The Camel is a fascinating aeroplane, it's spectacular combat abilities only matched by it's (supposedly) deadly flying vices. The only other aircraft that comes close in reputation for such a combination of good and bad is arguably the F4U Corsair. There have been several quality books written that involve the Camel, one of the best being 'Winged Victory' by Yeates; another being 'Open Cockpit' by A.G. Lee.
But the best to my mind, and one of my most treasured books is "Flying The Old Planes" by Frank Tallman. Published in 1973 Frank describes flying original WWI aircraft in marvellous detail. Given that not everyone may have read this book I thought I would reproduce the chapter on the Camel. It's a first hand account of a skilled pilot flying an original (as clsoe as maybe) restored Camel.
Just as background Frank Tallman, who along with Paul Mantz formed Tallmantz Aviation, was famous as a stunt pilot for Hollywood and a collector of rare and vintage aircraft. Paul was killed in 1965 on the film set for 'Flight of the Phoenix'. Frank died in 1978 while delivering a Piper Aztec. In bad weather, with a lowering ceiling and rain, he struck the side of Santiago Peak in the Santa Ana Mountains near Trabuco Canyon. RIP.
Here's the abridged chapter from "Flying The Old Planes".
My Sopwith Camel is, as far as I’m aware, the only original World War 1 Camel ever brought back to flying condition. It was originally owned by Colonel Jarrett of the Jarrett War Museum located on the old Steel Pier in Atlantic City; who in the 1930’s had the best museum of WWI equipment ever assembled, including the Belgian War Museum in Brussels. The Jarrett Museum fell on hard times following WWII and, with time and money on my side after my service period, and a lifelong ambition of owning a WWI aircraft, I purchased for a small sum (by today’s standards) several antique aircraft including the Camel, a Nieuport 28, a Pfalz D.XII, a Fokker D.VII and a SPAD VII.
The Camel was the first WWI aircraft I brought back to flying condition and required some major rebuilding, which took several years, many thousands of dollars and a whole host of experts including Paul Poberzney of the Experimental Aircraft Association, the gifted master craftsman Ned Kensinger, the Hawker Siddeley Group and a number of very dedicated volunteer’s.
(NB: There is quite a bit on the rebuilding process in the Chapter but I have left it out of this extract for the sake of space).
When the day finally came to fly the air was filled with great anticipation. On arrival at the airport though I was dismayed to hear from my team that they had been trying to get the temperamental 110 h.p. Le Rhone started since 8.00am that morning, without success. The lack of knowledge amongst us regarding the Le Rhone was appalling. Did we have spark? Yes. Was the mag set? Yes. Had the commutator ring been wiped off? Yes. Had we primed it? Only every other cylinder.
With only a vague notion of what I was doing I clambered into the cockpit (a very tight fit) and reviewed the cord-wrapped Spade stick, the Block tube, carburettors next to one’s knees, the flexible air intake to the outside air scoops, the wood wire brace longerons, the instrument panel with it’s clutter and the duel control cables to the wooden rudder bar. At my request, the crew forced open the intake valves as the engine was pushed through (switch off) and shot a charge of fuel in each cylinder, as the cylinder came in front of the hole in the cowling. By accident, rather than by knowledge, I advanced the long lever controlling the air, and in pushing the manet (a small wheel knob on the miniature control quadrant) forward and then returning it, I had hit on the correct starting procedure. Wonder of wonders, as I flipped the porcelain-mounted switch up and called for contact, the Le Rhone started with a full-throated bellow, scaring both me and the crew!
By shoving the fuel-controlling lever forward and using the coupe (cut-out) button on the stick, I was able to keep the engine running. Soon the never-to-be-forgotten smell of castor oil infused our area, and the sight of oil splattering the leading edge of the low wings indicated that the engine was lubricating properly. Taxiing practice ended ignominiously a hundred feet from the starting point, when my newfound knowledge wasn’t equal to the delicate adjustment of fuel and air, and the Le Rhone quit.
