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Thread: Ketzer Racing Team

  1. #101
    Allen J. Lang
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    Smitty, it is a good thing they did not have you pump the gear down. The main wheels would fall naturally, but, the nose gear had to be pumped down manually against the wind. When I used to go on test hops in the AF, we had the 1049 C-121 super Connies, the co pilot would get up and tell me to take to take his seat and pump away. When the pressure built up enough, it was a bugger on the last part as the nose gear started to rise. The wind pressure against the gear and gear door earned you a work out. Just before I left in '62, they converted from -91 to -93 3350 engines giving them just over 1 hp per cu in at take off and what a mess. They had to figure the oil milage instead of fuel milage. Just a quick up around the pattern, they had to go to the wash rack with oil dripping all over the wings and tail. They were a sweet flying old bird.

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    Allen, I never got to ride on a Connie like you and Smitty, but we had an AWAC Connie based in Keflavik when I was there in ’72-’73, and we boys in Life Support had to climb up into it to swap out parachutes and cold weather survival sleds. Of course, we spent time going around to the different stations, sat in the seats and checked it out. Fun times in Iceland.

  3. #103
    Team Member smittythewelder's Avatar
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    I don't recall that I heard about that, Allen, but can readily believe it; on the ground, a Connie sat in an aristocratic, nose-high attitude, requiring quite a long nose gear. One time, some key link in the nosegear of a PNA Connie (nine-two Victor, IIRC) was left out or fell out. The airplane took off without drama, but when it landed at Juneau or Annette Island the nosegear set up a wild shimmy like the castor on a shopping cart. When they finally got the airplane stopped, the violence of that shimmy had deeply wrinkled a six-foot section of the fuselage on both sides, forward of the wing. The airplane was so old at that point, mid-'60s, that they just ferried it back to Seattle and parked it as a parts-plane. The funny part of the story is that after it had sat for many months, some new suit demanded that the "eyesore" be sold for scrap. Sure enough, months later the company had to go to the scrap outfit and buy parts off the plane, at top dollar.

    Turbo-compounding those engines for more power and supposed fuel efficiency added more oil seals to leak. Alaska Airlines is a well-run outfit today, but fifty years ago and more it was the joke of the industry, with employees racing to the bank on payday in hopes their checks wouldn't bounce. In fact, there were times the fuel suppliers wouldn't take Alaska's credit cards. Anyway, in 1964 I was working on the ramp at PNA in Seattle. Alaska had somehow come up with the cash to build a hanger, next to PNA's, at the south end of the field. Alaska had their first two jetliners at that point, whether new or second-hand I don't know. In competition with the Boeing 707 and the Douglas DC-8, the Convair 880 was said to be the hot ship of the three. That might have been so, but it seemed to me that the engines on Alaska's Convairs all sounded like they had bad bearings, a weird sound. Anyway, at the same time, Alaska had bought one of TWA's surplus Lockheed "Jetstreams," the L1649 Constellation. This was in many ways the ultimate piston propliner, big, fast, long-range, and a smooth quiet ride. But it got into production too late, at the same time jets were appearing. TWA bought some, Lufthansa, not many others. Where they all went, I don't know, maybe straight to scrap because they needed a lot more maintenance than any jet. Certainly Alaska's old TWA cast-off needed some. I would look out across the way from the PNA hanger to where the Alaska mechanics were firing up the turbo-compound engines on their one L1649. And every time, at least one of the engines was just POURING white smoke out the exhaust and all over the south end of the airport. About once every week or so they'd try 'er again, same result, white smoke all over the place. Those guys should've tried to buy PNA's simpler and very reliable L749s, but PNA was still making money with them.

    Believe it or not, I can segue this back to boatracing. In the mid or late-Seventies, IIRC, a bright, energetic young guy named Pete LaRock, having done some volunteer work on Unlimiteds starting at Bob Gilliam's operation, bought himself a boat. Might've been the Lincoln Thrift. Anyway, Pete is proud owner, crew chief, and driver of this boat. Allison V-12, 1710 cubic inches, two turbochargers augmenting the little Allison centrifugal blower. A fine summer day at Seafair, Pete comes down for the start of Heat 1B with the rest of the pack . . . with, evidently, a blown seal in one of those turbos. Again, just POURING out a dense cloud of white smoke from the exhaust. But Pete either isn't seeing it or isn't worried about it. Runs the entire six laps with smoke, I mean S M O K E, pouring out to make a gigantic oval-shaped white cloud over Lake Washington, and all of us laughing our heads off and yelling, "GO PETE!!!"

