In the cockpit profile: Flying the Cunningham-Hall

Flight Journal, Aug 2000 by Mohr, John

A SURVIVOR IN SPITE OF ITSELF

One of thr most common sayings in aviation is that. An airplane usually flies the way it looks." With that in mind, take one look at the Cunningham-Hall and you'll know exactly how it flies. Exactly! It was designed for a purpose: to haul heavy stuff off short, rough runways. It was a bluecollar job at a time when anything that could get off the ground was judged to be useful. There is nothing refined about it, and that pretty well sums up its character, as there is nothing refined about the way it flies. However, put the Hall in the context of its times and purpose, and you'll excuse that it's a little crude around the edges because it got the job done.

Every time I walk up to the airplane to preflight it, I'm impressed by its sheer size. I have a fair amount of de Havilland Beaver time, and the Cunningham-Hall is at least as big as that. As I walk around it, I'm looking for obviously loose or damaged structures-just as you would on any other airplane, but on the C-H, so much more is visible. While I'm pulling the prop through to clear the engine of any oil in the lower cylinders, I eye the landing gear and remind myself how this airplane handles on the ground. I fly most of the 15 or 16 airplanes Greg Herrick keeps airworthy in his collection, and every one flies differently, but the Cunningham is one of the most "different" of the bunch. A lot of that difference is caused by the landing gear's geometry.

For one thing, the landing gear has a major design flaw in the location of the pivot points. They are such that as the gear articulates, it causes entirely too much toe-in, so once the plane starts to turn on landing, it wants to turn tighter and tighter. Equally serious is the huge extension of the struts after the airplane has lifted off. This was probably designed for rough field landings, but the strut travel is several feet, and not only do they extend on takeoff, but they also swing inboard, nearly putting the edge of the tires even with the pivot point; so on a soft touchdown, the toe-in makes the long gear legs want to track in, not out, and you never know exactly what it's going to do. This is complicated by its brake system: just when you have full rudder control and need brakes the most, they can't be activated. I'm constantly reminding myself on landing, particularly in crosswinds, that I have to back off the rudder if I want to get on that particular brake. It's a very unnatural thing to do.

Most of the gear-related problems are greatly reduced on grass or dirt runways, as the loose surface lets the tires slide; however, we operate off pavement most of the time, so I'm always aware of the possibilities. We also modified the struts slightly so the gear no longer extend as far as they once did. Greg, who does his very best to keep his airplanes as "original" as possible, gave in on this point because it was obvious that on pavement, the airplane was a danger to itself and to everyone aboard.

Another item to check during preflight is the position of the elevator trim because there is no indicator in the cockpit. The trim, which is horribly slow and arduous, moves the leading edge of the horizontal stabilizer up and down; I make sure the stab is a little below center in the slot on the fuselage.

Even on boarding, the airplane has its own character: because of its tail-down stance, the door wants to keep closing on you. To get in, you wedge the door open with your shoulder and wiggle through the opening, fighting the door all the way.

In its day, the airplane was a hauler, and its interior looks like it; it's essentially a large, empty packing crate. There's also a big hatch in the ceiling, and legend has it they once lowered a horse through the roof for a delivery flight. Legend doesn't tell us how they got the horse out at the destination or how it enjoyed the flight!

When you fly the Cunningham-Hall, there's no doubt you're flying a vintage piece of hardware when you've squirmed into the pilot's seat. For one thing, the engine is, literally, right in your face; there are only about six inches between the instrument panel and the firewall. To make it even tighter, the 450hp, P&W R-985 is so close to the firewall that a bump covering the magnetos protrudes into the cockpit, and my knees touch it while I'm just sitting in the seat. Of course, I'm six feet, four inches tall, and my long legs make everything more difficult, especially the brakes.

The airplane is very simple, so getting the engine started and ready to taxi is a matter of three or four strokes on the primer and cranking it over. Taxiing is pretty close to being hard work because of the lack of visibility and the dependency on the awkward brake setup for steering (the fullswivel tailwheel doesn't steer). The traditional S-turns for clearance are tough enough, but if there's a strong crosswind, one brake is constantly engaged. Opening the window and hanging your head out helps, but not much. As difficult as it sounds, however, at the same time, it has to be remembered that it is this type of mechanical weirdness that gives antique airplanes their character and makes them antiques.