No. 13 Out

Come all you rounders if you want to hear

The story about a brave engineer.

Casey Jones was the rounder's name;

On a six-eight wheeler, boys, he won his fame.

Night after night in the Chi Psi fraternity house at Middlebury College, Vermont, a lank, black-haired youth used to sit at the piano, pounding out the lusty lament about the brave engineer's "farewell trip to the Promised Land." Since the piano-thumper's name was Jones, he was nicknamed "Casey." His first initials, C. S. for Charles Sherman, perpetuated the nickname from those days, 20 years ago, until he became an aviator. Then it stuck as the perfect name for a hard-bitten pilot. It helped make him a glamorous figure in the swashbuckling period of U. S. aviation. It kept alive his fame even after he was withdrawn from the field two years ago and boosted into the executive councils of Curtiss-Wright Corp. as vice president in charge of public relations.

Neither fame nor flying ability is of prime concern to hard-headed bankers. Five months ago "Casey" Jones was eased out of Curtiss-Wright's executive offices in Manhattan to manage two Long Island fields. Last week he resigned, said he felt "entitled to a vacation" after 14 years with the company. There was talk that he would open a flying school in Newark, and that he is considering offers to act with Richard Barthelmess in a film of Transport Pilot 13, "Casey" Jones's biography on which he is collaborating with Adman Guy Fowler.

"Casey" Jones's transport license is No. 13. He was a seasoned flyer long before the license was issued in 1926. He made his first flight in 1912 with a schoolboy in Rutland, Vt. Shortly afterward the friend cracked up, killed himself and a passenger. "Casey" abandoned flying until 1917 when the Army called for aviators. Already he had been rejected by Army, Navy and Marines because of a heart lesion. (He had twelve varsity letters for athletics, had been physical director at Montclair Academy, N. J. for two years.) For the air service "Casey" was examined by an enormously fat doctor who tried to show how he wanted Jones to bend over, jump up & down. "Casey" guffawed, pointed to his record as physical instructor. Flustered, the doctor passed him.

Following the War, during which he flew with the famed 96th French Pursuit Squadron and directed training at Issoudun, "Casey" became test pilot for Curtiss Aeroplane & Motor Co. As head (and founder) of Curtiss Exhibitions Co. he flew in practically all available races from 1919 to 1926, cleaned up so much prize money with his clipped-wing Oriole that for a time his department alone showed profits in the struggling Curtiss organization. Oldsters recall one race, at Dayton in 1924, which "Casey" failed to win. As usual he loaded as little fuel as necessary into his ship. This time he underestimated the course by about one quart, dropped out of the lead on the last lap with a dead motor, ruefully watched the finish from the ground.

"Casey" has implicit confidence in his flying ability, usually disdains to wear a 'chute. But he is reluctant to fly with others. Extremely long-shanked, "Casey"' prefers to squat Buddha-like on a desk rather than cramp his legs beneath it. Even when flying, in smooth weather, he sits on his curled legs. If a banquet is exceptionally convivial (which suits him) he will squat on the table. But he would rather sit at the piano, which he plays by ear with great skill. His most treasured possession used to be a gaudy green vest, originally worn by a Negro headwaiter at an airmen's banquet in Detroit. The Mayor of Detroit had promised "Casey" anything in the city. "Casey's" eye lit on the violent-hued vest. It was served to him on a silver tray. He carried it about the country for years, getting it covered with autographs.

"Casey" Jones is 38, resides on Long Island with his wife and two children, Charles Sherman Jr., 12, and Deborah Harrison, 9, who fly with him when they feel like it.

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