November 2004 –
Have you ever wondered why we refer to some airplanes by name while sticking to the numbers for others? For one thing, it’s sometimes simpler. I mean, it’s a lot easier to say “G-III” than “Grumman Gulfstream G-1159A,” and “Turbo Arrow” instead of “PA-28RT-201,” isn’t it?
The real reason we call some models by their name or nickname is that when it’s a good name, it fits. For instance, can you imagine a P-51 being referred to as the North American Nimrod, or a Cherokee named the Bill, after Mr. Piper? Would you go to a classical piano concert if the performer’s name was Bubba?
No matter how much research a marketer or designer does on the psychology of a name and its esthetic value in the market, the flying/buying public holds an option on what it will be called. Customers, whether citizen or government, will either accept a name or substitute one that more closely fits the perception of the airplane.
The Beech Model 19 Musketeer is popularly known as the “Mousketeer” because some of the more ardent Beech customers considered it a cheap imitation of the revered Bonanza, ergo a “Mickey Mouse” design. And for 40 years the Piper line has dealt with Indian tribes and names, although I’m sure that upsets some of the more politically correct.
It’s probably a good thing they didn’t go for alliterative names like Cessna, or we could be flying Piper Pachyderms, Pack Rats, Paddywhacks, Paladins or Peacocks.
The Brits are probably to blame for all this name-calling. They began by christening boats and ships, then adopted the practice for motor cars, and finally with airplanes—individually at first, then whole production runs.
To illustrate their linguistic cleverness, English airplane manufacturers fell into the game of alliteration, i.e., Armstrong Whitworth Whitley, Handley Page Harrow, Hawker Hartbeeste, Short Shetland, Miles Martinet, Martinsyde Semiquaver and Westland Wapiti, among hundreds of others.
Even the non-alliterative names made unique, yet often obscure reference: Fairey Albacore, Armstrong Whitley Albemarle, Supermarine Walrus.
Meanwhile, on this side of the pond, America was going for punchy and less polite titles, especially for its fighting aircraft: Warhawk, Demon, Avenger, Commando, Devastator and others that suggested hairy-chested, carnivorous creatures of legend that had a bad attitude and pugilistic nature. That, the English sniffed haughtily, fit our rude national character.
Unfortunately, our most aptly named WWII aircraft was the Brewster Buffalo. Like its namesake, it was overweight, maneuvered slowly and was easy to kill.
Other countries did not put much romance in their naming. Germany’s push-pull Do 335A twin fighter looked like its name, Pfeil (Arrow), and the Me 163 lived up to its title, Komet, often resembling a Roman candle as it fell in flames from the sky.
Japan used esoteric names like “Auspicious Cloud,” “Dragon Slayer” and “Mighty Wind,” but since Americans couldn’t pronounce the poetic names in English, they assigned vulgar nicknames like “Zeke” and “Betty.”
The engine companies got into the naming game, too. Wright was fond of bad weather, hence Whirlwind, Cyclone, Tornado and Simoon, and Pratt & Whitney favored swarming insects like Hornets and Wasps.
The English had the most thoughtful names for powerplants, however. Rolls-Royce piston engines favored birds of prey—Eagle, Hawk, Falcon, Merlin and Griffon. They also built a Buzzard and a Vulture, and both turned out to be turkeys.
Rolls’ turbine engines have always been named after English rivers—Tey, Spey, Avon, Tyne, Trent, etc.—alluding to the concept of flowing streams. That may work in the UK, but could you imagine a Lycoming Mahantango, a GE Susquehanna, an Allison Atchafalaya or a Garrett Kuskokwim turning your props?
The military names its aircraft scientifically, by committee. There’s an officer at Wright-Patterson AFB that oversees the official selection of names. Not that it matters, because the one that sticks is the one that comes from pilots and mechanics, who tend to call it what it is.
They’re the ones who gave the C-121 Constellation the name “Flying Speed Brake,” and called the B-52 “BUFF,” (Big, Ugly Flying Fellow). The F-15 Eagle is fondly known as “The Flying Tennis Court,” and after a few early F-16s stuck their noses in the turf, it became known as “The Lawn Dart.”
It’s not just aircraft manufacturers that spend millions finding or inventing the perfect name for their product. One of the all-time champion efforts was undertaken by Ford Motor Co. in the mid-1950s when they were readying a new line of cars for introduction. The program was experimental, hence was designated as the “E-Car.”
In corporate gossip circles, everyone made the assumption that it would be named after Henry Ford’s late son, Edsel. However, his widow and children specifically forbade the use of his name. As his son, Henry II, reportedly put it, “We do not want father’s name on thousands of spinning hubcaps.”
Failing to find a usable name on its own, the company enlisted its ad agency. Instead of just one name, they gave Ford 6,000. In desperation, Ford hired a poet, who turned in such memorable monikers as Impeccable, Aeroterre, The Resilient Bullet, The Intelligent Whale, Mongoose, Civique, Pastelogram, and in a final flight of fancy, Utopian Turtletop.
After a year of work and millions in expense, the more reasonable names were presented to Ford Chairman Ernest Breech in the spring of 1956. He settled it once and for all. “I don’t like any of the damned names. How about we call it the Edsel?”
A product will end up with the name it earns. I mean, what else would you call an Edsel?
Daryl Murphy has been writing about and flying a variety of aircraft for 36 years. In addition to Piper Flyer, his work appears in General Aviation News and Aviation International News, and he has written five aviation books and one on automobile racing.
