Capt. "Scotty" Daniel (Braniff, Ret.)
How I Got Here
The sound of the airplane motor was getting louder and louder, and suddenly, there it was, a “double winger seaplane,” not more than 50 feet high and right over where the gulf met the sandy beach. The canopy was open and you could see the pilot with his helmet and goggles and scarf flapping in the wind. Filled with excitement, jumping and waving I watched as he rocked his wings and waved back to me. The sound of the motor changed as he began to climb and soon disappeared. I thought that moment, “I’m going to be a pilot when I grow up!”
It was the summer of 1941 at a family picnic on Galveston Beach and I was 8 years old. Soon after that WWII started; daddy left to be a tank maintenance officer for General Patton and my older brother for duty on a destroyer in the Pacific.
After the war was over we moved to Albuquerque, NM. Kirtland Army Air Force Base was a repository for what seemed like thousands of surplus airplanes. P-38s, P-51s, C-47s, B-17s, B-25s—whatever kind of mission you wanted to pretend to fly that day. Security was almost nonexistent so it was easy to slip through the flimsy fence and gain access to any airplane of your choice. Many still had the battery in place and it was always both fearful and exciting to occasionally turn the battery switch “on” to see what eerie sounds would emanate and what multi-colored lights would come on. If the propeller had started turning I would have probably passed out.
Albuquerque was having its first Soap Box Derby in 1948 and I entered the competition. I had become a proficient model airplane builder and based design and construction of my racer on aircraft design. I won the race and was to represent Albuquerque in Akron, Ohio, at the national finals. My racer would be shipped to Akron and I, Mom, and Dad would fly. At last I was going to get to fly!
It was an evening flight on a TWA DC-3 and I was more than excited. The flight crew fitted me with headphones and let me sit on the observer’s seat for takeoff and climb. Flashes of lightning soon appeared ahead of us so the captain told me to go sit in my seat in the cabin. The “fasten seat belt” sign was on and the stewardess made sure we all were securely strapped in. The plane started bucking up and down and sideways so I loosened my seatbelt and was tossed around in my seat—how much fun! Mom and Dad were both using their burp-bags.
That did it! When we returned home I started working odd jobs to pay for flying lessons. One day the instructor got out of the Aeronca Champ and told me to make three take-offs and landings. It was October 31, my sixteenth birthday, and the beginning of a lifetime odyssey of love for airplanes and flying.
I learned much later that the U.S. Navy was patrolling the entrance to the Houston Ship Channel that summer of 1941 and the airplane that first inspired me was a Grumman JF/J2F “Duck” amphibian. Often, on a full moonlit night when you can see for thousands of miles and the radio traffic is very low, I’ve looked out and wondered about that pilot who waved at me and started a dream. Did he have a little boy or a little brother at home? I pray he made it through the war safely, and thank him every day for the inspiration!