Man recounts surviving midair collision with another plane
The morning of Feb. 8, 1956, was a crisp, bright, winter day with several inches of snow on the ground. It was, in fact, the kind of day my friend, Leo Zimmer, and I had been waiting for: calm, clear and perfect for flying. Or so we thought.
I had approximately 130 hours of flying time and had earned my private pilot’s license, building time for a commercial pilot’s license while my wife was teaching in the Helena school system. My mornings were spent at the Helena School of Aeronautics where I was studying for my Airframe and Powerplant Mechanics license. My afternoons were spent flying to obtain the 200 hours of flying time necessary to get my commercial license. My wife and I were the proud owners of a Piper PA 12 “Super Cruiser” airplane.
Zimmer also was building time to become a commercial pilot. It was the goal of both of us to eventually become agricultural pilots. We were raised in the dryland grain country of northeastern Montana within a few miles of each other and were, at least in our own minds, confident that we were familiar with the type of work we would be doing.
Zimmer’s training to this point had been completely in a 140 Cessna. Anyone familiar with a 140 knows that it is a “wheel” control airplane in contrast to the “stick” type control used in many other models, including the “Super Cruiser” that I owned. Any spraying airplane that we would fly would most likely have “stick” control, and Zimmer wanted to gain some experience with a stick.
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We had planned that on the next nice, clear day we would go out together in my cruiser. Our general plan was to shoot a few landings with me in the front seat and him in back following through on the controls. Then we would climb out to the practice area to run through a few stalls for the purpose of familiarizing him with the stall characteristics of the airplane. We’d return to the airport and shoot some more landings with him in more positive control, stop, taxi to the end of the runway, change seats and go again with Zimmer in the front seat where he could see better (he would have to sit on pads and parkas in back to be able to see over and around me) and be in complete control, unless he should need a little help. In effect, he would familiarize himself with stick control.
And Feb. 8 was that perfect day.
It was about 1:30 p.m. when we were ready for takeoff. We taxied to the end of runway 29. Takeoff was routine, the air smooth and solid. There were no other aircraft in sight as we flew a normal touch-and-go pattern. I set up glide on downwind and misjudged my turn to base so that I was way too high. I didn’t get the airplane landed until we were about halfway down the runway.
I had to judge whether to roll to a stop and taxi all the way back up the 5,000 foot runway or pour the throttle to it and take off from my landing roll out. I decided on the latter and again we were airborne. But this time, because we were farther down the runway at the time of takeoff, we were considerably farther out from the airport when we reached turning altitude.
Again, a decision faced us. Should we go around again and land? Or, since we were so far out, should we leave the pattern and head for the practice area, which was only a few miles ahead? We decided to leave the pattern and climb out toward the Scratch Gravel Hills, northwest of the airport and the general area we used for practice.
When we reached the 1,500-feet, above-ground level that was required for the type of maneuvering we intended to do, the air became choppy, uncomfortably so. This was pretty unusual for the type of day it was, but anyone familiar with flying in and out of Helena knows that rough air can be found at almost any time or place, in any weather condition. We decided to head for smoother air in the northeastern corner of the valley about 10 miles away.
We reached the northeast corner of the valley, almost over Hauser Lake near the Spokane Hills, and turned south preparing to practice stalls. The air here was good. The sun was very bright. We were 2,000 feet about the ground. We cleared our position by making 45-degree turns both right and left so we could look in all directions. We could see no other airplanes in the area.
But the beauty of the day had attracted other pilots to the airport.
Chuck Lynch, Montana Cessna distributor at the time, had flown in from Billings on business in a new Cessna 172. Scott Woods, manager of Morrison Flying Service and Cessna dealer, jokingly said something to the effect of, “I’ll sell that airplane for you this afternoon,” as Lynch walked through the office door. Harold Hagbom, a rancher from Winston, a community southeast of Helena, and his brother-in-law, Virgil Buell, a Helena trucker, arrived at the airport. They entered the office and talked with Woods. Hagbom was a long acquaintance of Woods and a private pilot. He was a prospect for an airplane sale. The conversation that took place is not known, but a short time later the three entered the new Cessna 172 with Woods at the controls. They took off on what was assumed to be a demonstration flight.
Meanwhile, we prepared to stall the Super Cruiser. I had hardly said a word before Zimmer cried, “Look out!”
