Close Calls: The Life of Paul Whitman Raney. Part III

Paul Raney, 116th Observation Squadron, Washington Air National Guard c. 1932

Close Calls: The Life of Paul Whitman Raney, Part III

                               By Patrick Raney

Gray Field, Camp Lewis, Washington – June, 1933

       Western Washington’s June weather was typical.  Rain. Not big-drop rain that falls on the wheat fields and ponderosa forests in eastern Washington and then stops, but a persistent misty rain, the kind that enfolds a man in a moist chill.  Paul and his contingent of dry-landers from Spokane, members of the 116^th Observation Squadron, weren’t adapting well.  Inside their wet tents, duffle bags and uniforms hung damp.  Everything was soggy – their food, their equipment, the clothes on their backs. Even the planes’ cockpits.

       The men from the photo section - Fred Shelton, George Nilson, Fran Droughter, and Paul - chatted over mugs of hot coffee in the cook shack.  This was their photo section's second year coming to Camp Lewis for training.  The previous year they’d been rookies, but now felt seasoned, proudly wearing their squadron's insignia - an ace of spades with a dagger driven through the card's center.  The 116th's motto was Caveat Hostis – “Let the enemy beware!”  

      The unit had three old Curtis JN-6-A2 “Jenny” biplanes, delivered in parts to Spokane by train in 1926 and assembled at Parkwater Field, renamed Felts Field the following year.  Each aircraft, weighing about 1400 pounds, was only a wooden frame covered in fabric, with two open seats for the pilot and photographer. The men in the photo section worked hard, each hoping to be picked for a mission.  Although they’d flown practice flights over Spokane, choice flights were reserved for annual duty at Camp Lewis.

      The previous year, 1932, Paul had been picked for a mid-morning flight, on which he took photos of Mt. Rainier and other landmarks as the biplane winged north toward Seattle.  Leaning out above the city, he'd snapped aerial photographs of the University of Washington campus and the Seattle waterfront.  Developed later back at Felts Field, the photographs proved Paul’s keen eye for detail. The following day he’d been disappointed when another member of the unit was chosen to photograph the Columbia River Gorge around Celilo Falls.  The Bonneville Power Administration was planning to build a large dam there and wanted overhead photos to better understand the topography. Instead, Paul had been assigned KP duty, his very worst he recounted years later with a laugh. Not only did he peel and slice buckets of spuds, but cooked them, too; then stayed up until 11 p.m., soaking and scrubbing large pans encrusted with burnt potato, milk and cheese because the cook had decided to make escalloped potato casseroles. 

      But that was then and now an officer strolled in from the rain to announce that the meteorological unit predicted clear weather in the morning.  Perhaps because of the quality of his photographs the previous year or maybe because he stood at attention smarter than his fellows, the officer singled out Paul for the morning's mission, a repeat of the previous year’s flight over Seattle.

      The next morning, June 15, 1933, the biplane lifted off from Gray Field, headed over Tacoma and its new airport, Bow Lake Field, one day to become Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.  The ceiling was about 8000 feet with fair visibility; a patching fog was clearing along the Cascade Range, but lingering over Puget Sound. Paul took aerial photos of the University of Washington and the port of Seattle. The pilot headed out over Puget Sound and flew south, ordering Paul to photograph the state capitol in Olympia. Afterward, he turned back north, flying up the sound, intending to return to Gray Field.

Paul's photo of Husky Stadium U. of Washington

As they approached Anderson Island, the ceiling dropped, reducing visibility.  The pilot yelled over his shoulder that he was going to fly low as he headed for the field.  The engine sputtered, sending shivers up Paul’s spine, but then roared back to life.  Flying low over water, surrounded by cloud, it was obvious the pilot wasn’t locating the landmarks needed for his approach to the field.  Nothing looked the same to Paul, either. The engine sputtered again and the pilot turned inland. A good pilot, he had correctly estimated the distance and, with relief, Paul saw Camp Lewis' roads, buildings and tent.  That same moment the biplane's engine quit and the propeller stopped.  The only sound was the wind. Heart pounding, knowing they were too low to safely parachute down, Paul held on and prayed. But his pilot was skilled and, although the wind conditions weren’t right for his approach, he dropped the stalled plane onto the middle of the field, bouncing it hard a few times, then rolling to a halt as ground crew rushed out to check for injuries. It was Paul’s last flight in the National Guard.

Paul and Fred Shelton at Grey Field 1933

Back in Spokane life changed little for Paul.  Other than the companionship of friends, the daily grind was just that, a daily grind.  He got work through his dad, Frank, at the Northern Pacific shops, beginning an apprenticeship as a machinist, fortunate to have employment as the Great Depression worsened.

He was working with a journeyman machinist, building a piece for replacement in the driving system on the left side of a steam locomotive.  It was a long process, taking them over a week to turn out the part. Paul was proud of his contribution, having done a major part of the rebuild.  The part installed, he was ordered to move the engine from the roundhouse to an outside track so a crew could road test it.

It took him some time to build the fire and bring up the steam to the correct levels. After slowly moving the goliath to the front of the turntable, he climbed down from the cab and entered the turntable control shed, where he maneuvered the track to align with the track his locomotive idled on. 

On his way back to the cab, a supervisor hailed him, wanting to see the results of the repairs.  He praised Paul for a job well done and they talked for a few minutes.  As the super walked away, Paul, much elated, vaulted into the cab.

And then disaster struck!  While Paul had been passing inspection, another worker had gone into the shed and adjusted the turntable to move a different engine out of the roundhouse.  With the super’s praise echoing in his ears, Paul thrust the throttle forward and ran the locomotive nose-first into the turntable pit.  

Similar NP locomotive turntable wreck in Spokane, 1904

While Paul stood thunderstruck in the cab now tilted about 45^o, all commotion broke loose.  The supervisor, who had heaped praise on Paul, yelled at him to get his junk and get out.  He was fired!

Paul worked through his disappointment and humiliation and carried on.  His positive disposition got him through this trying time.

16-year-old Grace and brother George Bernhardt 1930

            Then he met George Bernhardt’s sister Grace while with a group of friends at Natatorium Park at the end of the trolley line in northwest Spokane.  A magnet for young people, the park had a large dance hall with live music, a swimming pool, a baseball diamond for semipro games, picnic grounds and amusements, including a 1908 Loof carousel. 

      Not long after meeting, Paul and Grace became engaged and married in 1934.

Wedding of Grace Elizabeth Bernhardt and Paul Whitman Raney

July 2, 1934 at St. Pascal Catholic Church

(left to right back row) Dave Page, Fran Droughter (partially hidden), Bob Rice, Tom Page, Leroy Shelton, John (Butch) Bernhardt, George Bernhardt, Frank Raney.

(left to right front row) Martina Reinhart, unk girl, unk girl, Paul Raney, Grace Raney, Genevieve Costello, Celeste McKenna, Fred Shelton, unk girl, Dennis Raney, unk girl, Josephine McKenna, Leo McKenna

Read the history of the 116th Observation Squadron HERE

More to come in the life of Paul Whitman Raney.