Florence "Pancho" Barnes - Aviation's Companion
The
saga of the Air Force Flight Test Centre would not be complete
without mention of one of its most enduring friends: Ms Florence
Lowe Barnes, known to all the world by her favoured nickname "Pancho."
Never officially a part of the Edwards Air Force Base community,
nor ever directly connected with the Air Force, she nevertheless
spent many years as one of its most enduring champions and
unswerving friends. In recent years, she has become familiar to
the general public as the colourful, swashbuckling friend of
America’s best known test pilots. But the aviation community has
always known her as a skilled professional and one of the
respected figures in the Golden Age of flight. Long before Pancho
Barnes ever set foot in the Mojave Desert, she had already made
her own mark in the progress of American aviation and women’s role
within it.
The Early Years
In retrospect, her life seems
to have been star-crossed from its very beginning. Florence Lowe
Barnes was born into a setting of family wealth and privilege on
14 July, 1901. She spent her childhood in a 32-room mansion in San
Marino, California, then as now a genteel enclave of shaded
estates and tasteful villas near Pasadena. The confidence and
self-possession which tend to come with affluence and position
would serve the young woman well in the years ahead. Two men
dominated her early life. Her father, an avid outdoorsman, freely
passed on his enthusiasms to his daughter, and the young Florence
absorbed horsemanship and hunting skills along with the genteel
accomplishments taught by a series of private schools and tutors.
Her grandfather, Professor Thaddeus Lowe, gave her another lasting
gift--a fervour for aviation. One of the founders of the California
Institute of Technology, he is better known to history as the
intrepid balloonist who spied on the Confederate lines during the
Civil War and organized the nation’s first military air unit, the
balloon corps for Lincoln’s Army of the Potomac. The veteran
aeronaut took his young granddaughter to see her first air show at
the age of nine. It is probably too glib to say that the
excitement of that outing changed her life forever, but there is
no doubt that airplanes soon ranked with horses in her passions.
First, however, would come a
proper marriage, followed by the birth of a son. At the age of 18,
Florence wed the Reverend C. Rankin Barnes, a prominent Episcopal
priest, and settled down to the duties expected of a proper
clergyman’s wife. In due course their son, William, was born. Not
long afterwards, however, the young bride’s self-reliant
personality asserted itself in dramatic fashion: abandoning church
and child in 1928, she disguised herself as a man and signed on as
a crewmember aboard a freighter headed for Mexico. Once the ship
was safely docked at San Blas with a cargo of bananas and
contraband guns, she jumped ship with a renegade sailor and spent
four months roaming through the revolution-torn interior.
Somewhere along this trek, while riding a donkey, her comrade
dubbed her "Pancho" for her fancied resemblance to Don Quixote’s
faithful companion. She was delighted with her new nickname, and
kept it for the rest of her life.
Into the Air
Returning to San Marino later
that year, she turned her eyes toward the skies. By then, Wall
Street’s Bull Market was roaring along, the public was wildly
air-minded in the aftermath of Lindbergh’s flight to Paris, and
the nation’s adrenaline level perfectly matched her own. Pancho
bought an OX-5 powered Travelair biplane, hired an irascible but
expert instructor, and set out to learn how to fly. Defying her
teacher’s best efforts to discourage his "dilettante" student, she
soloed after only six hours of instruction. The young socialite
promptly celebrated this feat by taking a friend aloft and buzzing
the field while her passenger wing-walked among the flying wires.
From that point onward, aviation became the dominant note in her
life.
Scorning the genteel aspects of
her upbringing, Pancho took to wearing men’s clothes, often
oil-stained and dishevelled, and to smoke cigars. Kitchen matches
scratched across the seat of her pants replaced silver cigarette
lighters, and her speech, never too delicate at the best of times,
became notoriously coarse and salty. Although Pancho was always
ready for a laugh, however, she was never a buffoon in the air.