  4. #104
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    Since I ran out of boat racing stories, that was to be the end of my thread, but since then, Wayne and Smitty told me they missed it and wished I had more to add. Well, early in the thread I mentioned the U.S. Army Rangers, as my father was one of Darby’s in WWII, but said I wouldn’t write further about the Rangers as it was too vast to cover, and it was going too far afield from boat racing. I’ve had second thoughts.

    My father, Steve Ketzer, passed away in 1993. Consequently, he never saw the Rangers come back into prominence or get the recognition they deserved. He never saw “Saving Private Ryan,” read the book, “The Boys of Point Du Hoc,” or heard the phrase, “The Greatest Generation.” He never went to a Ranger Reunion and didn’t say much about what he did during the war.

    In 2001, seeking information about my father’s time with the Rangers, I linked up with the Ranger Battalions Association of WWII, and my brother, Charlie, and I attended a WWII Ranger reunion in New Orleans that was scheduled to start on September 11, 2001, and last for several days. After the events of that day, I imagined the reunion would be cancelled. I called the hotel in New Orleans and talked to someone from the organization who was doing prep work for the reunion. I was told, “Hell, yes, we’re still having a reunion!” Although all planes were grounded, people from around the country were hopping in their cars and driving to New Orleans.

    I met Rangers at that reunion who knew my father, and they were just as fun and full of piss and vinegar as my old man. It was like being around him again. Since that reunion, and for the next twelve years, I showed up at national reunions to serve as bartender and run the hospitality suite. I became friends with and got to know Rangers from all six WWII Battalions. Today, very few remain, but they still have a reunion. The next will be in Branson, MO, here in a few days, and so I am on my way to Branson.

    In addition to bar tending, I’ve written articles for their newsletter, and while it’s a world away from boat racing, it does concern “The Ketzer Racing Team,” so I thought I’d put a few on here, the first of which will be in my next post that, with any luck, will follow in a few minutes.

  5. #105
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    Ranger Fathers: Desire and Determination


    My Ranger father, Steve Ketzer, and my mother, Jane, raised three boys, no girls (poor mom), so I don’t really know what it was like to be a Ranger daughter. I think it was Jerry Styles, or maybe Dan Galbraith, who suggested that Ranger daughters were raised as Princesses Papoulis. Maybe it was Dallas Pruitt, but anyway, Ranger sons had no connection to the Papoulis. A Ranger father, raising only sons, was like a silverback gorilla that spoke. Yes, and the gorilla used odd expressions, such as walla-ho, You ain’t woofin’, something about a house mouse, and if you asked him what time it was, he would likely respond, Half past a monkey’s…and you know the rest.

    A Ranger father could be a world of fun, if he was happy with you. If he wasn’t happy, it was, “Katie, bar the door!” My son Eric went through a stage where he criticized me for not expressing my pride in him to the extent he thought was warranted. I told him, “Jeeze, Eric, I wasn’t raised like that. My brothers and I never fretted over whether or not dad was proud of us, just whether or not he was mad at us.” If he wasn’t on our case, we were doing good; if he was, we weren’t. It was as simple as that, not that we never heard he was proud of us. We did, but that came vicariously, or we overheard him telling someone else, like the time I overheard him berating a couple aircraft mechanics: “Stevie is only fourteen years old, and he does better work than that!” Hey, I took that as a compliment, and figured he was proud of me, too. Mainly, like my baby-boomer high school friends, we just wanted our fathers to leave us alone. A father would put you to work; he would destroy your weekend; he would kill any possibility of a love life.

    No doubt, like most members of the Greatest Generation, our Ranger fathers told us that we could do anything we wanted to do, be anything we wanted to be, providing we had desire and determination. Concepts such as determination, quality, loyalty, truthfulness, pride in work, et cetera, weren’t pie-in-the-sky ideals, but basic minimum standards. The Greatest Generation believed and preached those things, but if you had a Ranger father, you could multiply it by a hundred: It was a way of life. However, you didn’t get the preaching, because they led by example (well, maybe some preaching).

    Off and on, and from the age of twelve, I worked with my father at the airport. My job included cleaning the hangar, shop and airplanes, and doing minor work on airplanes, such as removing inspection panels so mechanics could inspect. As a kid, the inspection panels on the underside of a wing appeared to have a million screws, and they were all tight. The screws I considered to be stuck, I left for one of the mechanics or my father to break loose so I wouldn’t bugger them up. One day, I asked my father to come and break loose some screws. He got under there with me, went down the wing, and it was, “Pop…pop…pop…pop.” In less than a minute, he had them all broken loose. Before he crawled from under the wing, he turned, handed the screwdriver to me, and said, “Determination.” That was it; that was the preaching, and sometimes, I have to tell you, it kind of made me mad. But, after that, the number of screws I could not break, dwindled to but a few.

