Read Ebook: Slipstream: the autobiography of an air craftsman by Wilson Eugene E

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Ebook has 1569 lines and 93745 words, and 32 pages

rsair, we now had a brilliant two-seater that compared favorably in performance with the hottest fighters, and thus gave us a stable with which to make an assault on all the world's records in their classes. The admiral, a highly competitive spirit with a keen appreciation of the value of world's records and racing competition, now made participation in these events a major Bureau project.

The names "Wasp" and "Corsair" had been selected by the Engine Section, in response to requests from Pratt and Whitney and Chance Vought. Little did we know at the time what distinction they would one day attain. The Wright Apache focused attention of other manufacturers on the characteristics of the Wasp; and Boeing, after testing an engine in a converted FB-1 fighter, immediately put a new one in the works to be called the "F2B." Curtiss made a conversion of one of its single-seater Hawks, replacing the D-12 with a Wasp. The first Wasp engine to be flight tested was flown in a Curtiss Hawk and thus became a sort of monument to the reluctance Curtiss had shown by their failure to develop their own R-1454 engine. It also nearly became a monument to the failure of the Pratt and Whitney Wasp.

For on the one-hour endurance test over Long Island, Temple Joyce, then test pilot for Curtiss and one of the best-known figures in aviation, grew tired of the monotony of cruising back and forth and decided to vary the routine with some acrobatics. But when he pulled back the stick and booted the rudder to do a nice snap roll, something snapped in the Wasp and Temp had to make a forced landing on the Curtiss field. The competitive Wasp in a competitor's airplane had gone sour on its test flight! Consternation reigned in the Engine Section--matter of fact, it really poured.

Examination disclosed that the crankshaft counterweight had sailed out through the crankcase. Now the cheek had been designed with ample margins for the stresses of centrifugal force, and the failure remained a mystery until I recalled a lesson learned as a student in the Sperry Gyro Compass School several years earlier. No one had anticipated the effect of gyroscopic forces like those set up in a snap roll. Now George Mead took these in hand and strengthened the shaft to withstand them. With this change, the Pratt and Whitney Wasp came to stay.

One day George and I, feeling happy about this, decided to take a walk through the Smithsonian Institution museum. And there we saw something that cut us back to size. It was the Manly engine, one designed by Charles M. Manly, the pilot and engineer of the Langley airplane, the craft Professor Langley had tried to fly off a catapult years earlier. And marvel of marvels, it was a five-cylinder, single-row, air-cooled radial that antedated the original Wright engine and all the other liquid-cooled in-line engines that had followed it. Charles Manly, having no prior art to befuddle him, had reasoned out the rational form for an aircraft engine and created one forthwith. As we stood looking at the museum piece that included the fundamentals we had used to obsolete years of automotive practice, George grinned sheepishly and remarked, "It all goes to show that every time you think you have discovered America, you find that Columbus was here back in 1492."

With the completion of many flight tests, the Wasp was now ready for production. But Rentschler found himself in a quandary as to what price he should ask for the engines in quantity. He had no experienced costs, for no engine had yet been built in production. We had asked for six engines on the first experimental order and Kraus had paid Pratt and Whitney the ,000 he had set aside for them. It was estimated that this amount covered about half of the experimental costs, and Kraus was willing to add the remainder to the first production order so as to write off this expense. But no one knew nor had any way of guessing what the unit price should be for the order of some two hundred engines now required for Vought Corsairs and Boeing and Curtiss fighters. And so the price was fixed by that which Kraus had previously paid for a similar number of Packard 1500's--a liquid-cooled engine we had earlier prescribed to replace the Curtiss D-12's in the Boeing FB-5's. For while we had promoted the air-cooled vigorously we had likewise developed the 500-hp Packard as a successor to the 400-hp Curtiss D-12.

