VI
Receiving a Pilot’s Wings
In September, 1924, we were transferred to Kelly. The time we had looked forward to for half a year had arrived. We were through the period of just learning how to fly and were entering a new experience; that of learning how to make use of our flying ability in actual service. We would no longer be floating around the airdrome in machines whose only purpose was to stand up under the hard knocks of inexperienced pilots; but we were going to fly planes which had an actual military value in warfare.
Paris, France—Paul Painlevé, French Minister of War, extends his welcome. On the right is Ambassador Myron T. Herrick
Paris, France—With M. Doumerque and Ambassador Herrick
We were old cadets and felt the importance of our experience. We were no longer treated as rookies but as potential officers. Before leaving Brooks we had conformed with cadet traditions and allowed groups of the new class to gather around us while we gravely spoke of examinations, check pilots, “Benzine Boards,” and “washouts.” We thoroughly enjoyed the awe inspired by our seventy-five hours of flying experience.
At Kelly our difficulties set in with renewed vigor. The De Havilands did not maneuver like the training Jennies, and we were required to fly as we had never flown before. If a cadet was not able to handle his ship in a maneuver which was at least equal to the standard, he was usually heading towards home within a week.
We were allowed a few days to become accustomed to flying the new type of plane, then an instructor would go up with us to see if our progress had been satisfactory. If so we were sent to the next stage; if not we went up with a check pilot.
From landings we went to the “eight” stage, where were assigned two landmarks such as a tree and a haystack several hundred feet apart, and required to do figure-eights around them. Then came the spot landing stage, when we throttled our engine at about a thousand feet and were required to land in a large white circle without using our motor. On this stage we were graded on our takeoff, climb, approach, landing, roll, distance from mark, and method of handling the ship. In fact at Kelly we were constantly under observation and our only method of relaxation while flying was when the sky was cloudy and we could get above the clouds.
On one occasion we were flying with a low ceiling and the visibility was not very good. In fact it was an ideal day to do the things we were not supposed to. I was hedgehopping along over the country when I saw another DH playing around on my right. I flew over, and after chasing each other around for a while we proceeded to do chandelles, vertical banks, wing-overs, and everything else we could think of; all within a few feet of the ground as the clouds themselves were only about three hundred feet high. At last I decided to go up close to the other plane for a little low formation flying, but as I approached I saw that there were two men in the ship and that I had been breaking every rule ever established about low flying with an instructor watching me from another ship. I left that locality with wide open motor and for several days expected to be called on the carpet before the commanding officer on a washout offense. That instructor must have been a good sport, however, because I never heard from him and never was able to find out who he was.
On another occasion, near the end of my course, I came very near being washed out for something I knew nothing about. I had been practicing landings in an S.E.5 on one corner of Kelly Field. When my time had expired, I landed on the pursuit stage, taxied up to the line, and turned the ship over to the mechanics. That afternoon I was called from class and ordered to report to the operations officer; whereupon he informed me that my flying days were over and that as I knew why, there was no use in explaining further. I was then ordered to report back to my studies.
It came out of a clear sky. I knew of a number of offenses I had committed but none of them at that time. I had actually no idea of what the operations officer was talking about.
When school was over I returned to the operations hut and requested an account of the alleged offense. It appeared that the propeller on my S.E.5 was cracked, and the spreader board broken on the landing gear. The crew chief had reported this together with a statement that there were corn stalks hanging on the landing gear, and as there was no corn growing on Kelly Field, that was a sure sign that I had landed away from the airdrome without reporting the fact. A washout offense. We drove to the pursuit stage and found conditions exactly as stated, except that the corn stalks turned out to be weeds, and it was decided that the damage had been caused by a stake left standing in the corner of Kelly Field where I had been landing, although I had not felt the ship strike anything. The cadet who flew the plane earlier in the morning was using the same part of the field and said that he felt it strike a bump on one of his takeoffs but did not believe any damage had been done. Who was flying the ship made little difference, however, because as long as he had not landed away from the airdrome without authority, the slight damage was of no consequence. I had come very close to the “Benzine Board” for an offense of which I knew nothing, but it was probably only the open-mindedness and sense of fair play of the operations officer that kept me from being washed out as a result.
