AVIATION NEWS: The Fearless Canadian Flier Who Led the Red Baron to His Death

[News]

From HistoryNet.com – link to source story Captain Wilfred “Wop” May leans on his Curtiss JN-4 during a 1919 exhibition in Calgary, Canada – National Archives, Canada Bob Gordon “Wop” May escaped the Red Baron and went on to make celebrated mercy flights and pioneer air rescue in the frigid Canadian North during World War II. On June 21, 1952, Wilfrid Reid “Wop” May, a giant in Canadian aviation, died of a stroke while hiking with his son to Timpanogos Cave, near American Fork, Utah. May’s flying career had opened with a scrap against the “Red Baron” and culminated in his receipt of the Medal of Freedom with Bronze Palm in February 1947 from U.S. Army Air Forces Brig. Gen. Dale Gaffney. His time in the air was marked by a series of Canadian aviation firsts and flights of incredible daring and difficulty. Wop, a nickname he acquired in childhood when an infant cousin was unable to say Wilfrid, was raised in the Alberta city of Edmonton, where he enlisted in the Canadian army in February 1916. Rapidly promoted to sergeant, he applied to the Royal Flying Corps upon his arrival in Britain a year later. On April 9, 1918, Lieutenant May was transferred to No. 209 Squadron of the newly created Royal Air Force. He had turned 20 only days earlier. World War I double Ace May smiles in 1918, while serving with No. 209 Squadron, RFC. (Canada Forces Archives) During a patrol in a Sopwith Camel on April 21, May was ordered to stay above—and out of—any dogfights. Encountering a lone German novice who had been ordered to do the same, May nevertheless attacked. He had jumped Wolfram von Richthofen, cousin of Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron. The Baron, piloting his trademark red Fokker Dr.I triplane and seeing his younger cousin in trouble, took on May. Later May suggested his inexperience saved his life: “Richthofen was firing at me continually, [and] the only thing that saved me was my poor flying. I didn’t know what I was doing myself and I do not suppose that Richthofen could figure out what I was going to do.” A .303-inch bullet put an end to the chase. Penetrating the Baron’s right armpit and resurfacing next to his left nipple, it was later found in his clothes. He managed a rough landing behind Allied lines, dying shortly thereafter. Controversy surrounds the source of that bullet. The RAF attributed the kill to May’s squadron leader, Canadian Roy Brown. However, multiple Australian and British ground troops also claimed to have fired the fatal round. Regardless, it is certain that May was Richthofen’s quarry when he was killed. The Canadian would go on to claim 13 victories, becoming an ace and earning the Distinguished Flying Cross for “proving himself on all occasions a bold and daring pilot.” The Red Baron’s Fokker Dr.I lies mangled in France after he was killed on April 21, 1918, while pursuing May. (IWM Q 10929) Back on civvie street, Wop and his brother rented a Curtiss JN-4 “Jenny” and started May Airplanes Ltd., operating out of Canada’s first civilian airfield on the northwestern outskirts of Edmonton. In September 1919 May made history when he flew Edmonton Police Detective James Campbell 125 miles west to intercept John Larsen, a double murderer fleeing on a fast rattler. May delivered Campbell to Edson, where the detective caught a train to Mountain Park. He captured Larsen at the nearby Cadomin mine and returned the surprised fugitive to Edmonton for trial. May’s most famous flight resulted from a medical emergency. On December 18, 1928, Dr. Harold A. Hamman composed a curt telegram in Little Red River, Alberta. After a 12-day, 280-mile trip south by horse and sleigh to the nearest telegraph station in Peace River, it landed on the Alberta deputy minister of health’s desk on New Year’s Day. It read: “DIPHTHERIA. FEAR EPIDEMIC. SEND ANTI-TOXIN.” Accompanied by Vic Horner in an Avro Avian, May took off on the 450-mile flight north that would take them almost to Alberta’s northern border on January 2. Through headwinds and a fierce storm, braving -30˚F temperatures, they successfully delivered the serum the next afternoon. The pair returned to Edmonton on January 6 to a crush of spectators and a raucous reception. From left, Dr. Harold A. Hamman, Vic Horner, May and a policeman shake hands after May and Horner flew diphtheria serum to northern Alberta on January 3, 1929. (Denny May Collection) In 1932 May played an integral role in the hunt for the “Mad Trapper of Rat River.” On the last day of 1931, Albert Johnson shot and wounded Royal Canadian Mounted Police Constable Alfred King when the Mountie tried to execute a search warrant by forcing entry into the trapper’s cabin. Johnson subsequently survived an attempt to dynamite him out of his cabin, fleeing west through the frozen wilderness. He killed pursuing Constable Edgar “Spike” Millen on January 30 and eventually crossed the Richardson Mountains into the Yukon Territory, shaking the posse. Desperate, the Mounties turned to May, now flying for Canadian Airways. Piloting a ski-equipped Bellanca CH-300 on Valentine’s Day, he caught sight of Johnson’s trail. Three days later, on February 17, the posse caught up to Johnson and killed him. During the gun battle Johnson critically wounded one of his pursuers. May, in his own words, “nosed the Bellanca down till our skis were tickling the snow” and flew the wounded constable to a hospital, saving his life. Despite losing the use of an eye in 1935, and consequently his pilot’s license, May’s finest hours were yet to come. During World War II he served in Edmonton as commander of No. 2 Air Observer School. Edmonton was a key stop on the Northwest Staging Route that ferried Lend-Lease aircraft from the continental United States to Alaska and then on to Siberia and the Soviet air force. Hundreds of North American B-25 Mitchells, Douglas A-20 Havocs, Bell P-39 Airacobras and P-63 Kingcobras made the trip, and some crashed in the northern wastes. The citation for his Medal of Freedom commended May, who “voluntarily loaned the personnel and the facilities of his school to assure the delivery of aircraft to the Aleutians and Alaska without delay. He conceived the idea of aerial rescue crews for rescue of fliers in the bush area, and after developing a trained parachute squad he furnished a rescue service indiscriminately to Americans and Canadians, thus saving the lives of many of our fliers. In so do doing he fulfilled the highest traditions of the Dominion of Canada.” This article originally appeared in the November 2020 issue of Aviation History. To subscribe, click here!Check out our Aviation and Pilots Forum www.Scudrunners.com

