Jewel in the Night

Chris Hadfield Records brother Dave's original Christmas Song on ISS

Chris Hadfield floats in weightlessness aboard the ISS... just days into his 5 month voyage.

Just now, Chris Hadfield, riding through space in the International Space Station, posted a recording he made of a Christmas song of peace, written by his equally talented and aviation-struck brother Dave. The song was first written by Dave for the members of the first long duration crew on the ISS in 2000. Listen now, as Chris sings this beautiful carol while speeding 27,744 kilometers per hour and looking down on a world with the appearance of Peace only.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YufsbE4-jmY


Here are the lyrics to help you sing it too, along with the chords if you want to play along.
 

 Jewel In the Night  (Space Carol)  ©2001 Dave Hadfield

Em D        C                 Em

So bright, jewel in the night,

Em                            D

there in my window below.

Em D             C                 Em  

So bright,  dark as the night,

                           D         Em

with all of our cities aglow.

   G                                  D

It’s long been our way, to honour this day,

        F                           Bm

And offer goodwill to men.

Em  D               C           Em

And know wherever we go,

                         D               Em

It’s come round to Christmas again.

So far, shines every star, there without limit to see.

So grand, far-away land, beckoning, calling to me.

And let it be shown, wherever we go,

In all of the wonders above.          F   Bm

With all that we bring, there’s no finer thing,

Than this message, this promise of Love.

[bridge]

Em                D                     C            Em

Love for the families that gather below.

Em                 D                   C               Em

Love for the stranger that you never know.

C                                  Am

For those who aren’t with you;

G                      B7

Who wander above….

So bright, jewel in the night,

there lies the cradle we knew.

The home of, all that we love,

and all of our memories too.

It shall be our way, to wander away,

And take with us all that we know.      F   Bm

And never cease, this message of Peace,

From Bethlehem so long ago.

And never cease, this message of Peace,            [2x]

From Bethlehem so long ago.                   

Launch Day - Soyuz Mission 34

Dave Hadfield gives us a personal insight into the last moments before his brother launches aboard Soyuz rocket to the ISS

Launch Day                                                                                                ©DaveHadfield 2012

Most significant events involving travel seem to happen at ungodly hours. More often than not they mean almost no sleep, a horrible wake-up call, and a stumbling emergence into inky hostile  blackness. This one is perfect. The Rocket's engines are scheduled to ignite at 18:12. We'd gladly show up anytime day or night, but small mercies are gratefully accepted.

For Baikonur on Dec 19 it's a balmy day, which means -20C with a 10 kt wind. Tradition states there will be a ceremony. The Kosmonauts will emerge from Quarantine (it feels strange referring to my brother as a Kosmonaut), and we will cheer them as they board the bus.

Our group meets in the lobby. A tangible excitement is in the air. This is Launch Day. No one is talking about the now-familiar cold. Launch Day has been 3 years coming. It hardly seems real. We file out of the Sputnik Hotel for the short walk to Quarantine. A buzz of chatter spreads.

Two coach-buses are waiting at Quarantine. We are early. Uniformed security staff, not unfriendly but quite professional, direct us to wait beside them. Then Chris' wife Helene and the Canadian Space Agency staff unveil a surprise: fake moustaches and paper space helmets. There are cries of delight. We all grab a moustache (they are mounted on short wooden dowels) and try to look like Chris. Cameras come out. We clown around. Time for a group photo!  Forty-plus goofy-looking family members and friends with cheap paraphernalia having fun on the Kazahkstan steppe. All the Russian media people rush over and take photos. Perhaps we should be more serious, but this is delicious. Anxiety turns into happy anticipation.

A pair of black-robed gentlemen walk past; Orthodox priests come to bless the crew. They take one look at us and increase their pace. Later we hear that instead of depositing a light sprinkling of Holy Water on the crew in a reverent fashion, they saturate a large long-bristled brush with the stuff and utterly douse the bowed heads -- just before they walk out into -20C! The crew is blessed. And soaked. 

Recorded music sounds loudly, and the crew emerge. They are wearing flight suits and parkas. Loud cheers! They stride past us, grinning, waving. Chris is hugely amused by the moustaches, and a bit touched. They board the bus and wave steadily as it pulls away, off to the Kosmodrome.