Paris, France—Crowds at the City Hall at the official reception
Paris, France—Guests at the luncheon of M. Bleriot
Left to right: Paul Painlevé, Charles Lindbergh, M. Bleriot, Ambassador Herrick
One day during the beginning of our term at Kelly, someone decided that the cadets should stand reveille. How it came about or who caused the decision was never known by the detachment, but there was a strong rumor circulated to the effect that our beloved Cadet Sergeant had not forgotten the episode of the polecats. It was an unheard of thing for the cadets of Kelly to stand formations. We had graduated from that when we left Brooks, and the thought of continuing it in our advanced status was, we concluded, degenerating to the morale of the detachment.
Consequently, when our first sergeant himself delighted us with verbal visions of being tumbled out of bed at first call if we were not up at the blast of his whistle, we decided that if it were in the combined power of the detachment, the first call should not sound the next morning. We could not disobey an order; army training banishes even the remotest thought of that; but we might prevent that order from being given. The Cadet Captain and first sergeant were assigned to a private room together. The rest of us were given cots in the barracks. While supper was in progress that night the hands on the sergeant’s alarm clock were so manipulated that the alarm would sound exactly one hour after the time set. At two o’clock the next morning a padlock was placed on the hasp outside of his door, and when first call blew a few hours later the cadet detachment slept soundly on.
From spot landings we passed to hurdles. Hurdles require the ship to be brought down without assistance from the engine, and after just passing over a line stretched about eight feet above the ground, to be landed as close as possible to the hurdle. This gave us excellent practice for landing over a fence in a small field.
One of the traditions at Kelly was that anyone knocking down the hurdle must treat the rest to a case of refreshments. It often happened that a pilot was so intent on getting over the hurdle string that he did not notice that his plane was in a stall, and about the time he was over the hurdle the bottom would fall out from under him and his plane would pancake into the ground. Almost every class had one or two minor crack-ups as a result of stalling over the hurdle string.
The De Havilands were not considered safe for hard stunting and as a result we were only allowed to do wing-overs and split air turns. Diving in excess of one hundred and fifty miles per hour was also forbidden. Consequently only air work allowing us to be thoroughly accustomed to the plane was included in the flying schedule before our formation training began.
The strange field landing training was one of the most interesting parts of our schooling. An instructor would lead a number of planes and land in some field we had never seen before. Then each cadet was required to land and take off after the instructor. Some of the fields were small and full of obstructions. Yet we had comparatively few even minor crack-ups. Later each cadet was given an opportunity to lead the rest and pick out a field for them to land in while the instructor trailed.
At Kelly we were given more and longer cross country trips than at Brooks. One of the most important parts of flying training is cross country experience. We made flights to Corpus Christi, Galveston, Laredo and a number of other places.
Each class spent about two weeks on a gunnery expedition at Ellington Field between Houston and Galveston. Ellington Field was one of the few double fields built during the war, but was later abandoned and, except for a National Guard squadron, was entirely deserted.
We set up our mess in the clubhouse and made the old building which had served as officers’ quarters as comfortable as possible. This was in winter and the weather was cold, even in Texas, unusual though it might have been. There were no stoves available so we contrived all sorts of makeshifts to hold a little fire in. If nothing better was obtainable, we shovelled several inches of earth on the floor and devised a hood of some kind leading through a few lengths of tin pipe to the chimney. Of course these fires could not be left unguarded, so it was necessary to put them out in the morning to be rekindled at the close of operations for the day.
Our gunnery work was divided into three parts: ground targets, shadow targets and tow targets. The ground targets were large sheets of paper similar to those used on a rifle range and were set up at an angle on the ground. We shot at these with both the Browning and Lewis machine guns.
The Browning guns on a De Haviland were mounted rigidly in front of the pilot and were synchronized with the engine to shoot between the blades of the propeller. They were capable of firing up to twelve hundred rounds a minute, depending on the motor rpm when they were fired.