    Some things my brothers and I learned through demonstration and repetition. If we slammed the door, we might have to come back in and demonstrate the proper way to open and close a door. Depending on the severity of the slam, we might have to demonstrate it quite a few times. Whatever the task, we were instructed that, “Quality comes first; then we’ll worry about quantity.” However, in not many words, he taught me that quality was relative, or came in different forms. We were rebuilding a wood and fabric aircraft, had the wings off and the entire airplane stripped down to a skeleton. My job was to clean, sand and varnish the fuselage. Well, I was putting on the first coat of spar varnish, and I thought I was doing a great job, being very meticulous: no runs, sags or brush marks. I glimpsed dad watching me, and I thought, “Ah-ha! He is no doubt admiring my work and thinking how meticulous and conscientious I am.” While that may have been what he was thinking, what he said was, “Who do you think you are, Rembrandt? Put some varnish on there.” It didn’t take much thinking to decide he was correct.

    I don’t want to give the impression that advice from my Ranger father was limited to the typically male arena. No, my dad gave fashion advice, as well. He taught us how to tie a Windsor knot and a bow and how to polish shoes, among other things. As soon as we started working, my brothers and I bought our own clothes, usually around the age of fifteen. I don’t recall if it was a requirement or not, but it was if you didn’t want the double-kneed Wranglers. Anyway, I ordered an outfit from the Spiegel catalog, and had it on when dad came home. I was considered “husky” back then. Boys in high school wore their jeans tight, stove-pipe legs and tight. We in junior high followed suit. So while wearing my new black jeans, I saw dad watching me. As I walked away, I imagined him admiring the style and cut of those catalog clothes that I had selected and purchased myself, and he may have been, but what he said was, “Damn, Stevie! It looks like you’ve got watermelons in you back pockets!” Oh, yeah, they could dish it out, but they could take it, too. When dad started losing his hair, I brought home from the schoolyard every joke about bald men and repeated it at the dinner table (Hey, mister! Shine your head for a quarter!). Dad just laughed. Three decades later, those jokes came back to haunt me.

    My brothers and I were convinced there was nothing dad couldn’t do, and do it better than the average bear, except win a spelling bee. Dad couldn’t spell for beans, and I razzed him unmercifully. Once at the airport, he was filling out an aircraft logbook, and I was poking fun at his lack of spelling skills. With a quizzical expression, he looked up from the logbook and said, “I know how to spell aircraft and engine, what else do I need?” We all went through a phase when we thought, “Hmm. I just may be smarter than the old man.” An occasion comes to mind. Dad was being inducted into the Lion’s Club. He had to show up and give a speech, and he asked me to go along. I thought, “Oh, no. He’s in over his head this time. Dad doesn’t know anything about public speaking.” Being a seasoned high school sophomore, I knew something about public speaking. I knew it was all about fear and embarrassment. Apparently, dad didn’t know enough to be afraid, and since he couldn’t spell embarrassment, I figured I’d just have to go and be afraid and embarrassed for him. Well, they gave him an introduction, and he, all smiles, hurried up to the podium and immediately began telling stories and jokes. He had them laughing and in the palm of his hand until he sat down. I couldn’t believe it. Maybe he learned that in the Rangers, too. I couldn’t figure it out.

    I learned a great deal from my Ranger father and would have learned much more if I hadn’t spent half my youth daydreaming. He taught me how to drive and work on cars and race boats; fly and work on airplanes; ride and work on motorcycles…how to shoot a rifle, tie a tie, home improvement: everything. Not that such instruction made me an expert at anything. No, it was only an introduction, but I knew I could become an expert, if I supplied the desire and determination. Yeah, I imagine quite a few of our Ranger fathers were gorillas, but we wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  6. #106
    Team Member Master Oil Racing Team's Avatar
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    Glad to see you back on here Steve. Of course the stories of your Dad belong here. As you know, I had quite a bit about my Dad's earlier years in the Baldy thread so people could get an understanding of where he came from. I got that idea from Ron Hill who has told lots of stories about his Dad Russ and brother Russ, Jr. It makes the story full to know about the kind of people that are in it. Look forward to more.



  7. #107
    Allen J. Lang
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    Steve love reading your exploits as I do Wayne's. Keep it up.

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    Thanks for the welcome back. I'll have more after Branson (news at 11).