Next for them is the suiting-up. This is done in a dust-free room near the Launch Pad, but then the spacesuits have to be pressure-checked next door. The immediate families are waiting there behind a glass wall. I am with Helene and the 3 kids. The crew files in. Do they look nervous? Not in the least.  More waves and smiles. Chris makes a mock weightlifter pose. There is a spare Soyuz crew seat in the room. It's a very uncomfortable-looking metal bucket affair. One by one they bend themselves into it and technicians inflate the suit and check the umbilicals. The other two sit at a desk against the glass wall and talk to the families via microphones. I stand back while Chris chats, but every once in a while our eyes link up. His are very bright, as if to say,   "Look at this Dave, isn't it cool?"

Evan, Kyle and Kristin, with paraphernalia, on the observer side of the glass wall in the spacesuit-testing room

Helene, who had everything organized to a T

The suit test room. Chris is in the Soyuz seat, Roman Romanenko and Tom Marshburn talking to their families through the glass wall

Crew and back up crew

Roman Romanenko is Commander of the Soyuz for this launch. He speaks to his Father, Yuri, who has two "Hero of the Soviet Union" medals neatly pinned on his jacket. They gleam goldly in the bright fluorescents. This dignified gentleman set space-endurance records in the 1980s; a Father-and-Son tradition, rare and precious in this business. He smiles, but there is a hint of concern. (It is always easier for a pilot to fly a difficult machine himself than to watch a loved-one do it.) His granddaughter is sitting beside him, and he breaks the tension by donning one of our fake moustaches and helmets. The Russian film crew jostle for the best shot. She laughs gleefully.

I watch Chris. He gets into the Soyuz seat. It's tiny, and he has to hold his knees up nearly to his chest. A nylon strap-web holds them from spreading. The suit inflates. His arms pop out like the tail end of a balloon. I focus on the old round-dial pressure gauges on panel behind him. The needles don't move that I can see. The technician concurs, and Chris' arms sink down. His other connections are checked, and he is helped to his feet. He chats easily with them in Russian. I recall that Chris has a "Type-Rating" on the Soyuz, and is the only Canadian to ever fulfill a Pilot position during a launch; in this case Co-pilot (First Flight Engineer, in the Russian parlance). Chris has so many firsts...

Chris' spacesuit is pressure tested.

We say our good-byes.

Outside the building the buses wait again, plus the entire crowd of friends and family and media, about 200 people. Loud cheers accompany the crew as they board the buses that take them out to The Rocket. More frantic hand-waving, and then they're gone.

This is not Cape Canaveral. At no point is this more clearly driven home than during launch. We leave our vans and walk to a set of open stands set stark and lonely on the Kazahkstan steppe. They are simply-made out of rough concrete, with no seats or windows. As always, it's -20C but the northeast wind hardly troubles our now-acclimatized faces. I remember the crowded Causeway at The Cape, where upwards of a million people would gather. Somehow I like this better, this eastern intimacy. The Soyuz stands 2 km away. It is painted a simple army green, but that colour is rare in the dust-brown landscape, and it catches your eye and holds it. Part of the fuselage gleams white with frost from the liquid oxygen. Our viewpoint -- and existence in this time and place -- is unique. The Rocket is not large -- in fact you wonder is it really big enough? -- but all eyes are upon it. It bears the Russian trademark in spacecraft: an elegant simplicity of design.

The camera lens has shrunk it slightly, but that's more or less what it looks like. The Soyuz is a product of an elegant simplicity of design. It does not overawe with sheer size.  Note the informality of the viewing position!

A cellphone close-up. One lonely rocket in the middle of the endless Kazahkstan steppe.

Catharine, Doctor, and wife of Canadian Astronaut and VWoC volunteer Jeremy Hansen, and Helene Hadfield, Chris' wife

Our hearts go with Chris in the anxious moments before "Ignition"

The announcements over the tinny PA are in Russian. There is no countdown board. Jeremy Hansen, Canadian Astronaut, has downloaded an App on his iPhone with the feed from the Kosmodrome. He relays the times, and the pre-ignition events. The tallest support tower pulls away. The machine switches over to internal power. We stand very close, shoulders touching. I position myself immediately behind Helene, just in case.