Rentschler was not too happy about having the price for his air-cooled engines fixed by that of another contractor for liquid-cooled; he insisted there was no relationship between the two. But in government business, price may be fixed by anything else but merit. The ever-present threat of a Congressional investigation made it impossible to write into the Pratt and Whitney contract any figure higher than the Packard price even though the circumstances might be entirely different. This was but one of the things that made it hard to interest private manufacturers in risking either their equities or their engineering talent in a government speculation; none of the business fundamentals with which they were accustomed to measure their risks applied here.

However, as it turned out, an unexpected event exercised such an influence that Pratt and Whitney not only did not lose money on the first contract but even made an embarrassingly high profit. It all started the morning William E. Boeing, of Seattle--not "Addison Sims"--arrived in the Engine Section.

Bill Boeing, founder of the Boeing Airplane Company, and a successful operator in lumber and real estate, had drawn his airplane-company staff from versatile young graduates of the aeronautical-engineering course of the University of Washington and had picked some good ones. Foremost among these were Claire Egtvedt, his chief engineer, and Phil Johnson, his factory manager. Bill, a pilot himself, had opened an air line between Seattle and Victoria, using a couple of Boeing-built flying boats under the management of Eddie Hubbard. Eddie had persuaded Bill, against the advice of Phil Johnson, to enter a bid for the new Chicago-San Francisco contract air-mail route, and Bill had won the competition with a bid considered absurdly low by his competitors.

This was a matter on which the admiral had already set Bureau policy. Having in mind the fact that if government and commercial business could be lumped, the increased volume could bring reduced costs for both, he had issued instructions to cooperate with commercial operators wherever practicable. All Bill needed was a letter of introduction to F. B. Rentschler.

Out of this episode grew the Boeing Air Transport Company's profitable operation, the ultimate consolidation of Boeing and Pratt and Whitney, to form the nucleus for the United Aircraft and Transport Corporation, and such a profit for Pratt and Whitney on the first order that Rentschler finally came to the Engine Section for advice as to what should be done with the profit. Not the least important factor in this achievement was the breathtaking daring which Rentschler showed in tooling up his shop before the engine had passed its tests and before he had received the contract. This intelligent risk paid such dividends that Rentschler later agreed with Kraus to return what might have been called "excess profits," and in so doing thus established a principle of voluntary profit control that finally became the established policy of the company. The original suggestion for this came from the Engine Section.

One of the SC's, equipped with a standard propeller made of laminated woods glued together and finished to form, had let go on take-off at Hampton Roads and the engine had nearly jumped out of the plane. In response to an excited call from Norfolk, I had flown down in company with Charles J. McCarthy, then our stress expert, to see what could be done. Fortunately, about this time the Army Engineering Division at McCook Field had brought along an experimental development, under the supervision of Frank Caldwell, in which a new aluminum alloy called "duralumin" had been introduced as a substitute for wood. So far it had not been fully proved in service but we were in such a right spot that I now authorized the procurement of the first production order for 100 of them.

The chance of a lifetime came one day with a visit from the dean of our aircraft manufacturers, Glenn L. Martin. Glenn's black mood quite overshadowed his natty dress. He was about to finish his contract for torpedoplanes and had no new business in sight. First thing BUAERO knew he'd have to fire his whole organization and, once they got scattered, their know-how and teamwork would be lost forever. It was up to the Bureau to do something to save Glenn Martin.

"Have you tried creating a new model, Glenn?" I asked innocently enough. Glenn protested that his SC was the last word and that nothing much better could be produced.

"I've had an idea checked out by the drafting room," I said, "and they agree that if some smart airplane manufacturer were to design a new torpedo carrier around, say a new six hundred-horsepower air-cooled engine, he could get it down to about seventy-five hundred pounds gross, provided he could develop some new structural features along the lines that Charles Ward Hall has proposed."

Glenn was skeptical; and besides, he and the others had little confidence in those tricky aluminum structures that Charles Ward Hall proposed; they held out for welded steel. And besides, where could you get a 600-hp air-cooled radial?

"Both the Cyclone and Hornet do five hundred twenty-five horsepower now," I said, "and if a smart airplane designer made a deal with one or the other for a 600-hp type, say a year from now, the direct competition in that class might persuade one or both of them to push the development for you in time to give you the power you need, and by that time you can have your revolutionary model."