Several of us would form a large circle with our planes, and starting our dive from about one thousand feet, would fire short bursts into the target on the ground. After completing our bursts we would zoom back up into the circle while the next ship started its dive. Each plane had its individual target.
After emptying the Browning guns we gave our observers a chance with their Lewises by circling low around the targets. On the next flight the pilot and observer traded places.
The Lewis gun is mounted on a turret on the rear cockpit. Two guns were usually used together and they could be pointed in any direction.
After a few days on ground targets we were sent out over Trinity Bay for shadow targets. One plane is flown fairly high over the water while another fires at its shadow. The splashes from the bullets are easily seen and the accuracy of marksmanship very apparent.
The tow targets are by far the most difficult of the three varieties, and require skillful maneuvering and excellent marksmanship. They consist of a cloth sleeve similar to a wind sock which is towed a few hundred feet behind a De Haviland flying at sixty or sixty-five miles an hour.
When the forward or Browning guns were used, the attacking ship approached the tow target head on, firing one or two short bursts as it passed. In this way there was no danger of the occupants of the towing plane being struck by a wild shot. The De Havilands were much too large to use the forward guns effectively on a tow target. Any accurate shooting required the quick maneuverability of a pursuit ship.
The Lewis guns were used while flying parallel with the target and were very effective. When we were close enough we could often see the tracers pass directly through the cloth sleeve.
After returning from Ellington Field we were given a few hours in each of the various types of service airplanes. The MB-3 and the S.E.5 scouts; the Martin Bombers with their twin Liberty engines; the TW-5 two-place transition planes; and the little Sperry messengers. In this way we obtained experience in each branch: pursuit, attack, observation and bombardment. Later we were given our choice of which we desired to specialize in. If our wishes corresponded with the judgment of the instructors we were assigned to that branch.
Together with three other cadets and four student officers, I was sent to the pursuit stage, where we spent the few remaining weeks of our course, piloting the S.E.5 and the MB-3 single seaters.
Pursuit combines a little of every branch of the air corps. In addition to formation combat, dog fighting, and ground strafing, the pursuit pilot is often called upon to make observations and do light bombing.
A great deal of our time was devoted to formation flying. Air combat of the future will probably often be between large formations rather than individual pilots, and it is accordingly of utmost importance for the pursuit pilot to hold his place in formation instinctively, so that his entire attention can be devoted to the enemy rather than to his own formation.
We often maneuvered our flights while the individual planes were less than ten feet apart and it was not unusual to dive vertically for several thousand feet in a fairly close formation.
We learned the use of Lufberry circles, cross over turns, and other formation tactics. Our formations were often tight, it is true, but strange as it may seem, very few accidents occur from too close flying. A pilot is constantly alert when his plane is only a short distance from the one in front and nothing is allowed to distract his attention. On the other hand, when there is quite some distance separating them he is often more engrossed in lighting a cigarette or watching some object on the ground than in his own formation.
In pursuit flying we came to have great confidence in our parachutes. The planes we were flying were kept in excellent condition and none ever failed, notwithstanding the fact that we placed them under every conceivable strain imaginable. But the knowledge that we did not have to concern ourselves about whether they did fall apart or not was an invaluable factor in building up our morale. Our formations were tighter, the combats faster, and our flying better as a result.
We had a number of close calls but considering the amount of flying we had done, and that all of it was military flying, which cannot be ever compared to commercial traffic as far as safety is concerned, our accidents were remarkably few and none resulted seriously.
No one knows of the risk he takes better than the pursuit pilot and no one is less concerned about it. Every move, although at lightning speed, is made with a coolness born of experience and love of flying. The army Air Corps is built up of men who fly for the love of flying. Their only mission in life is to build up the finest air corps in the world, and their greatest desire is to be given the opportunity to do so without restriction. If an officer is lost in duty he would be the last one to wish for resulting restrictions on his comrades.
