – a real up to date pursuit plane parked near the administration building, to make the event more memorable, it had machine guns mounted on it. Machine guns were something you read about but very rarely saw; not even at Mitchel Field. One day while riding my bike along Steward Avenue, I noticed a crowd around the rear door of the Curtis factory. Naturally I rode over. I can still see it. A brand new factory fresh Curtis Falcon being wheeled out the door and down a wooden incline. The sun shone on it like a newly minted coin and also etched it into my memory. The olive drab fuselage, the yellow wings. A real beauty. Unfortunately, I did not have my camera with me that day. Looking at the front of the building that was once the Curtis factory you can see to the left a small one-story building. The building is no the branch of a bank, but at one time, I believe a restaurant. I was never in the building but looked in the windows once or twice. On the walls facing you as you entered were two airplanes flying among the clouds. I often wonder what happened to them. Were they just hung on the walls or were they painted on the walls? If the latter, they may still be there under layers of paint and paper. Why write memories of a flying field? For several reasons. While none of the memories will add anything to the history of the field, they will give a kid’s view of it. They may also convey the impression the field had on a kid because these memories are over forty years old. All the memories are good ones. I can’t recall any bad memories of the field. I guess all of us have symbols of what it means to have money. One of my earliest symbols was the Roger Wolfe Kahn hangar. I think it was the hangar nearest to the back entrance on Clinton Road. You could look in a side door and see a room that was fixed up like a living room. The number one feature for my eyes was the chandelier made from a radial engine. Anyone in the vicinity of the field during the late twenties and early thirties got used to hearing the sound and echo of shotguns (no, it wasn’t some unhappy farmer or homeowner firing at the low flying planes, thought it might have happened.) It was guns being fired at the skeet club. The club was located on a hill west of Clinton Road and south of Old Country Road. One day we kids went up and picked up a bagful of empty shotgun shells. We couldn’t do anything with them, but how the sun shone on the brass ends of them, so brilliant and making them seem important to have. I wonder what happened to the shells? Guess they got thrown out along with the shiny mahogany-like horse chestnuts we also collected by the bagful. One thing about the chestnut, you could hollow one out, stick a burned-out match in it, and have a make-believe pipe. When I asked my mother if it was all right to go to the field, I didn’t have to say Roosevelt Field. She knew where I wanted to go just by using the word field. If I wanted to go to Mitchel Field I’d say Mitchel Field, but Roosevelt Field was just "the Field." One time at the field I saw a large crowd around two purple monoplanes; they may have been Stinson Juniors. A number of photographers were taking pictures of two girls in purple flying clothes. Somebody said they were going to attempt an endurance flight. Who the girls were and whether they attempted an endurance flight, I do not remember. I think there was a picture of them and the planes in an advertisement in the newspaper. I remember the exhaust pipe on one of the planes was chrome plated and had just started to turn color; at that time it looked like a rainbow in spots. Will the kids of today have similar memories of any place like Roosevelt Field. For their sake I hope so, but I doubt it. But perhaps my father pitied me because I would not have the memories of my younger days that he had of his. Maybe his father thought the same about him. One final note. I hope these memories will stir up the memories of some of the readers of this newsletter. Perhaps they will allow us to share their memories and thoughts of the field.
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