Art in front of an Aeronca C3

Ken Unger, the operator of Unger Aircraft, was a World War I flying ace. After hanging around at the airport every day for months, I asked him directly if I could begin working for flight instruction by working at the airport for each half hour lesson. He said, "Bring your Dad out, and I will have a talk with your father."
            My father went out to the airport and spoke to Ken Unger. Dad told me later what happened. Unger asked if I knew about tools and such like that. My father told Unger I always helped him out in the garage at home, and yet got all my chores done. My father said I was going to fly anyway, somehow.
            Unger said to me, "O.K., you can start." In the Great Depression years, 1929 through 1939, aircraft owners were at considerable financial risk as well as personal risk of loss or damage to their prized aircraft, because there was no insurance available to cover aircraft losses. So an airport owner who allowed a kid of the Great Depression to fly his aircraft was taking a considerable risk. He had to trust the kid. It was a great demonstration of the owner's trust in this kid's integrity and personality that he let me learn to fly. I most certainly appreciated that trust in me.

Ken Unger on the left, John Perri on the right

He gave me a starting date and he assigned my instructor, Floyd Valentine. Mr Unger told me, "You'll get paid a half hour of flying instruction per week and all the Coke you can drink." Undefined was how many hours I had to work for that. No money. They'd say, "Here's the broom. Sweep the hangar." All the planes were stored in the hangar overnight, because people would steal the aviation fuel. They were dummies, because aviation fuel burned too hot for auto engines.   

Art with John Perri doing wing repair         
            In the shop during the winter months, I just helped out John Perri, the mechanic who was also the company parachute packer and  jumper. I'd help him with his engine maintenance and wing fabric stretching. I'd help the pilots keep the planes clear of the oil that spattered them in flight. I'd help Perri repair cuts in the wings' fabric.

Good times in the hangar at Hadley Airport, from left to right, Ken Unger; R.W. Johnson, President of Johnson and Johnson; John Perri, Chief Engineer

Sometimes on weekends when they were selling airplane rides, I'd help people get into the airplane. They'd step on my back to get into the airplane, because we didn't want anyone putting a foot through the wing fabric.

Art leaning on the wing of the new Standard D-25, helping passengers board; Art had his first airplane ride in this plane.

I've often been asked, how did you like your first flying lesson? Answer: there was no fright. I had already had an airplane ride before, in the New Standard D25, and that was great! And I was pretty well used to the mechanics of flying from watching the pilots.

Instructor and Pilot Floyd Valentine

  With my first lesson, we climbed into the little Aeronca C3, with Floyd Valentine on the controls. He said, "O.K., kid, let's go."  I was just very, very excited, and it was very surprising in what it took to control an airplane. Just grab the control stick and follow Floyd's demonstrations and instructions. He just gave instructions as they were needed, at first kind of gentle, but after a while, and a lot of mistakes, he got tougher. As I learned more, I made more mistakes.
            I have a photo from an instruction session. I'm not sure if it's the first lesson or another lesson.

Art after his lesson, Floyd Valentine behind in the Aeronca C3  

The left seat was always the pilot, and on the right was the instructor. There were dual controls, but there was a flaw in the design of the cockpit in the airplane. Because of the smallness of the cockpit, there was only one single stick.
Outside the hangar at Hadley Airport in 1936, the Aeronca C3 in which Art would learn to fly          

We had no runway. It was just a great big grass field, a cow pasture. It was very exciting, that first landing. There were high tension electrical wires all around the area. I had never flown over the wires, and they made me pretty nervous. Floyd said, "Don't worry about the wires, kid. They don't fly and they won't grow. They'll stay right there. You just have to make sure you miss them."
            I flew the whole summer of 1936. I was a student pilot. I was a high schooler then. In fact, at 17, I was the youngest student pilot in New Jersey.
            I had what they called at that time a student license. To get a student license, you had to pass a medical examination. I went to the doctor up in Newark, New Jersey. The thing I had been most worried about was eyesight, but I passed, so that was all set.
            As lessons went on, I got some degree of skill. I started flying and really felt like a pilot. I really got going at it, alone on the controls. As you progress, the instructor decides when you're ready to solo.  I felt I was near ready to, but Floyd wouldn't let me solo. He got more critical. Mistakes wore on, and I realized it took much more skill and experience to properly fly that little plane. When I made mistakes during dual instruction, oh, boy, did Floyd holler at me! It was the old school in those days, they'd really holler and yell when you made a mistake. You either did a good job or a lousy job, and they'd holler and give you the devil for it. You had to make all your decisions exactly right. The reason was to save your life.

 Art in the pilot's seat of the Aeronca C3             

Finally, winter time rolled around. By February I was fully aware of what it took to fly that little airplane safely. I had got the feel of it; I was ready to solo. I could tell, because after a while, Floyd was sitting there not even looking, just cleaning his fingernails. I had full control. There was no doubt by now that I was in charge of flying the plane. When I finally got to solo, it was February 23, 1937. I had had about eight or nine hours of flying by then. They didn't keep tight records on it, so I'm not sure exactly how much. Floyd stepped out of the airplane and said it was time for me to solo. He told me, "Relax, and do what you've been doing. I'm not going to tell you any more."
            It was late in the day. I taxied down the other end of the airport, taxied back, and then got lined up for the take-off into the wind. I pushed on the power, and I just took charge. I was keeping track of every second, because in flying, decisions are made every split second. In the air, that's when I looked over at the other seat, and I realized just how empty that seat was. I was all by myself, flying.

  To me, the most important memory was that Floyd had turned everything over to me, and, again, there's no instruction whatsoever on a solo, except if I did something wrong. The second solo flight was easier, not much to that. I came around, came in for my second landing over the wires. Floyd was right. Those wires stayed just where they were; they didn't move.
            When I landed the second time, Floyd came outside the hangar door. I expected he'd give me some instruction or critique or something. Nothing. I expected, maybe, he'd say that I did OK, but instead he said nothing. He didn't praise people. Floyd had expected me to do it. He had known I was ready. He just said, "It's time to quit. I told you when the street lights came on to come in. They're on."  He gave me the business for being so late. "Are you expecting to fly all night?" I had no excuse.

Art standing by a 1933 Waco "F"

* * *

Links:
Information on World War I ace pilot Ken Unger
A history of Hadley Airport, with photos  
Pioneering Airmail from Hadley Airport