I turned quickly to the front and stared at the nose of an airplane coming directly toward us. It appeared that he was rolling out of a climbing left turn. Reflex forced me to bank sharply to the left, as it looked like this would be the only possible way to miss him if he continued in his bank to the left. I immediately felt the impact of the collision.
I was knocked out for a split second, and when I regained consciousness we were heading straight down, rapidly using up the 2,000 feet between where the collision had taken place and the ground. Realizing that the engine had quit, I quickly looked around and saw that the windshield was gone, the wooden prop had one blade broken off, the right landing gear was folded up against the side of the fuselage and the wing struts on the right wing were bent. Although it was a February day, I don’t remember feeling the cold air rushing in.
I pulled gradually back on the stick, and I’m certain that I heard angels sing as the nose of the airplane slowly started to come up, just slightly. But the nose would only come up a little and we were in a gradual left turn that I didn’t seem to be able to correct, having no aileron control. We were heading directly toward a high voltage transmission line.
There was no use trying to restart the engine with the broken prop. I didn’t know that all the pads and parkas that Zimmer had been sitting on in the back seat had slid from under him at the time of the collision and jammed behind the stick. He was finally able to free everything and I was able to pull back more on the stick and bring the nose up enough so we could clear the power line and establish a more level glide.
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Zimmer hollered, “Don’t stall it out!” and I replied “I’ll try not to!” That was the extent of the conversation I can remember on the way down. As I flared out to land, the airplane must have stalled out above the ground. We slid to a stop in about a foot of snow. I don’t recall if I was knocked unconscious during the landing, but I don’t remember the airplane hitting the ground and sliding. The airplane was at a complete standstill when I said to Zimmer, “Are you hurt?” He said “No!” and in so many words I said, “Let’s get the heck out of here!” We were afraid there could be fire. The whole event lasted a very short time, probably less than five minutes.
The door would only open about six inches, but we managed to unfasten our seat belts and slip out the door one at a time, in what I’m sure couldn’t have been more than two seconds. We looked each other over for cuts and bleeding, but found only one small cut on Zimmer’s chin, which he probably got when the broken pieces of the windshield flew through the airplane.
After finding that we weren’t hurt, our first thought was what had happened to the other airplane. We hadn’t seen it since that fraction of a second before we collided. We thought it was possible that we were only hit by their landing gear and they could have returned to the airport.
We could hear a vehicle approaching and looked up to see a 4-wheel drive pickup coming toward us. A survey crew that was working in the area had heard the crash, looked up and watched the airplanes come down to the ground. The other plane had started straight down with its right wing missing and the engine running wild. Someone closed the throttle and it continued straight down to the ground. The remains of their right wing, the skin of which unknown to us had been wrapped around our nose, floated down more slowly and landed quite a long way from the rest of the crash.
The survey crew also watched us go down and drove immediately to where we were. The two airplanes had landed only about a quarter of a mile apart. We drove to a nearby farmhouse to phone the authorities and wait for their arrival. Highway patrolman Al Mues and Dr. Amos Little arrived to check us out and take us to town.
In retrospect, we were extremely fortunate that the Piper PA12 held together on our trip to the ground. The nose was bashed in, windshield out, good evidence that the wing struts under both wings were bent, the trailing edge of both wings were damaged, no aileron control, and the right landing gear folded back. There was a big dent less than 6 inches under the right horizontal stabilizer. If it would have hit 6 inches higher, we would have had no control and would have gone straight in, like the Cessna. There was some damage to the right elevator. Everything came together perfectly for us to survive. If only things had worked out as well for Woods, Buell and Hagbom.
About the writer
Charles “Speck” Helmbrecht continued on to fly nearly 12,000 hours as a crop duster over 46 seasons. Most time was spent in northcentral and northeastern Montana, with seasonal stints in Nebraska, Mississippi, Colorado, Idaho and Washington.
In the off-season, Speck became a real estate salesman and broker in Montana eventually becoming a Montana certified general real estate appraiser and established an appraising business that is still active, being managed by his son, John Helmbrecht, and daughter, Shelley Shelden, who are both Montana Certified General real estate appraisers. Speck, who is now 87 years old, resides in Hingham, with his wife, Dee, who taught in the Montana school system for 33 years. Leo Zimmer sprayed crops for several years and farmed and ranched in the Peerless and Wolf Point areas in Montana. He passed away several years ago from natural causes.