A week of our pursuit training was spent on a gunnery expedition at Galveston. We flew there from Kelly Field in MB-3A machines and fired on tow targets exclusively. Our field was close to the Gulf, and when the day’s operations had been completed we were free to go about as we chose. Consequently a large part of the evening was spent along the rocky beach.
On the night of our last day at Galveston several of us were holding a contest to decide which could reach the most distant rock between the breakers, before the next wave rolled in. One of the fellows was outstanding in his accomplishments. In fact he was so dextrous that none of us could compete, so we were all loud in our praises and unanimously agreed that there was not a rock in the gulf too obscure for him. There was, however, a rock a number of feet beyond the most distant point any of us had attained, which was visible only for an instant as the last breaker receded and before the next arrived. Even this was possible, we confidently assured him.
He watched that rock intently for several minutes; then bolstered up by our praise and his own confidence, he stood poised and ready. At the proper moment he nimbly leaped from boulder to boulder after the retreating surf but just before the final rock was touched a large wave towered above it. Too late! The chance of retreat had never been considered and its opportunity had passed. With do or die determination he leaped onto the boulder and into the breaking wave. This incident would not have been serious or its consequences important had we been able to carry any extra equipment in our pursuit planes, but as it was, extra clothing was a scarce article, and when we took off for San Antonio and Kelly the following morning, it was necessary for him to send his wet clothes back in a De Haviland and make his flight in a bearskin flying suit without insulation against the bearskin.
In warm weather these suits acquired an odor similar to that of a goat which has been in the barn all winter and the fur itself was far from comfortable. On the trip back a piston froze in the engine. For two days the cadet was alternately roasting in the southern sun and freezing in the Texas nights while he guarded his ship and waited for a new engine.
After our return from Galveston while we were practicing formation attack on two seaters, I experienced one of the incidents of the military pilot’s life. I made my first emergency parachute jump. When an Army plane crashes, the pilot is required to write a detailed report of the crash. My account was as follows:
“A nine-ship S.E.5 formation, commanded by Lieut. Blackburn, was attacking a DH-4B, flown by Lieut. Maughan at about a 5,000 foot altitude and several hundred feet above the clouds. I was flying on the left of the top unit, Lieut. McAllister on my right, and Cadet Love leading. When we nosed down on the DH, I attacked from the left and Lieut. McAllister from the right. After Cadet Love pulled up, I continued to dive on the DH for a short time before pulling up to the left. I saw no other ship nearby. I passed above the DH and a moment later felt a slight jolt followed by a crash. My head was thrown forward against the cowling and my plane seemed to turn around and hang nearly motionless for an instant. I closed the throttle and saw an S.E.5 with Lieut. McAllister in the cockpit, a few feet on my left. He was apparently unhurt and getting ready to jump.
“Our ships were locked together with the fuselages approximately parallel. My right wing was damaged and had folded back slightly, covering the forward right-hand corner of the cockpit. Then the ships started to mill around and the wires began whistling. The right wing commenced vibrating and striking my head at the bottom of each oscillation. I removed the rubber band safetying the belt, unbuckled it, climbed out past the trailing edge of the damaged wing, and with my feet on the cowling on the right side of the cockpit, which was then in a nearly vertical position, I jumped backwards as far from the ship as possible. I had no difficulty in locating the pull-ring and experienced no sensation of falling. The wreckage was falling nearly straight down and for some time I fell in line with its path and only slightly to one side. Fearing the wreckage might fall on me, I did not pull the rip cord until I dropped several hundred feet and into the clouds. During this time I had turned one-half revolution and was falling flat and face downward. The parachute functioned perfectly; almost as soon as I pulled the rip cord the riser jerked on my shoulders, the leg straps tightened, my head went down, and the chute fully opened.
“I saw Lieut. McAllister floating above me and the wrecked ships pass about 100 yards to one side, continuing to spin to the right and leaving a trail of lighter fragments along their path. I watched them until, still locked together, they crashed in the mesquite about 2,000 feet below and burst into flames several seconds after impact.