Glenn's puckered brow suggested thought. "Do you think the Bureau would finance such a development," he asked, "with an experimental contract?"

"Oh, yes," I agreed, "up at the Naval Aircraft Factory at Philadelphia." Glenn was shocked by the suggestion.

"Have you mentioned this to anyone else?" he inquired.

"Everyone who would listen," I replied. "And Frank Russell, of Curtiss, is coming in this afternoon. I thought that since you had taken his SC design away from him by underbidding him on the production order, he might find a certain satisfaction in doing likewise by you."

With the carrier program pretty well rounded up, I began to think of going back to sea duty and general service. If I wasted much more time in the side shows, some future Selection Board would gladly skip me over. No use to ask the admiral's permission; he'd say the job was but half done and he couldn't spare me. A personal visit to the Bureau of Navigation and a request to command another destroyer would do the trick.

But when, shortly afterward, Admiral Moffett called me into his office, I found the atmosphere distinctly chilly. On his desk lay the notice from BUNAV advising him of the intention to detach me and requesting that he nominate a suitable relief.

"What will it take to keep you here?" the admiral asked.

"A nonflying officer has no place in this game," I replied, "and I'm supposed to be too old to learn to fly."

"The pilot course," replied the admiral, "takes nine months and I can't spare you that long." I had not intended to ask for flight training but the admiral assumed that I was putting pressure on him.

"I could send you to Pensacola for two months for training as Naval Observer," he went on, "and that might take the curse off shore duty by making you a part of the aeronautic organization."

My next remark surprised me; certainly it came from my mouth rather than my head, though my heart may have been in it. "If I could wangle a way to complete the pilot's course in two months," I inquired, "would that be acceptable to you?"

The admiral grinned as he held out his hand. "When you arrive at Pensacola," he advised, "drop in on Brooks Upham, the Commandant. He's a personal friend of mine and might be able to do something for you."

Thus quite without prior intent on my part I had talked my way even deeper into aviation. But at home that evening I did not reveal the whole scheme to my wife. Having received word of her mother's serious illness she had left the day before for an indefinite visit at her home.

The Gospel According to Aunt Lucy

Rear Adm. F. Brooks Upham, Commandant of the Naval Air Station, Pensacola, reached across his flat-topped desk for my formal orders. Behind him through the window, the sun glinted on the leaves of ancient live oaks, and filtered through shreds of gently swaying Spanish moss. The rattle of aircraft engines disturbed the still morning, a signal that flying was being resumed after the September hurricane that had seriously damaged this ancient Civil War navy yard. The admiral welcomed me with a friendly smile.

"I've had a note about you from Moffett," he volunteered. "So," he added, "it's the old story of old dogs and new tricks. Having now reached the ripe old age of thirty-nine," he went on, "you're dead but won't lie down. If you ask me, it's a lot of bunk."

"The Regulations," I reminded him, "set twenty-eight as the maximum age limit for flight training." The admiral reached for the top drawer of his antique desk. A warm breeze floated in from across the Gulf of Mexico. Beyond the signal tower, across the blue harbor, the white sands of Santa Rosa Island gleamed in the sunlight. Still farther out glittered the quiet waters of the Gulf.

The lighter-than-air are jolly boys, Who float on wings of gas, Like helium or hydrogen And some hot air, alas! They float about in kite-balloons A blimp or even a zep. And draw their extra fifty per cent, With promptitude and pep.

The heavier-than-air boys zoom about, And make a lot of fuss, In F-5-L's and NC boats And other kinds of bus. It takes a sort of superman To learn the air's queer feel-- And draw that extra fifty per cent, With such consuming zeal.

And then there is another crew, A silly sort of dud, It does the heavy dirty work, The poor old thicker-than-mud. If one of these guys rams a rock, Or on a reef gets wrecked, He never gets his pay increased; Most likely he'll be checked.

And so we sail the briny deep, Two live ones and a dud, The lighter-than-air, the heavier-than-air-- And the poor old thicker-than-mud.