[Scudrunner]

This is who they should name YEG after.

Maybe Max Ward International sounds better but I would love to see the look on Woke people’s face when deplaning at Wop May International.

[Rosco P Coltrane]

I thought this could use some discussion and considered moving it. Looks like you did too.

[Colonel]

I think "Wop" May would be an HR violation today ... IIRC WOP is
slang for "without papers" and is what (often Italian) refugees
landing in NY got labelled with.

Those guys were tough. Aviation was a lot different back then.
Airplanes were sh1t. Flight training was worse, and frequently
fatal.

No one knew anything about flying, or aerodynamics for that
matter. I get the feeling we are regressing back to that state,
like a child that is born, is in diapers, and when that child grows
old, it end up back in diapers.

Everyone was self-taught. The ones that didn't teach themselves
quickly, died soon.

If you want a glimpse at early aviation, read up on "flying the mail"
after World War One. Wild. Fatal.

https://www.historynet.com/airmail-serv ... pilots.htm

On May 6, Fleet received a summons from Secretary of War Newton D. Baker and was told that Arnold had recommended him for the job of getting the airmail route started. Baker said, ‘The first plane will leave Washington for Philadelphia at precisely 11 a.m. on May 15th. President Wilson will be there.’

Fleet was dumbfounded. ‘Mr. Secretary,’ he said, ‘we don’t have any planes that can fly from Washington to Philadelphia and New York. The best plane we have is the Curtiss JN-4D Jenny, and it will fly only an hour and twenty minutes. Its maximum range is 88 miles at a cruising speed of 66 miles per hour.’

Baker listened patiently while Fleet explained that the range of a plane was dependent upon its fuel supply, that the Jennies had dual controls and were designed to carry only an instructor and a student, and that they had no baggage compartment where mail could be stowed. He told of the shortage of pilots, of how very few Air Service pilots had any experience flying cross-country, of how there were no adequate maps available, and of how there was a lack of good, experienced aircraft mechanics. He said he would need much more than eight days to modify some planes, test them and train some pilots.

Baker was adamant. Postmaster General Albert S. Burleson had already issued a national press release announcing that the airmail route was going to be inaugurated at 11 a.m. on May 15th, and he was not going to back down. The schedule, already announced, called for daily flights five days a week between Washington, Philadelphia and New York.

Fleet was furious, but he knew he could not waste a minute. He made arrangements with the Curtiss Aeroplane Corporation on Long Island, N.Y., to convert six JN-4Ds to JN-4Hs, which involved replacing the standard 90-hp OX-5 engines with 150-hp Hispano-Suizas.