At -:30 seconds my anxiety rises. I discover an urge to pray, which is unheard of for me. At -:10 seconds a flame suddenly erupts below The Rocket. Is it too early? Is there a problem? But the flame grows and I realize it is the normal ignition sequence.

The sun has gone down behind us and we face east into the night. This makes the flames even more dramatic. They glow with a strange redness. Later I figure out that this is the result of a kerosene-burning rocket, and that the Shuttle's bright-white exhaust came from burning hydrogen and oxygen, but for now I am struck by the brilliant burst of red and yellow. The thing lifts from the ground, a long slim tube, running free....

The sound is fierce. It resonates in your chest, makes it vibrate. The Rocket might be smaller than the Shuttle, but we're a lot closer. Screams and shouts appear on people's lips but cannot be heard. Our faces are bathed in the yellow-red glare. Robin, my wife, is capturing it on video. Not me -- I want to capture every nuance and lock it in my brain cells forever.

The acceleration appears more gradual than the Shuttle, which always seemed to get hurled off the earth in an act of unrestrained violence. This Rocket lacks that brutal quality. From my point of view it seems smoother -- I make a note to ask Chris about it later. Steadily it climbs. It arcs over to the east of us into the darkening sky. Suddenly the exhaust plume turns white. What's that? Is there a problem? It takes a second to understand that it has climbed up into the sunlight, and the exhaust is now brightly lit by yesterday's sun. ("Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth.") The visibility is magnificent. We can see the first stage shutdown and separate, and then the shine of the second stage thrusting strongly. Up and up it goes. No Florida sky was ever this clear. We can see the exhaust plume change shape as the atmosphere thins; it becomes bell-shaped. We watch and watch.... There are cheers and shouts of joy, but my eyes stay glued to the fiery light, now getting smaller and smaller. We see the 4 bright pinpricks which are the detached boosters. Finally, the light itself vanishes.

Jeremy announces Engine Cut-Off. I breathe a huge pent-up sigh of relief. They are now safely in orbit. It is done. Ahead still lies docking with the ISS but the main event is behind. Overhead the exhaust trail, the Big Smoke, starts to dissipate in the stratospheric winds. I hug Helene and the kids; and many others; it's that kind of moment. We make our way back to the buses.

Later there is a celebration. There are interviews and phone calls as people in Canada try to link up with Baikonur's remoteness. I take Chris' guitar, the Seagull we played in Quarantine, and rupture my lungs in the bar of the Baikonur Hotel, playing the favourites he and I know so well. It's a friendly crowd. There is much singing and dancing. We give him a fine send-off. 

Hadfields gathering for a family photo under a Soyuz mounted at the Baikonur Space Museum

 The Buran, a Soviet Shuttle, which they flew once, unmanned, and then dropped the program as being expensive, fragile and complicated.

The Russians are extremely proud of their space history, and with good reason. Here, Robin stands in front a Sputnik, which started the whole endeavor, inside the Space Museum

The current Soyuz signature poster, on a wall in the Space Museum. On the left is Chris' daughter Kristin, on the right his daughter in law Katya. All major operational players for this launch are signed.

There he is, Expedition 35 Commander, in charge of the signature piece of technology for the Planet Earth.

But Chris is where he's supposed to be.  He will do his job, superbly, and then bring the experience to us. That's what he does. He's the best communicator in Canada, bar none. He will share his sense of wonder, and awe, and bring us along with him as he flies.

Godspeed, Chris, from your brother. Look after yourself.

Dave

One last Jam Before you Go

-->

 Dave Hadfield and his astronaut brother play music together on the eve of his space flight

At Cape Canaveral there is a beach-house. It stands facing the wide Atlantic, in a perfect loneliness amongst the dunes, a couple of miles from where the Shuttles used to Launch; its the sole relic of pre-spaceflight days. The tradition at NASA was for the Shuttle's crew to gather there 2 evenings before a Launch with a few invited guests or family, and relax over a barbecue and a couple of beers. I was there for both Chris' Shuttle flights. We perched on a rail on the deck, rollers crashing onto the beach a few yards away, and played guitar and sang songs for whoever would listen, but mostly for ourselves. Our other brothers and sisters joined in....