I glanced up to find a smile on the commandant's lips.

"I found it in the desk here," he said, "after I had taken over from Christy."

"I had hardly expected to find the author of that among the candidates for flight training," Brooks Upham went on, "but since you are here I'll do my best for you. My aide, young Jimmy Lowry, will take you out for a flight check and if he rates you 'promising material,' I'll see that planes are put at your disposal at any time you may want them. No need for you to fool around with the regular schedule for ground school; you know all that. It's simply a question of nervous and physical endurance whether you can complete the entire course in the two months." He reached for a push button.

Within a half hour, Jimmy Lowry and I were down at Squadron Six Beach warming up an N-9 seaplane. The Consolidated NY's had gone into service for land-plane training but the N-9's still survived for work on floats. Jimmy, after a few words of instruction, motioned me into the rear seat and took his instructor's position in front. Then signaling to the "boots" to cast us off, he opened the throttle and taxied out into the stream where he cut the gun and let the little plane idle up into the wind.

He gave her the gun and as the engine took hold we skittered smoothly over the surface and into the air to sail out over the landlocked bay. Below us, the old town of Pensacola nestled among live oaks and Spanish moss now devastated by the hurricane. While I had taken the controls now and then, flying as a passenger, I had never presumed to land or take off and had had no other instruction than the few orders Jimmy Lowry had given me back there at the Beach. Now he shook the controls as a signal for me to take over and, as I did so, held both hands aloft to signal that I had charge.

Jimmy Lowry now put me through all the "checks" in accordance with what I learned later was a well-established routine. He sent me flying over the land at an altitude of about fifty feet and, after we had proceeded too far to permit turning back for a water landing in case of engine failure, he cut the gun and watched my reaction. The only thing I could see to do was to land straight ahead into the palmetto swamp, and this, I learned later, was considered to be good "reaction in emergency." Jimmy opened the throttle again before we tangled with the palm fronds, and then waved me back to Squadron Six Beach. He said nothing as we walked up the ramp and, at the entrance to Bachelor Officer Quarters, simply saluted and walked off toward the commandant's office. Still in the dark as to my future, I hunted up my room in "BOQ" and found my baggage already in it. A colored maid was making up the bed.

She had a wrinkled, light-chocolate old face, framed by kinky white hair held in a tight knot at the back of her neck. Though she was said to have been born into slavery, her erect, almost haughty carriage seemed to deny the story. She turned to bow to me in a curtsy that was dignified and respectful.

"Mawnin', sah!" she said. Her soft voice had the resonance of a singer of Negro spirituals. "Ah's Aunt Lucy," she added. "I takes keer o' dis room for de gempmens what has it. Ah unpacks yo satchel, too, if you likes."

"I'm not sure I'll stay, Aunt Lucy," I replied. "We won't unpack until I hear from Lieutenant Lowry." Aunt Lucy bowed her head as she moved off to dust the window sills. She had that air of quiet dignity, that sense of being wholly at peace with the world, that had characterized the old-time darkies I had known as a midshipman back at little Annapolis. A leader among her people, a deaconess in the church, no doubt, Aunt Lucy seemed a woman distinguished by deep religious faith. I had unbelted my sword after leaving the commandant's office and, after my check flight, had carried it to BOQ in my hand. Now as I laid it on the table Aunt Lucy glanced at it and began humming an old spiritual:

"I'se goin' to lay down my sword and shield. Down by de riverside, Down by de riverside, Down by de riverside. I'se goin' to lay down my sword and shield, Down by de riverside I ain't goin' to study war no mo'."

As she drifted out of the door the telephone rang. It was the commandant. As I reached for the receiver, I could feel a flush creeping up the back of my neck and knew for the first time just how much I wanted a favorable report. Well, I'd soon know, now.

"Lowry has passed your check," Brooks Upham was saying. "He considers you 'good pilot material.' See you for dinner!" I hung up and called down the corridor to old Aunt Lucy.

"I guess you can unpack the satchel," I said.

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