‘And leave out the front seat and the front set of controls and make a hopper to carry mailbags up there,’ Fleet ordered. He also asked that the gas capacity be doubled by hooking two 19-gallon gas tanks and two 21Ž2-gallon oil tanks in tandem for longer range operation. A total of 12 modified Jennies would eventually be required. Next, he made arrangements with the owner of Belmont Park, a racetrack on Long Island, to use the infield as a terminus so that the training of Army pilots would not have to be interrupted on Hazelhurst Field at nearby Mineola. Bustleton Field, located near the railroad station in north Philadelphia, was designated for the midpoint station. The Washington, D.C., field would be Potomac Park’s old Polo Grounds, a 900-by-300-foot grassy area surrounded by trees between the Tidal Basin and the Potomac River. Fleet wanted to use the airport at College Park, Md., but postal officials objected because it was nine miles outside the city, too far from the main post office.

Mechanics were hurriedly located and ordered to report to the three fields. Fleet asked for six Army Air Service pilots and was told to choose four; the Post Office Department would choose the other two. Fleet selected Lieutenants Howard P. Culver, Torrey H. Webb, Walter Miller and Stephen Bonsal. They were the most experienced pilots available who had not yet been committed to go to France; however, only Culver had more than four months of flying experience.

Post Office Department officials selected Lieutenants James C. Edgerton and George L. Boyle, two recent flight-training graduates. Fleet understood why these two were chosen when he learned that Edgerton’s father was purchasing agent for the Post Office Department and Boyle’s future father-in-law, Judge Charles C. McChord, was an Interstate Commerce commissioner who was credited with saving the parcel post for the Post Office Department at a time when private express companies were fighting the government in court for the business. This victory gave Judge McChord enough political power to persuade postal officials to let his soon-to-be son-in-law go down in the history books.

Edgerton and Boyle had graduated only a few days before from flying school at Ellington Field, Texas. During their training they had flown briefly on one cross-country training flight, a short hop from Ellington to another field about 10 or 14 miles away. Both had only about 60 hours of student pilot time in their log books.

Fleet was furious over the two assignments made solely on the basis of political contacts, but he had no choice. On May 13, he took the train to New York with five of the six pilots, leaving Boyle in Washington to take the first flight north to Philadelphia. The modified JN-4Hs had arrived at Hazelhurst Field by the time he arrived, but they were still in crates. Fleet had only 72 hours to get them assembled and into position to begin operations.

Mechanics and pilots worked around the clock to get the planes ready. By the afternoon of the 14th, only two were ready to go. Leaving Webb in charge of getting the other planes ready, Fleet commandeered a Jenny from Hazelhurst Field that had the smaller engine and no extra fuel and oil tanks. The plan was for Edgerton, Culver and Fleet to fly to Bustleton Field and stay overnight. Early on the 15th, Fleet planned to fly one of the modified Jennies on to Washington so that Boyle would have the honor that Judge McChord so keenly wanted him to have.

Webb would leave Belmont Park at 11:30 a.m. on the 15th and fly the New York mail to Philadelphia; Edgerton would then fly Webb’s mail pouch and the Philadelphia mail from there to Washington. When Boyle arrived at Bustleton from Washington, Culver would take the Philadelphia mail, along with the pouches that Boyle would bring from Washington, to Belmont. From then on, these four pilots, plus Bonsal and Miller, would make all the trips during the experiment.

Fleet’s best-laid plans went askew from the start. He took off from Belmont in the late afternoon of May 14 for the 90-mile flight to Philadelphia in thick haze and fog, followed by Edgerton and Culver in their faster JN-4Hs. Fleet soon lagged behind in his lighter powered Jenny, and he lost sight of the others.

Fleet described the flight: ‘I climbed through the fog and came out at 11,000 feet, almost the ceiling of the plane. I flew south guided only by magnetic compass and the sun until I ran out of gas and the engine quit. Since we didn’t have ‘chutes in those days, there was nothing I could do but ride the Jenny down. I broke out of the clouds at about 3,000 feet over lush farmland, so I just picked out a nice pasture and landed. A surprised farmer sold me a five-gallon can of tractor gas but I had trouble getting it in the tank without a funnel. Perhaps three gallons got in the tank and the rest all over me, but darkness was coming and I couldn’t wait to get more from town. I asked him to point out the direction Philadelphia was and took off. Two miles from Bustleton Field I ran out of gas again and landed in a meadow. Since no telephone was available, I persuaded a farmer to drive me to Bustleton Field. Culver and Edgerton had just arrived after similar experiences, so I sent Culver with aviation gasoline to get my plane and fly it in.