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    Remembering 9/11, Steve Meade, and my boat racing father, here's an article I wrote for the WWII Ranger Newsletter in either 2004 or 2005.

    Colonel Stephen J. Meade


    Last year, while Vicki and I were on a cruise to the Panama Canal, I read Kenneth Pollack’s new book, The Persian Puzzle: The Conflict between Iran and America. Pollack also wrote, The Threatening Storm: The Case for Invading Iraq, which was published in 2002 and a book worth second and third reads as time passes. Anyway, I wasn’t far into The Persian Puzzle when I ran across the following passage:

    Then Mohammad Reza Shah turned to constructing an effective internal security apparatus. He requested help from the United States, who sent Army Colonel Stephen J. Meade, on loan to the CIA, to help Iran organize a modern intelligence service.


    I said, “Ha!” aloud, underlined Colonel Stephen J. Meade, and in the margin wrote, “Ranger,” then continued the passage.

    At least initially, the CIA tried to keep the shah’s new intelligence service focused on the Soviets, providing only basic training in tradecraft, Russian language skills, and mostly innocuous information on the Tudeh [Iranian communist party]. Meade urged the shah to keep domestic and foreign intelligence separate and tired hard to entice the Iranians to work on the Soviet target. But the shah had other ideas.


    In the end, the shah created the much hated SAVAK, which wasn’t what Colonel Meade or the CIA had in mind, but that’s the way she goes. I first met Steve Meade at the 2001 WWII Ranger Battalions Association (RBA) reunion in New Orleans. The event was scheduled to kick off on September 11, 2001. Due to events on that day, I called to see if the reunion was being cancelled and was told it most certainly was “not” being cancelled. With rumors of gas shortages and gas selling for ten dollars a gallon, my brother Charlie and I drove down from Arkansas on September 12, 2001. It was our first RBA reunion. Since all aircraft were grounded, Rangers and their families were en route, driving in from all over the country. The RBA was shorthanded for the first couple days. Charlie and I were put to work running the Hilton’s movie theatre, where we introduced and played various Ranger videos.

    It is not difficult to describe the feeling of being surrounded by Rangers the day after 9/11. The feeling was of absolute security, confidence and pride. Charlie and I had stumbled into the camp of the greatest warriors in the world, an extended family consisting of WWII Rangers, some Korean and Vietnam era Rangers, and a contingent of active duty Rangers led by a young sergeant named Marty Barreras who showed up to present the colors and give lectures, the latter group soon to find their way to Afghanistan, but all of whom, despite the age difference, had a calm demeanor that said, “Listen, if we’re buddies, I’m the greatest guy in the world; if not, don’t tread on me, pal.” Rangers: Quintessential Americans.

    So Charlie and I were out by the pool, taking a break from the theatre, when we heard someone shout, “HEY!” We looked around, but couldn’t determine the source. Then we heard it again: “HEY!” We looked to the far side of the pool and saw a man sitting on a bench, bandages on his forearms, his hands resting on a cane. A tall blond, older woman stood by his side. He thrust his chin at us: “HEY!” Charlie and I looked around, then at each other. We pointed to ourselves, a silent, “Us?”

    “YEAH, YOU! COME HERE!” He wasn’t a large man, but he had a large and commanding voice, so as commanded, we went. And that was our introduction to Stephen J. Meade and his lovely wife, Joan. As it turned out, Steve just wanted company. He wanted to know who we were, where we were from, what we did; he wanted to know about our Ranger father. As it turned out, Steve was also a member or the original 1st Ranger Battalion, as was our father. In fact, in June of 1942, it was Capt. Stephen J. Meade, and he commanded A Company or the original 1st Battalion.

    As time went on and I read more books on the Rangers, Steve Meade popped up in a number of them, including Darby and Baumer’s, We Led the Way; Mir Bahmanyar’s, Darby’s Rangers 1942-45, and Robert Todd Ross’, U.S. Army Rangers & Special Forces of WWII. Company A Ranger, Thomas Sullivan, beginning training at Achnacarry recorded the following in his diary, 6/17/42: Assigned A Company, Capt. Steve Meade commanding. Speed marches a.m., calisthenics, tumbling, jiu-jitsu and sports p.m., Day ends at 5. 7/12/42: Scaled down—abseiling—castle sheer drop of forty feet. Most of us burn or blister hands and thighs. Captain [Meade] first as always.