At Baikonur, there are no beach houses. Access is strict. (Quarantine in the old Soviet days was a Natural.) Other than spouses and children, few get close.

Still, during the journey here, I was hoping against hope. I had had a flu shot. I bought a digital ear-thermometer and took readings for 4 days, noting the results on a RosCosmos form. Upon arrival at the spaceport I was examined by a NASA doctor, who signed it. I was declared non-infectious.

But 3 days before Launch, the word came down: spouse and children only. Period.

My disappointment was huge. Chris and I don't talk every day, but we're close. As kids on the farm, 2 years apart, we were each other's playmate. We learned to drive a tractor together, make castles out of hay, ride a horse, ski through a Course, play guitar, sail a boat... we even dated sisters at one point. I didn't come to Baikonur to be a tourist. I came to see Chris -- support him in whatever way possible before he left, but I came to see Chris.

But it wasn't about me. I wasn't the Player here. I could recognize that it was appropriate for me to shut up, put a smile on, and join in with the friends and extended families. This was no hardship; they are without exception fine people. Chris has always had a gift for bringing lovely and interesting people into his life. I took Tours and meals and made new friends. But at the core, I felt sad.

Never mind, carry on, we had the next-best-thing. A room exists in the Quarantine building that is divided by a wall of glass. We filed in there 2 days before Launch. About 25 of us sat down, like in a big high-school classroom; friends and family and co-workers past and present. (You never saw such self-discipline. Nobody coughed. Nobody sneezed. No one blew their nose.) Chris was on one side. He held a wireless hand-mic. Another one was on our side.

We passed the mic back and forth through the crowd. Loud-speakers on each side amplified our words. We asked questions and made jokes. Chris was in great spirits. He laughed when we held up fake moustaches as we spoke. Some of us told a little story, some little touchstone to remind each other of another day. I mentioned how when we were little boys sharing a bedroom at the cottage we would pull our knees up, smooth the blanket over our thighs, and pretend it was a control panel on a rocket ship. We'd explore planets, run from alien monsters, defeat the space-pirates, find asteroids of pure gold, even "get the girl", although in those days we didn't know what for. I reminded him that in those adventures we always triumphed, gloriously, and he should therefore run the Space Station just like that. (He agreed, laughing.)

Taken from Quaratine. Chris chatting with friends and family via a mic, through the glass. Photo: Robin Hadfield

CHris talks to family through the quarantine glass. Photo: Robin Hadfield

The quarantine room. Photo: Robin Hadfield

Chris's family don fake mustaches when the speak to him through the glass of the quarantine building. Photo: Robin Hadfield

Hélene kisses her husband through the glass, while brother Dave turns away to give them privacy. It will be 5 months before she gets to hold him again. Photo Robin Hadfield

The allotted time passed quickly.  We all gathered against the glass for a group photo, first with fake moustaches, then without. Moist-eyed, we left the room. There was many a backward glance. Then as we donned our layers of clothing we cheered ourselves with, "Looks great, doesn't he?" and so on. And walked back to the Sputnik Hotel, leaning into the biting Kazahk wind.

But that night, after getting back from the restaurant, I get The Word: tomorrow I will be allowed past quarantine, and have half an hour with Chris. I am utterly surprised, and deeply, deeply pleased.

Next morning, one day before Launch, I am up early for an interview. (There's a NFB crew here and they'll film anyone.) In the afternoon our group leaves for a Tour of the local market and a museum. I stay behind -- the return time might possibly encroach on my session with Chris. I spend the time organizing my photos and notes.

At 16:45 I join Helene, Chris' wife, and she walks me over to the quarantine building. I deliberately freeze my head. I am told that the final Doctor's check involves taking my body temperature with an ear thermometer, thus no hood, no toque. (There is slight pain, but nothing falls off.)

Helene speaks Russian to the gate guard and gets us through. I am impressed. An escort meets us and we enter the building. Helene and I sit on a gurney in the Doctor's office, side by side. The thermometer goes in, the thermometer goes out. "Normal'nyy!" I breathe a sigh of relief . I do it through my nose, to prove I am not congested.