Always, she took flying seriously and went to great lengths to
become a skilled pilot as well as a practical mechanic. Her
professional approach to flying never, of course, prevented her
from enjoying enormous fun along the way. Soon tiring of buzzing
her husband’s dignified church during Sunday morning services, she
assembled something called "Pancho Barnes’ Mystery Circus of the
Air," and went on barnstorming tours with herself as a star
performer. She shared the spotlight with an improbably handsome
parachute jumper named Slim, who specialized in enticing young
females from the audience into their first airplane ride and
shortly--to their great surprise--into their first parachute jump
as well.
Satisfaction in the Sky
The young aviatrix burst onto
the national aviation scene barely a year after her first solo
flight. In August, 1929, she joined nineteen other women in the
Women’s Air Derby, a transcontinental air race from Santa Monica
to Cleveland. for women. This was the first Powder Puff Derby,
still being flown today. She got as far as Pecos, Texas before she
ran afoul of the casual airfield-management practices of the day,
colliding with a truck driving down the runway. Pancho was unhurt,
but her broken airplane put her out of the race for that year.
By then, her growing reputation enabled her to
sign on with Union Oil Company for a three-year stint of
demonstration flights and promotional work in return for
sponsorship in many of the air races of the day. She returned to
the Powder Puff Derby the following year in a powerful new
used with permission, Pancho Barnes Archive
Travelair
Mystery Ship, a low-winged speedster with huge
wheel spats which has been called the most beautiful of the great
racing airplanes. Blasting across the route at an average speed of
196.19 mph, she took the world’s speed record for women away from
Amelia Earhart.
Not content with this, she
honed her aerobatic skills and set out to become one of
Hollywood’s favourite stunt pilots. The film capital was no
stranger to Pancho; even as a debutante she had slipped away from
San Marino to dabble in movie work as a script girl and other
jobs. The adventurous aristocrat had even doubled for Louise
Fezenda in the horseback scenes in the early Rin Tin Tin movies.
Now she became the technical director for Pathe’s The Flying
Fool. Shortly she formed her own company and, with three
pilots working for her, encouraged the studios to contract with
her for guaranteed work, rather than the hit-or-miss method of
hiring their own pilots each day. This marked the beginning of the
Associated Motion Picture Pilots.
It was also the beginning of
numerous "Pancho stories" which circulate freely today: her
friendships with the film luminaries of the time--Gary Cooper,
Tyrone Power, Errol Flynn--and rumours of romances with Ramon
Navarro and/or Duncan Renaldo. There was a colourful feud with
Roscoe Turner involving an impromptu air race, Gilmore the lion,
and a pair of powder-blue kidskin boots.
Retreat to the Desert
All good times come to an end,
however, and so it was for Pancho’s dizzying world of flying,
glamour, and money. The new talking motion pictures displaced many
film careers and brought a new era to the movies. The nation
settled ever deeper into the Depression and the fortune which
Pancho inherited from her mother began to melt away, hastened by
an indecorous conflict within her own family. Still officially
married to the hapless churchman, she traded most of her surviving
assets in 1935 for a small, quarter-section ranch in the desolate
reaches of the western Mojave Desert. There, on the far side of
the mountains which had loomed over her San Marino estate, Pancho
Barnes took her 12-year-old son and settled down to the unlikely
life of a rancher in the High Desert.
It is romantic, but not totally
realistic, to think of the redoubtable Mrs. Barnes as a simple
small-time farmer in the wilderness. A working ranch it was, but
from the first she had a foreman and crew to raise alfalfa and
care for the livestock--hogs, a few head of cattle, and of course
horses. She was never without an airplane, and one of the first
things she did was to scratch out an airstrip on the desert
hardpan. She might be far from the lights and glitter on the other
side of the San Gabriel Mountains, but she didn’t cut herself off
from her old friends and connections. Still, she loved the
outdoors; she had all of the High Desert to ride across and,
meanwhile, there was a living to be earned. Pancho set out to make
the most of her new environment.
