Upside Down in a WWII Biplane: A Barnstorming Adventure in the Lowcountry

Just your average upside-down joyride in a WWII relic

Story by Carolyn Males

I hadn’t planned to fly upside down. In an open cockpit. In a World War II-era biplane. But then what exactly did I expect when I signed up to be a passenger in a vintage prop plane flown by a barnstorming pilot? The Red Baron Stearman Squadron, one of the longest-running civilian barnstorming aeronautics teams, performed heart-clenching stunts at aerial shows to promote its brand and I’d been offered a “front row” seat. How could I refuse? 

A few minutes earlier, I’d been standing on the tarmac of this small rural airport where my pilot, Steve, greeted me with a wide grin. “You like rollercoasters?” he asked. I nodded. “Ready for some loops and rolls?” His smile grew broader, and he was now rubbing his hands with glee. “Uh, sure,” I replied. But now that I was inches from this flying contraption, it was looking pretty small and, to my uneducated eyes, maybe a tad flimsy. I was beginning to have second thoughts about my sanity.

“What can you tell me about this bucket?” I asked in a show of bravado, using lingo I’d picked up on a single-engine aircraft flight with a pilot friend, hoping to demonstrate I was “in the know,” not just some know-nothing passenger which, of course, I was. 

“Oh, it’s from around 1944-45,” Steve replied. Engineers, he explained, had adapted aviation pioneer Lloyd Stearman’s 1931 design to train Army and Navy fighter pilots. Boeing built around 10,500 of them. “But there are only about 500 flying today,” he said.

Now as I eyed its pristine red and white exterior more closely, I could see that it was well maintained, giving me a shot of confidence. “You been flying this long?” I asked. “Two years,” Steve replied. “But I’ve got 30 years of piloting experience. I’ve been an aeronautical engineer — and a Navy fighter pilot.” Okay, good answer, I think. Let the good times roll — literally. 

Now Steve had me step onto a foothold built into the wing and pull myself up into the small front cockpit by holding onto the struts. Then harnessing me in, he clicked the seat belt closed. Slipping the helmet over my head, I lowered the goggles, and Steve buckled the strap beneath my chin. “All set?” he asked. I gave him a thumbs up. 

“Good. Now this is what you have to do if we have to bail out.” Wait a minute. Bail out?  I hadn’t remembered anything about skydiving in the original invitation. “First you have to unsnap the seat belt, remove your helmet and climb out on the wing,” Steve was saying matter-of-factly. “Then you jump. And don’t forget to pull the rip cord.” He pointed to the silver thingamabob on my left shoulder. He grinned.

“Got it,” I replied with a laugh, now sliding into my “role” in this bit of aerial theater.

Ah, but we were not quite done. “And while we’re in the air, do not touch the pedals,” he warned, gesturing toward the foot levers inches from my feet — pedals that looked as though they belonged in a go-cart. “They control the rudder. And by the way, if you have to hold on, use these bars on the side.” My gaze went to metal holds where he was patting.  A good thing to know in case we go hurtling toward Mother Earth. 

With that he climbed into the rear cockpit, and we were rolling down the runway. That’s when I noticed a second biplane was moving alongside us. In the blink of an eye we were lifting off in perfect sync, flying a wingspan apart from this other barnstormer with his own wide-eyed passenger. 

Hah, I thought, no need to hold onto those side rails. Our engine is noisy, but that’s all to the good. That means the motor’s working and the propeller is turning. Now I was looking around and grinning at the farm 3,000 feet below where Elsie the cow stood near a red barn, presumably peacefully chewing her cud.

Suddenly, I heard a buzz in my ear. It’s Steve asking me if I’m all right. I pushed the button and say “Cool!” That’s when I noticed the other plane is moving off to the left and the nose of our plane was pointing higher. And higher. And higher! It’s then that I realized my answer should have been noooooooooo… We shot up like a rocket. Totally vertical. Aimed at the sun. “Curse you, Red Baron, “ I muttered as we sped toward that yellow ball. We’re really barnstorming. 

Just when I thought we were going to smack old Sol in the face, Steve pulled a fast one: the plane rolled left, we went upside down, and all those nice barns and cows I’d been admiring were standing on their heads. Or maybe it’s just that we were on our heads. Then we did it the other way. I lost track, but at some point we started plunging toward all those critters below, like a rocket ship in reverse, only to right ourselves before we crashed into a silo or the formerly contented cows. This went on for a while: loops, hammerheads, rolls, whatever. Even though there was no way I was going to fall out of the plane, especially since the G-Force had pinned me to the seat, I had a death grip on those aforementioned side bars. 

After several hair-raising maneuvers, we eventually straightened up and rejoined our sister plane. Once more the world was spinning in the right direction, and we were back in normal sight-seeing mode. This went on for a few more minutes but, to my surprise, I started to get fidgety. Okay, now that I knew the lay of the land so to speak, I wanted more thrills and chills. Cruising was like being on a roller coaster with no loops. Just as I was about to press the orange button on my headset and beg for a little more action, the planes separated, and, dang it, we were both headed toward the runway. Down below us a small plane awaited clearance for take-off, but he had to wait. But, ha! We shot right over him and swooped away in unison.

For the grand finale, our sister biplane peeled off, signaling yet another action-packed maneuver. And suddenly both crafts were flying with our right wings pointing toward the ground.  This was a snap roll, I later found out. The plane went into a stall, Steve kicked the rudder, we leveled off and came in for a real landing this time. On the taxiway I pushed the orange headset button and shouted “Bravo!”

When we finally came to a stop and climbed out, I told Steve “I’m ready to try out the pilot’s seat now.” 

“Why not?” he said, nodding in wry agreement, “you’ve seen how it’s done.”

The Red Baron Stearman Squadron went on to entertain crowds, raise money for children’s charities and create heart-stopping experiences for invited passengers like me until it disbanded in 1999 after 28 years. And, for the record, I did try out piloting a small Cessna and a glider, but I did not become a barnstorming pilot. And the world is probably much safer for that.