The revitalised ground crew hauled the 900 pound airplane over the grass and faced me into the wind. For safety sake we changed the plugs, and the Le Rhone started first try. I headed down the field with the throttle wide open. The tail came up almost instantly, and visibility was good, except for the Aldis sight and the twin Vickers. Not having planned on flight it came as something of a shock to find the Camel airborne at about 35 mph after a ground run of just 150 feet. Being afraid of jockeying with my ticklish fuel and air controls I stayed low and just got used to the Camel’s sensitive ailerons, elevators and rudder.
I circled the field once, got into position for landing, shut fuel air and switch off, and made a light forward slip, touching down gently on three points. Total landing couldn’t have been much longer than the initial take-off run.
So much for my first (unintentional) flight in the Camel.
Since then I’ve spent more time flying the Camel than any of the other historical aircraft in our collection. I’ve also had more forced landings in it than all the rest of the WWI aircraft combined. It’s that temperamental Le Rhone. Cylinders have blown, magneto’s have failed, even fouled spark plugs have brought me down unceremoniously, with sweating hands and my heart in my mouth, desperately seeking a patch of open ground on which to land. Yet for all that it’s the one I turn to first for any show or exhibition, as the Camel gets my blood going like no other. This is an aircraft that is a joy to fly.
With the Le Rhone 9J, you cannot adjust either the fuel or air intake without running the risk of a dead-stick landing. You must leave them alone and use you Coupe (cut-out) button for all fight handling.
The take-off run is easy. In a wind of 10 to 15 knots you are airborne in a couple of plane lengths at 35 mph and climbing out at 60 mph, with a rate of climb of almost 1,000 feet a minute. The elevators are sensitive, as is the rudder. Consequently, when fling for any distance I often put the heels of my shoes on the floor tie wires, because the vibration of the Le Rhone through the rudder bar exaggerates the rudder movements.
In level flight at 100 mph indicated, the Camel is delightful, with just a hint of rudder being required for straight flight. The structure is rugged enough to feel comfortable in loops, and being slightly tail-heavy it goes up and over in an incredibly small circle in the sky, and faster than any other WWI aircraft I have flown. Sneeze and your halfway through a loop before your aware of what’s happened. 110 mph is enough to carry you through, and as you slow down over the top you must feed in rudder against the torque.
In military shows I have ground strafed, and as soon as the airspeed reaches 130 to 140 mph the nose begins to hunt up and down, and the elevator becomes extremely sensitive. I feel this action is due largely to the square windshield between the two Vickers guns, causing a substantial burble over the tail surfaces.
Turns are what the Camel is all about. Turning to the right with the torque requires the top rudder to hold the nose up, and the speed with which you can complete a 360-degree turn is breathtaking. Left turns are slower, with the nose wanting to rise during the turn. But small rudder input easily keeps the nose level with the horizon. In stalls at 35 to 40 mph the nose drops frighteningly fast and hard to the right, but you also get control back quickly, although a surprising amount of altitude has been lost. I have had the pleasure of limited dog fighting with other WWI fighters, and there are none that can stay with a Camel in a turn.
With the Le Rhone being temperamental as it is, flying the Camel is best done at times when there are few other aircraft in the sky, leaving easy access to the airport in cases of emergency. The Camel touches down easily but runs out of rudder control almost instantly, and if you bounce your landing at all, you are likely to find yourself in a hairy ground loop looking at a rapidly bending aileron dragging in the grass.
For a wide variety of reasons, the Camel is a fascinating airplane, flight-wise as well as historically. But don’t think I ever got out of the Camel after being airborne even in the coldest weather without buckets of perspiration and considerable gratitude that I had gotten the little girl home again without breaking her into splinters!
.. He's telling me all the things hes done since i stepped away. You guys are gonna love this.. Its not a plane your going to be able to just get into and just steer around the sky. Your gonna have to work this plane.. About a sixty mile flight wears me out