‘There were so many things wrong with our planes and their engines that we worked all night to get them in safe flying condition. For example, one gas tank had a hole in it and we had to plug it up with an ordinary lead pencil. Next morning, one machine was flyable, so at 8:40 a.m. I took off for Washington, where I landed at 10:35 at the [Polo Grounds] in Potomac Park. The mail was due to start twenty-five minutes later.’

Fucking wild.

[Scudrunner]

All those guys had bigger sacks than the Mail was in.

Love those reads and to think usually my biggest concern flying these days is if the Catering will be on time and correct.

[Scudrunner]

I thought this could use some discussion and considered moving it. Looks like you did too.

Decided to take the news feed out of the recent topics, They seamed to just clutter up the discussion.

However there are many great news stories and articles posted in there. And yes I’m working on a custom CSS to clean up the RSS that feeds the raw data from my news site into the posts. Currently cleaning them up manually.

[Rosco P Coltrane]

These seem like the best settings right now. The news section is still easy to access.

[Slick Goodlin]

Those guys were tough. Aviation was a lot different back then.

In the depths of winter I often think about that while I’m riding high in pressurized, climate controlled, fast comfort at FL250 in an air ambulance over Northern Ontario. My counterparts ninety years ago would have been on a bad day picking their way along at a couple hundred feet in an open cockpit, navigating from a map they probably drew themselves a couple months prior. Basically any screwup could be fatal. I couldn’t do it.

[Colonel]

I understand that an open cockpit biplane was a pretty chilly place
in France in February in WWI.

I am a total pussy compared to both of my grandfathers, one of whom
survived structural failure of his biplane wings. No parachutes, remember.

[Liquid_Charlie]

I was doing that 50 years ago and we used 4 mile to the inch topo maps because the 8 mile aviation maps were not complete or accurate. We had it pretty good but no radios (HF worked maybe) no flight instruments and blow pots in the back for winter.

Sched flight would take up to 2 weeks away if the wx crapped out. The 3 main centres were Red Lake (me), Sioux Lookout and Pickle lake. No airports in the north and it was all VFR (we called in northwestern ontario VFR -- haha, my buddy went to the territories and YK tower violated him for landing in the back bay below IFR limits -- Ron was shocked -- but that is another story) scud running was SOP and it was personal limits and not regulated limits - what the fuck were they.

Standard loads ruled the day, pilot, fuel, equipment and rum had no weight, sort of defied the laws of physics. Log books were filled out with W/L or U/G in the weight column in the journey logs (no one actually knew the "legal" gross T/O weight), strangely we had company form for printed journey log books, not those hardcover green shit standard.

We never thought we had it hard and like what you were referring to were in awe of the guys who were flying in the gold rush days of the 30's, 40's and 50's when Hudson Ontario was the busiest airport in North America. The tariff from Hudson to Red Lake was $1/pound for passengers and gear. To put that in perspective and a today's dollar to that, an average of 300 lbs (person and prospecting gear) would be $5800, one way, in today's dollars to get from Hudson to Red Lake in an old Junker and just around 100 miles. Fuck me how things have changed. Today that's a round trip J class from YYZ to Dublin. One could actually make money owning an bush airline back then.

When I got to Red circa '67 I was a starry eyed farm boy from the Ottawa Valley (G'day) and the stories of Guys like Harold Farrington were awe inspiring. No maps except the one you sketched and running low on fuel, snow shoeing 10 miles to get fuel and then walking back packing the gas to retrieve the aircraft. Draining the oil every night in the winter and keeping it in the tent or shack beside the stove to help starting up in the morning. -40 was a winter norm back then.

There was no flight following and if you went missing it would be days or even weeks before someone got concerned. When I got to Red it had shrunk to 2 or 3 days (there were no Phones in the North, just radio phone through MTS on HF -- haha -- bottle of rum(survival gear, 5 star woods bag and a bottle of rum rolled in the centre) usually got you a clean bed and possibly a lonely nurse or teacher for company. It was so much simpler back then. We were a horny bunch -- haha and the ladies loved us.