Chris comes out of a meeting. "Hey Brother Dave!" He looks good. Lean and healthy, focused but not anxious. He's carrying a guitar case. Aha... I know what's coming next.

We can't shake hands. Quarantine rules require a 2m distance. But we chat as we walk down a hall and find an empty room. A NASA facilitator hands me another guitar.

Helene has a camera and keeps it busy as we talk and play. Chris starts with a new lick he's figured out for a song we wrote together via email 2 weeks earlier. "Hang on, hang on," I say -- I've downloaded a recording app onto my iPhone and have forgotten to turn it on. The lick is great, and I get a bit of it locked down. I leave the unit on. This song will be on the album he's going to record from space.

We trade songs back and forth, like we always do. One of my tuning-pegs lets go and the guitar craps out, so with hand-wipes we trade his Seagull back and forth as well. We play Silent Night for Eleanor, our Mom, who always played it on the piano at midnight on Christmas Eve. And more family favourites. We play Big Smoke, which I wrote for his first space flight almost 20 years ago. We play Caroline, which is about the wife of a Voyageur, for Helene, so close by. Our bodies stay 2m apart, but our voices are very close.

The time vanishes in a flash....

Chris is called away. As he leaves I pass him a small message from our Dad -- I tell him to trust himself. He can trust himself, always. We lock eyes for a sec and he nods. Then he's gone, off to the next meeting. There's a wave.

Tomorrow is the big day. There's no guarantee it will launch. Even the Russians sometimes have delays. There are no guarantees at all.

But Chris is off, with a song. 

Dave Hadfield, brother aviator

Chris' wife Hélene is interviewed prior to lifting the Soyuz launch vehicle to a standing vertical position. Photo: Robin Hadfiled

Oh Canada.

Late Breaking News from the restoration floor

The Forward Extension Rear Duct Former at Station 3 is complete!!!

Vintage Wings AME and structures specialist Ken Wood announced this afternoon that he finally finished this particular *@!$¥¢@ little piece of $%&*@here – holding in his hand, the fruits of an entire day's labour - the challenging and much feared Forward Extension Rear Duct Former at Station 3. Vintage Wings of Canada management were ecstatic and this giant leap forward brings us even closer to the skies with the Roseland Spitfire, which until today was deeply lacking in Forward Extension Rear Duct Formers at Station 3. You could feel the excitement in the air as Wood brandished the Forward Extension Rear Duct Former for all to stare at in awe. “As far as Forward Extension Rear Duct Formers go, this Forward Extension Rear Duct Former is a home run out of the park” said former World Champion Forward Extension Rear Duct Former Former, Guy Richard, adding “I give it 9 for ducting and 10s across the board for Forming and Extending”.  It doesn't get much better than this.

Dave O'Malley

Metals and Structures guru, Ken Wood, holds in his hand Holy Grail of Duct Formers - the Forward Extension Rear Duct Former, which, by creating a “duct”, allows the aileron cables to travel past the radiator. Photo: Dave O'Malley

We can see three Forward Extension Ducts Formers in this shot of the radiator bay of the Spitfire's port wing. Photo: Dave O'Mallley

A plywood mock-up of the radiator sits in the bay to allow Wood to manufacture the components that house it. Photo: Dave O'Malley

The Vickers Supermarine shop drawing for the famous Forward Extension Rear Duct Former at Station A.  Photo: Dave O'Malley

Themocked up radiator sist in place to allow the fitting of all the Forward Extension Rear Duct Formers. Photo:Dave O'Malley

News From the Baikonur Cosmodrome

Chris Hadfield readies for flight, supported by family

The Hadfield Family reports from the launch pad in Baikonur, Kazakhstan on the eve of Chris Hadfield's historic launch via Soyuz rocket to the International Space Station

Text by Dave Hadfield, with photos by Evan and Dave Hadfield

The Soyuz awaits Chris Hadfield. Photo: Evan Hadfield

It's breakfast-time in the dining room of the Sputnik Hotel in Baikonur. The friends and families and supporters of Chris Hadfield and Tom Marshburn hastily gulp high-energy foods.  Ham and sweet-breads and plates of eggs disappear quickly. It's -30C outside, quite dark, and there's a wind blowing. We will be going no-matter-what. Now is not the time to diet.