    But standing out by the pool in New Orleans, Steve was more interested in hearing about us. When he learned I was from Alaska, he told a story about the 82nd Airborne jumping in Greenland on a training exercise during the 1950s. Steve said enroute to the jump, it crossed their minds that they had no idea how the parachutes would react at such cold temperatures; indeed, they joked about the chutes not opening. But they jumped, and the chutes opened. Preparing to jump, Steve said they were advised there was a woman behind every tree in Greenland; unfortunately, upon landing they discovered there were no trees in Greenland. Joan gave a sweet Mona Lisa smile, no doubt having heard that story a few times.

    I saw Steve again at the 2002 RBA Reunion in New Orleans, the Minneapolis reunion in 2003, and we corresponded between reunions. In one letter, he apologized for a late reply stating, “I’m so occupied with helping the medical profession with their new cars, larger homes, etc., that I have little time to myself.” At Minneapolis, he began to call me, "my man, Friday," as I helped him negotiate the buffet line since he was having a bit of trouble getting around and Joan was unable to attend. Steve sat at the table with RBA officers and other dignitaries. Space was limited at that table. I told Steve, “No sweat, I’ll sit over there; just give me the high sign if you need me.” But he wouldn’t have it. They squeezed in a chair for me across from the famous Bing Evans and next to the infamous and Nicorette chewing Carl Lehmann.

    Stephen J. Meade passed away the following year on May 19, 2004, surrounded by his five daughters. He was 91 years old. It was only when Joan sent a copy of his biographical data that I began to understand what he accomplished in life. As if being an officer with the original 1st Ranger Battalion and being awarded a bronze star were not enough, Steve was an instructor at the Infantry School, and then commanded a battalion with the 82nd Airborne (1955-57). His political assignments included Assistant Army Attaché to Lebanon (1946-48), Acting Army Attaché to Syria (1948-49), Assistant Army Attaché to Iran (1953-55), during which time he was a consultant to Secretary of State John Foster Dulles, and following his time with the 82nd Airborne, he was Airborne Advisor to the Nationalist Chinese Army from 1957-60, where he personally advised Chiang Kai-shek on airborne matters. In addition to Chiang Kai-shek, Steve Meade had personal relationships with the Shah of Iran, President Nasser of Egypt, President Chehab of Lebanon and President Ayup Khan of Pakistan. Americans seldom lead the pack when it comes to foreign languages, but Steve Meade was fluent in French and Spanish, and could get by on his Portuguese, Italian, German and Arabic.

    There is a letter, dated July 13, 1953, in Steve’s file from General J. Lawton Collins, Chief of Staff, U.S. Army, that reads as follows:

    Dear Colonel Meade:

    I have recently received letters from The Secretary of State, The Honorable John Foster Dulles, and from Mr. Allen W. Dulles, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, expressing their high opinion of your professional services. The Secretary of State complimented you most highly for the splendid assistance you rendered to him and his party on his recent trip to the Near East and South Asia. Mr. Allen Dulles was equally praiseworthy about your record of service with the agency. Needless to say, it is always gratifying to receive such laudatory reports, and I want to take this opportunity to add this expression of personal appreciation for the fine work you are doing.



    Stephen J. Meade, having joined the National Guard in 1929 at the age of sixteen, retired from the Army in 1962 and began another career as a financial adviser for Waddell and Reed Financial Services. In William O. Darby’s farewell address to the Rangers, he said: In whatever field of profession you follow, I know that you will continue as civilians with the same spirit and qualities you demonstrated as a Ranger. Your aggressiveness and initiative will be tempered to adjust to civilian life with little difficulty. In your heart, as in mine, you will always have that feeling—of being a Ranger always.

    More than sixty years have passed since Darby spoke those words, and a handful of WWII Rangers remain, but those words were never more true. Whether Darby’s or Mucci’s Rangers, whether the Boys of Point Du Hoc or those from Bloody Omaha, the lives of those Rangers bear witness, the life of a Ranger like Stephen J. Meade bears witness: He requested help from the United States, who sent Army Colonel Stephen J. Meade…[a Ranger always].

  10. #110
    Team Member Master Oil Racing Team's Avatar
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    Thanks for your introduction to most of us of Colonel Stephen J. Meade. Those are the kind of men (and women) that won WWII, and the last war we won. Men and boys went to war. Women went to work at factories or raised their families while sacrificing their needs, and still providing for the war effort with grease, tin, etc. Those at home had to deal with rationing of food, gasoline and other basic items, and were proud to do it while the men on the European, North African, China/Burma/Asian, and Pacific fronts faced all kinds of problems besides having to fight the enemy. They did it. Colonel Meade was one of them, and I can see how honored you and your brother were to be able to become a part of his inner circle. Thanks for telling us about him on this day when all our service men and women are remembered along with police, firemen, first responders, and those who come to aid us in our troubles.



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