A New Door Opens
Pancho’s new world was remote,
lying alongside a dirt road connecting two hamlets--Muroc and
Rosamond. Her spread occupied the lowlands between two large
desert playas. Nothing much ever came of Rosamond Dry Lake to the
west. But some interesting activity was already stirring on the
far shore of the other huge lake bed to the east. Rogers Dry Lake
was 44 square miles of rock-hard flatness, the largest such lake
in the world. Pancho arrived on the scene not long after the Army
Air Corps did; in 1933, working parties in khaki had arrived to
set up a bombing and gunnery range to serve the fighters and
bombers from March Field, California. An orderly array of army
tents housed the range keepers--a detachment of young soldiers who
must be fed. Army rations trucked up from Riverside were
supplemented with whatever local-purchase foodstuffs might be
available, and Pancho rose to the opportunity. Pork and milk from
the ranch appeared in the Army mess hall, and Pancho shrewdly
contracted to remove the encampment’s garbage--which was recycled
directly into her hog population.
Soon, Pancho began to expand
her operations, enlarging her herd of milk cows and selling dairy
products throughout the valley. The remains of her family money
went into ranch improvements and within a few years the ranch had
expanded from 80 acres to 368. She enlarged the ranch house and
built a swimming pool--an exotic touch for the late 1930s. As war
clouds gathered abroad and the nation began to shake off its
peacetime torpor, the Air Corps began a long-overdue expansion.
Even the bombing range grew larger; the government bought up great
amounts of land; permanent buildings went up, and officers and
enlisted men began to appear in larger numbers.
When World War II arrived in
the High Desert, Pancho was swept along with the current. The
gunnery range became Muroc Army Air Field, a huge expansion began
on the western shore of the lake, and permanent runways were built
for year-round use. Suddenly a major military installation lay
only three miles down the road. Pancho had always been partial to
her "Foreign Legion of the American Army" and she was delighted at
the new turn of events. Patriotically, she made her ranch
available to off-duty fliers. Officers--and especially
pilots--were welcome in her swimming pool; often they stayed to
dinner and the flying talk went on far into the night. Pancho
offered her horses for the recreation of those who could ride, and
bought more. By degrees, the desert exile became a hostess.
The Good Years
In retrospect, it all had a
kind of inevitability about it. The airmen loved Pancho’s party
atmosphere and the opportunities for other recreation were
severely limited. Wartime money was suddenly available, visitors
were always needing a place to stay, and Pancho had plenty of room
to expand. A bar and restaurant appeared, then a dance hall,
another bar, and a coffee shop. Most of the booze came up from
Mexico in Pancho’s plane and was dispensed freely; the more
expensive stuff stayed under lock and key. The airstrip was
enlarged and lighted for the increasing number of guests and
friends who flew in, and a motel was built for their convenience.
Soon Pancho found herself the proud mistress of the Rancho Oro
Verde Fly-Inn Dude Ranch.
used with permission, Pancho Barnes Archive
Ever more boisterous, profane
and swashbuckling, Pancho proceeded to have the time of her life.
Almost gleefully, she allowed time and the dry desert air to
transform her youthful appearance into the storied homeliness by
which most remember her. To compensate, Pancho imported an
ever-changing bevy of attractive hostesses to serve the weary
airmen. Even the name of the ranch reflected the wartime gaiety,
soon being nicknamed the Happy Bottom Riding Club in salute to the
growing number of skilled and satisfied riders. Pilots were always
her special comrades, and in the natural course of events a
stellar array of high-ranking officers appeared at the ranch and
soon became her friends. Jimmy Doolittle, a pal from the air
racing days, now sported three stars, and he was joined by many
others, including the commander of the Army Air Forces, General
H.H. "Hap" Arnold.
Thus, it was natural that when
peacetime came and Muroc (soon to become Edwards Air Force Base)
became the centre for the nation’s leading experimental flight
testing center, that test pilots would replace the wartime fliers,
and the party went on. Pancho’s place remained popular for the
same reasons it always had--in an area of limited resources, men
with heavy responsibilities needed a congenial place to relax.
Although many stories about Pancho and her hostesses are told with
a knowing wink, it is also true that off-duty pilots love to do
one thing above all--talk about flying. And there was plenty of
that at Oro Verde.