Back in the hotel room we pull on our hockey socks and snow pants. We emerge looking like Michelin People. We board the bus.

Still in the dark we travel on the narrow road leading to the launch pad. I happen to sit beside Mike Fossum, who has flown in space 3 times. Oddly, we talk about camping trips, perhaps encouraged by all the gear we're wearing. It's very low-key. He's a very personable fellow. But a certain tension rises. There is a growing anticipation.  Today we see The Rocket.

The process is quite different from the Shuttle. The Soyuz is put together while horizontal. The building is about 2 miles from the launch pad. A rail line connects them. Our bus simply pulls up to the railway crossing and stops. There's no gate or barrier. We stay on board, waiting. A freight train passes. It's still dark.

In time another light appears. This one moves slowly. Ahhhh.... this is it. We don our gloves and scarfs, zip up tight and go outside. The air stings our cheeks and eyelids, but no one complains. Rapidly we walk up to the track, scuffing the dead grass and brown crumbly soil with our fluffy boots. Hands reach for cameras. Surprised exclamations are uttered by anyone who shakes off a mitt to adjust a dial. Behind us the  dawn lights the endless eastern horizon. In front The Rocket takes shape.

A locomotive arrives at daybreak carrying the Soyuz launch vehicle. Photo: Evan Hadfield

As the sun rises, we get a better view of the massive Soyuz, fresh from the assembly hall, via rail car. Photo: Evan Hadfield

Rocket pad Sisters In Law, Robin (Dave's wife) and Helene (Chris' wife) Hadfield. You can tell they're related by their hats. Photo: Dave Hadfield

The Soyuz is raised. Photo: Evan Hadfield

First in sight are the rocket motors. The machine is cradled onto an elongated custom flatbed rail car. It is being pushed towards us. As it emerges from the gloom we spy out the whole Rocket. My first reaction is, "Hey, it's not very big!" True enough, the Soyuz has none of the ponderous mass of the Shuttle assembly. It's a neat, contained package. We are standing almost close enough to touch. Even then it doesn't over-awe. I gain the impression of a lean, simple design. No huge external fuel tank. No strap on solid boosters.

I try to take pictures. The battery in the good camera rapidly fades in the -30C chill. I resort to my cellphone because I can stuff it quickly into the pocket of my heavy wool pants. Each time I take it out I lose feeling in the fingers of my bare hand. How cold it is... And yet these Russians are unfazed. The train continues down the track at the pace of a brisk walk. No concessions to temperature.

In the time it takes for us to return to the bus and drive the 1 km to the launch pad, The Rocket has arrived. We jump out again and the guards let us pass. We walk up nearly as close once more, astonishingly close. It's daylight now, barely, but no warmer. Cameras flash from every hand. Soon, about the time it takes for frost to start collecting on people's eyelashes, a generator starts up. To be honest, it sounds like a typical Honda-type unit. It might well be! But that signals change, and the sharp end of The Rocket starts to rise. By the time people are trying to stamp blood back into numbing toes, it is vertical. Four counter-balanced arms close in and grasp it securely. The rocket rests, waiting thirstily for fuel.

As we walk back to the bus I bump into Mike again. He says this is the exact pad Yuri Gagarin launched from 51 years ago. I stop and turn, amazed, for one more look. Later, in a restaurant, a toast is made. Today was the 109th anniversary of Orville Wright's flight at Kittyhawk. And between food courses we run outside again to watch the space station as it makes a near-perfect pass overhead.

The feeling of history in the making is palpable.

Stocky's in the “Hall”

Canada's Aviation Hall of Fame announced its four inductees for 2013 and included in the list is Wing Commander James Francis “Stocky” Edwards, for whom our Curtiss P-40 Kittyhawk is dedicated. We congratulate Stocky for this high honour and the Hall of Fame induction committee for this excellent choice. Edwards is a renowned and decorated wartime RCAF fighter pilot and combat leader. He is known for his prowess with the P-40 Kittyhawk as part of the Desert Air Force during WWII Allied operations in North Africa. Until his retirement, Edwards provided important command experience to the RCAF/CAF and today continues his role as an inspirational leader for young people. Edwards was named to the Order of Canada in 2004.

