Share This Article

A routine factory check flight for a new transport turned into a seven-hour ordeal that ended with a belly landing.

On August 6, 1942, a clear azure sky dawned over Buffalo, N.Y. That morning my father, Herbert O. Fisher, chief production test pilot for the Curtiss Wright Corporation, was assigned to test-fly the second production example of the C-46 Commando transport for 1½ hours, to ensure all was in proper working order prior to acceptance by the U.S. Army Air Forces.

Dad also had another assignment that day, serving as liaison and tour guide for Clive “Killer” Caldwell, an Australian P-40double ace who was visiting the Curtiss plant. Caldwell, a public relations representative for Curtiss, was there to evaluate a new model of the Warhawk, the rugged fighter that had always brought him safely home despite bullet holes and missing pieces. The two men had a lot to talk about.Dad knew every rivet of the Warhawk and had logged hundreds of hours in variousP-40 models. His daily assignment, along with his staff of pilots, was to tear the wings off every P-40 leaving the plant. They all knew that the lives of brave young fliers like Caldwell depended on them.

On August 5, the chief test pilot and the ace enjoyed dinner at one of Buffalo’s finest restaurants. An instant camaraderie developed, and they went on to a favorite airport watering hole for a few scotches. While they were relaxing, dad asked if Caldwell would like to get the feel of a 20-ton transport he was scheduled to check out the next morning around 7. The Australian accepted,though he also mentioned having a prior engagement—breakfast at 8 and a 10:30tee time at an exclusive golf club with several Curtiss executives. Dad told him: “No problem, we’ll take it up for an hour or so and be back early. The company driver and vehicle will be waiting.”

Caldwell arrived promptly as dad was completing a preflight inspection that morning. Several tons of ballast were loaded, the fuel was topped off and Curtiss Wright technicians brought aboard their equipment. Caldwell took the right seat as my father went through the checklist. After the run-up, dad told him: “It’s your airplane. I’ll be following you with my controls. Line up on the center line and do not be gentle….Pour the coals to the Pratt & Whitney R-2800 radials and make ’em scream.” The Australian accelerated down the runway and lifted off. “Take it out over the lake,” dad told him, “and I’ll begin my checkout routine.” After about 45 minutes Caldwell took back the controls, and my father gave him headings to line up with runway 23. The ace had some fun maneuvering the big beast around the sky.

On the four-mile final, dad began to set up the landing configuration. A mile or two out, he hit the landing gear lever. They could hear the gear motors running, but got no green lights. They checked the breakers, then recycled the gear several times, but still no luck. Finally dad called the tower to say they were going around. (Note the first 100 or so C-46s weren’t equipped with a manual gear-extension crank in case of hydraulic failure. Also, the landing gear legs would normally completely lower and then slide into the down and locked position. This aspect of the design complicated the situation.)

My father circled the field several times, trying to troubleshoot the problem while on the radio with company engineers. He also did several flybys 50 feet off the deck while engineers and technicians, gathered on runway 23’s center line, scrutinized the Commando. They spotted massive streaks of hydraulic fluid on the underside of one wing, the tail and the belly. Meanwhile the techs on board opened up inspection plates and began disassembling the floorboards over the wing roots, looking for the problem. As for Caldwell, he seemed unperturbed by the unfolding drama, though before long he exclaimed, “Hey mate, I just missed my tee time!”

Over the course of an hour the radio barked orders from the Curtiss “stuffed shirts,” suggestions dad had already tried. He then performed a series of aerobatics— maneuvers certainly not recommended for the big C-46—in an attempt to get the landing gear to lock down.

By this time they’d been circling for more than five hours. The techs aboard had by then rigged a makeshift portal so they could dump hydraulic fluid into the Commando’s system. Unfortunately, there was no supply of fluid on board. A CW-22 was sent up with a tech in its rear seat holding a five-gallon jerry can of hydraulic fluid attached to the trainer’s air frame by 300 feet of cable. The idea was to fly above the C-46 so the tech could lower the can down to dad, who would try to reach outside the large left-seat window and pull it inside. But every time the can got close, the slipstream around the Commando’s nose pushed it outside his reach.

Concerned that the can and cable might become wrapped around the left prop, dad tried shutting down the engine, but it made no difference. Then they decided to use the rear fuselage door. Everyone on board could hear the can bouncing off the top of the fuselage during several attempts, all of which failed. At length the cable got wrapped around the vertical and horizontal stabilizers. Fortunately, the rudder and elevators were only marginally affected.

In a brief written account of the incident Caldwell titled “The Longest Day,” he described watching the “nightmare attempt to supply a drum of oil from another aircraft. With no parachute I was appalled to see this thing swaying about on the end of a string between our airscrews then go bumping down the side to entangle the empennage. This prompted me to ask Herb how many hours he had and was comforted by the answer expressed in impressive thousands….

“My own flying at this stage totaled a mere 800 hours all up but did include eleven very hazardous arrivals—one due to lack of technique, the others to enemy action or structural failure.

“Feeling I knew a bit about this sort of thing it now belatedly occurred to me to enquire of Herb with all those thousands of hours just how many crash landings he’d had. I was dismayed when he quite happily told me none.”

The Commando had been aloft for about seven hours, and fuel was getting low. By then the Buffalo radio stations had notified the public there was a huge crippled transport in “desperate trouble” overhead, with some predicting it might crash in flames. About 50,000 locals gathered around the airport perimeter, eager to witness a hometown disaster.

My father radioed, “About the only way out of this is a belly landing….I am on a 10-mile final, will save the engine by shutting down once I have the runway made.” The Army Air Forces major who supervised all acceptance flights informed him, “Don’t worry about engines, keep the power on in case you need to go around.” Dad responded, “As you wish—and could you make sure a fire extinguisher or two are handy?”

The C-46’s gear collapsed as it gently touched down on the runway, and the big transport came to a grinding halt. Dad shut down all systems, then everyone aboard deplaned. There were no injuries, no fire.

Caldwell and dad became lifelong friends. As the years rolled by, the Australian pilot was a frequent houseguest at the Fisher home in Kinnelon, N.J. And the premium scotch continued to flow each and every time he visited.

 

Originally published in the May 2015 issue of Aviation History. To subscribe, click here.