Pancho was a staunch friend and
confidante to many of the young professional fliers of the day--Al
Boyd, Pete Everest, Jack Ridley and many others. Those that she
liked, that is. Those whom she did not, or who carelessly
patronized her, were swiftly and profanely shown the door. With
Chuck Yeager, a bond was formed which lasted her lifetime. Recent
books and movies have glamorized the friendship between the
sonic-busting test pilot and the high-flying hostess, but in truth
it began much earlier when Pancho found out that the young captain
was also an avid outdoorsman. Several hunting and fishing
expeditions, some of which ended raucously down in Mexico, sealed
the friendship long before Captain Yeager had been chosen to bring
the X-1 supersonic program to its ultimate success. When he did
so, on 14 October 1947, Pancho was one of the few who knew about
the official secret. Yeager won a free steak dinner for that feat,
thereby starting a tradition for all pilots celebrating their
first supersonic flight.
Yeager’s boss in the flight
test world, Col Albert Boyd, was another legendary old-time pilot
who had warm regard for Pancho and her accomplishments. After he
was promoted and had assumed command of the flight test
establishment, General Boyd appeared less frequently at the ranch.
Although he never hesitated to chew her out when her guests flew
too close to his base, he remained a respected member of her
circle of friends. But after his departure from Edwards in 1952,
the good times rapidly drew to a close.
An Era Closes
used with permission, Pancho Barnes Archive
Soon
after the next commander arrived on the scene, the entire
atmosphere began to change. The reasons were many: conflicting
requirements, personality clashes, and some genuine
misunderstandings. The immediate catalyst was airspace which was
becoming increasingly crowded with large numbers of new aircraft
being tested, and the private airplanes of Pancho’s guests. The
borders of the base were already pressing hard upon Oro Verde, and
a master plan had already been written calling for it to expand to
its present western boundary. Sooner or later, something would
have to give. But the times were changing as well. The brash
camaraderie of the wartime years was giving way to the
straight-laced Fifties, and the casual flying world of the 1940s
was evolving into today’s relentlessly sober approach. Even the
bachelor test pilots in their twenties were becoming married
professionals in their early middle age. The Happy Bottom Riding
Club was doomed in any event.
It was not long before
condemnation proceedings were filed against Pancho’s property, on
the grounds that the ranch lay on a direct line with a proposed
extension of the test centre’s main runway. There were genuine air
safety considerations as well, and a master plan had already
called for the base to expand to the west. But the situation was
greatly worsened by a complete lack of rapport between the
principals, and conflicts soon escalated into name calling, unjust
accusations, and ultimately into a flurry of acrimonious lawsuits.
In the middle of the fray, coming at the worst possible time, a
night-time fire of unknown origin completely destroyed the ranch
complex.
Pancho eventually won a
considerable sum in the courts. She established herself on a new
spread in another remote area, vowing to rebuild and continue as
before. But much of the settlement went into attorney’s fees and,
at any rate, the psychological blows had been considerable. Pancho
had lost not only her ranch and livelihood, but also a lifetime’s
accumulation of irreplaceable souvenirs and valuables. Perhaps
worst of all, though, was the rift with her beloved Air Force.
Then, like a relentless Greek tragedy, serious illness struck her.
Although the redoubtable woman vowed never to surrender and went
on to survive two cancer operations, the old zest for life
gradually faded along with her energy. Pancho died, alone and
undiscovered, in 1975.
Her son, Bill, became a pilot
and owned a flying business in nearby Lancaster. He died in
October, 1980, while flying a P-51 Mustang not far from the
site of the old ranch.
Epilogue
Of her personality and that
clamorous era, little now remains: some concrete foundations and
the remains of a fanciful stone fountain near the Edwards AFB
firing range; a few photographs. The dim, rectangular outline of a
dirt airstrip can still be made out from the air. There is a
battered door from the ranch pickup, still faintly lettered,
resting against a wall in the Air Force Flight Test Center Museum.
But the Pancho stories still circulate freely in the flight
community, some titillating, most nostalgic, all now recounted
with tolerant smiles. For many years now, the people at Edwards
have gathered together on the site of the Happy Bottom Riding Club
for an annual barbecue which goes far into the night. And in a
hangar in nearby Mojave, Pancho’s black-and-red Travelaire
Mystery Ship is gradually returning to its original splendour.
As always, Pancho had the last
word: "Well ------- it, we had more fun in a week than most of
the weenies in the world have in a lifetime." |