Recently, at our 2012 Members Gala, Vintage Wings of Canada gave an equal honour to Stocky, when we raised a 5 foot by 13 foot banner in his honour in our pantheon of Canadian aviation heroes at our facility in Gatineau, Quebec.

Also inducted with Stocky were three others – all builders of Canada's aviation heritage. They are:

Victor R. Bennett’s long career in aviation has seen his active involvement with a host of organizations, spanning business, professional and heritage sectors. His background in the RCAF Reserve, education in law, exemplary leadership skills, business acumen and entrepreneurial talent, have seen him reach the top of his field in providing FBO, repair, overhaul, completion and refurbishing services to customers worldwide, as chief executive at Innotech Aviation. 

Joseph Fernand “Frank” Henley established his career at the RCAF, and also bush flying. Henley held executive positions at Maritime Central Airways (MCA), Nordair and Hydro Quebec, where he masterminded immense logistical effort to transport heavy equipment, supplies and personnel to the James Bay hydro project via air. In doing so, he pioneered the use of ice runways for the delivery of heavy loads by air. Henley was named to the Order of Canada in 2003.

John Sandford, former president of de Havilland Canada, was its chief executive during the company’s tumultuous period as a crown corporation. During this time he launched a new generation of regional airliners that saved the company from collapse. His legacy can be seen in the more than 1,000 Dash 8 aircraft used by airlines around the world.

Dave O'Malley

Restoration Update #4

Hurricanes, Spitfires, Corsairs, Oh my!...      

            …I mentioned last week that the first order of business today would be to explain the significance of the rudder trim tab…and to save resorting to Wikipedia, embarrassing myself, and offending pilots and AM-Es alike, I will have to take one more rain check! I swear! If I don’t follow through next week send me an angry email. However, I also promised this week would be TWICE as exciting. Here’s to hoping I delivered!

            Exciting Factoid #1:

            Unfortunately this Saturday I was not working on the Hurricane (not the exciting part). Will and I were helping out Paul with the Mk. XVI Spitfire (Exciting part, in case that wasn’t obvious). We (not me, I wish) are also repairing/rebuilding/entirely completely fabricating a new pair of Mk. IX wings for our Spitfire out West! The Mk. IX graciously lent its landing gear locking pin to our Mk. XVI Spit so that it could enjoy a safe flying season! Well we finally got the locking pin back and it was time to replace/return it!

Even our airplanes share well

I wonder if the origins of the boomerang were really from a frustrated AM-E...

The “boomerang,” houses the locking pin. That’s the brass nib sticking out the right side and this is pictured above. Sadly when we tested it out, it didn’t boomerang back to us…it just flew like a brick…and made a nice hood ornament for the Cornell…oooh bad joke…(don’t hurt me!). The Mk. IX locking pin is in a brass finish. The newly returned Mk. XVI locking pin, pictured below, is finished in stainless steel. Now all we had to do was pull the old one out and put the new one in, simple…well relatively speaking. We just had to disconnect the electronics, take out the landing gear arm, take out the boomerang, disconnect more electronics, remove the old pin, line up about 4 separate bushings, channels and holes (which took equally as many people), and put the new pin in…yeah, simple!

Out with the old and in with the new...sort of

So, the very first thing we had to do was remove the landing gear (the electronics were attached to it so that was done simultaneously. Below is the port side landing gear. As you can see in the second picture, the boomerang is clearly obstructed by the landing gear. I wasn’t lying when I said it was simple, honest!

Landing gear, seems important

Simple, really

The first thing Will worked on was removing a circular shaped panel on the top of the wing while I removed a panel on the underside.

So shiny you can see your reflection

I didn’t snap a picture of the panel I removed so we will move right along. The next thing that Will had to do was remove the airbrake line from the main landing gear (that’s the black tube running down the backside of the landing gear, you can see it if you scroll up).

Then once that was down, we had to remove the cotter pin from the nut and bolt assembly holding the actuator to the landing gear (the actuator lives up to its literal name and engages the landing gear into which ever position the pilot desires, up or down). Once we did that we could remove the landing gear (or landing gear arm) from the Spit.