Paris, France—With Ambassador Herrick on the steps of the embassy, just after arrival in Paris
London, England—The welcome at Croyden Field where a milling mob of nearly half a million had gathered
“Next I turned my attention to locating a landing place. I was over mesquite and drifting in the general direction of a plowed field which I reached by slipping the chute. Shortly before striking the ground, I was drifting backwards, but was able to swing around in the harness just as I landed on the side of a ditch less than 100 feet from the edge of the mesquite. Although the impact of landing was too great for me to remain standing, I was not injured in any way. The parachute was still held open by the wind and did not collapse until I pulled in one group of shroud fines.
“During my descent I lost my goggles, a vest pocket camera which fitted tightly in my hip pocket, and the rip cord of the parachute.”
During the descent all the other planes broke formation and arched around us. Every ship within sight proceeded at full speed to the spot and before long the air was full of machines. Several of the De Havilands landed in the plowing and within half an hour two planes with extra parachutes were sent to take us back to Kelly. About an hour after the crash we had two new S.E.5’s and were back in the air again.
The parachute is a marvelous invention, experimented with as early as the 16th century by Leonardo da Vinci.
The first parachute was built by a Frenchman in 1784. This parachute was a rigid structure covered with very strong paper and fabric. It was used in a jump from a building in Paris.
About a year later the same type of parachute was dropped from a hot-air balloon in England. Soon jumps began to be made from balloons with other types of rigid parachutes.
About 1880, Captain Thomas Baldwin made a name for himself by jumping from hot-air balloons with a chute which was a forerunner of the present type. He was the first really successful jumper, but success in those days was judged by how long a man lived in this profession.
In 1912, the first parachute jump from an airplane was made. The container was attached to the plane and the man who did the jumping pulled the parachute out as he fell.
The war really proved that the parachute is a life saving apparatus for use with airplanes. Early in 1918 the allied pilots reported that German pilots were using parachutes to escape from their planes whenever they were out of control or set on fire. This was the beginning of insistent demands on the part of our allied pilots for parachute equipment. The A.E.F. tried to produce a satisfactory parachute by combining the good feature of several chutes already in existence. All of these, however, were very bulky and heavy and hard to get on the plane.
During the summer of 1918, the U.S. Air Service officials appealed to Washington for good airplane parachutes. A large number of tests were made. Finally, after combining all the good points of foreign and American chutes, a satisfactory free type of parachute was developed. By free type I mean the kind of parachute which is entirely independent of the plane.
Stories often come out in the newspapers about parachutes that fail to open. What probably really happens is that men who make jumps from planes are killed before they are able to pull the rip cord which opens the parachute. In the past there was always a great deal of danger in testing out a new type of chute, but now they have been developed to such a high degree of efficiency that there are practically no fatalities. Each parachute that is used by the government is repacked every month and tested every six months.
Altogether, about 57 lives have been saved by parachutes in government service. In every instance the jump took place because of fog, engine failure while flying over unfavorable country, collision of planes or other very definite emergencies. They say in the service that any flyer who jumps to save his life becomes a member of the “Caterpillar Club.” This is because the parachute is made entirely of silk, and silk comes from caterpillars. All the 57 members of this club feel that their lives have been saved by the silkworm caterpillar!
There is a saying in the service about the parachute: “If you need it and haven’t got it, you’ll never need it again!” That just about sums up its value to aviation.
For two of the last days we were on tactical maneuvers with the other branches. Half of our number were assigned to defend the bombers and observation planes while the other half attacked them. When we met, a lively combat ensued and the air would be full of pursuit planes in every conceivable position, each trying to get on the tail of an enemy plane without being first shot down itself.
At night in the barracks we would argue about which side won the war, but whenever one of us would demonstrate to the enemy that he had been shot down in battle, another would interpose the claim that he had put the attacking ship out of commission several minutes previous to the combat.
When graduation day arrived eighteen of us remained of the hundred and four cadets who started the course at Brooks a year before. We were presented with our wings and commissioned second lieutenants in the Air Service Reserve Corps. That night we gave a farewell dinner in San Antonio and for the last time assembled together.
The next day we departed from Kelly.