Looks pretty solid 

As you can see, the cotter pin and nut were removed. The cotter pin is a pin that goes through an opening in the castle nut (which looks like the parapet of a castle, Google it) and then through the hole in the bolt. Once it reaches the other side, its’ prongs are bent in opposite directions. This stops the nut from loosening over time. Once we carefully pulled that bolt out, the actuator slips out of the groove. Then Paul came over and helped us safely remove the landing gear arm.

It takes a village to maintain a 70 year old aircraft

Voila! Not even a scratch! It was only super heavy and required 3 people to remove. Sometimes it really makes you wonder how these aircraft were maintained during the war years…I guess that they weren’t expected to last as long, a rather sad reality. With the landing gear out of the way we could move on to removing the electrical bits.

The junction box - sounds like a hip jazz bar

Above is the junction box. This is responsible, if I remember correctly, for sending the appropriate information to the landing gear indicator in the cockpit. This lets the Pilot know his landing gear are down and locked and has “3 green.”  After labeling all the input wires, we could remove them (L for left, R for Right…very complicated methods at work here). We want to keep track of where they go because if they were to be reinstalled incorrectly, we’d blow a fuse when we test the landing gear. 

This is why we do not have one of those red 'That was easy' buttons on the shop floor. It rarely is.

That was easy! And that was only half the battle. After that it was just a matter or removing the boomerang and then we could begin the process of swapping out the locking pin. I didn’t get any pictures of the boomerang-locking pin being replaced and I’m kicking myself over it. It was quite the ordeal. I also forgot to mention that the pin was spring-loaded which complicated the matter thrice-fold. Well not entirely I just felt like using the word “thrice-fold”…don’t ask I have no idea why...it sounds kinda cool? Nonetheless, it took one person to hold the spring-loaded locking pin. One person to line up all the various bushings, holes, and slots, one person to hold the flashlight, and two people standing off to the side chuckling devilishly at the others seemingly vein efforts…don’t tell ‘em I said that! (Just kidding guys, I didn’t find anything amusing about your struggles).

Since I didn’t snap any pics of their struggle, I also failed to snap a pic of the completed replacement. That’ll second order of business next week (after the Trim Rudder explanation).

Exciting Factoid #2

You never know what’s going to happen when you spend a day at the Hangar. One day an aircraft goes for a surprise flight, tours come through, movie’s get filmed (unfortunately I didn’t snag the lead role), and Corsair’s get run. The last item is today’s make’s today’s blog twice as exciting. It’s just as well part of the restoration process because it’s quite distracting and distracted me from the restoration. So here are some NICE shots (If I don’t say so myself) of the Corsair being run-up.

It's cold out, but there's work to do

With the ground power connected, it was time to wind up the massive 12-foot-diameter propeller. I got to help wind it up; it also took 4 of us. Paul had the best seat in the house (the cockpit) running through his start-up checklist.

Run 'er up Paul!

Once it got going, Paul unfolded the wings, which I caught on tape (it may appear on the VW Facebook page soon, so be sure to “like” the page!). Look at that, nice capture of the rotating propeller…I have no idea how I did it, really, no idea!

After it was run for a good few minutes and all the liquids cycled through the engine it was time to put the Corsair back in the cozy hangar, and my it certainly was cozy because we packed another Jet (I’m not sure what it was called, it was big, red, and Russian, but had US markings on it…) and an RV-8 in leaving just about 1’(foot) clearance to close the doors.

Back into the warm, tightly packed hangar. All in a days work.

Also, it was REALLY cold today…needless to say I was ready for a warm up coffee and a moment to make sure I had all my fingers still.

Well I hope I delivered with the twice as exciting bit. Working on the restoration team means helping out on all the restoration projects. It was quite exciting (for me, and Will I’m sure) to help Paul out on an air-worthy aircraft and the Mk. IX wings. Hopefully next week we will be helping re-install that landing gear arm. If I help out on that you’ll be sure to hear about it!

Take care and see you next week,

Chris

P.S. (to myself) learn about rudder trim, learn about rudder trim…no excuses now.