by Stout, Jay
Certainly Righetti’s considerable flying experience—relative to most of his peers—was an advantage during this early stage of flight training. However, that experience could be a double-edged sword as the Air Corps’ style of flying was not always consistent with what was taught by civilian instructors. Consequently, habits previously learned often had to be unlearned—and in a hurry. Habits being second nature, this wasn’t always easy. Indeed, it was not unusual for students with many hundreds of civilian flying hours to be eliminated, or “washed out,” because they simply could not adapt to military instruction.
In fact, it wasn’t unusual for anyone to wash out. Through the war, only just more than half of the carefully screened and selected men who started flight training successfully completed all three phases: primary, basic and advanced. As might be expected, most of the eliminations occurred during the primary phase where a cadet’s inability to physically and mentally adapt to the dynamism of flight usually became quickly apparent.
Certainly that was the case with Righetti’s class. “We’ve had a little tough luck with some of our planes lately. There have been two freak accidents and two ground loops,” he wrote. “Outside of lost fabric, the loops weren’t serious, but three planes were washed out [destroyed] in the other catastrophes. One, a grandstand pilot, dipped a wing in and nosed over when he looked out at a crowd. The other, a Stearman, came down and landed right on top of a Ryan [PT-16] that was landing. It is a miracle that no one was hurt. Both of these ships were pretty well torn up. The guys, a student and the instructor, ducked when they saw it coming and just saved their necks. The side of the Stearman tore off enough of the top of the Ryan to start a good junk yard.”
“Each one of these wrecks washed out a man—‘lack of judgment,’” Righetti recounted. “Six fellows have now been eliminated and more are expected daily.” This represented a failure rate approaching twenty percent after only a month of training. It was a typical trend that held steady to the end of the war. Ultimately, Righetti finished the primary phase with good marks and was sent to Randolph Field, near San Antonio, Texas, in February 1940.
Randolph was the seat of the Air Corps training establishment. Although the Army taught pilots at 27 different airfields during World War I, those bases were shuttered immediately following the cessation of hostilities in 1918. During the next several years, such flight training as was done by what was then known as the Air Service was performed at various locations in an almost haphazard fashion. Eventually, the course of training achieved some stability with primary flight training conducted at Brooks Field in San Antonio, while advanced training was taught at nearby Kelly Field. At that time there was no middle, or basic, phase of training.
However, it was recognized that the service—renamed as the Air Corps in 1926—needed a proper, purpose-built “schoolhouse.” Construction of a new airfield was begun in 1929 according to plans that melded the latest in city planning to the most advanced ideas in airbase design. Concentric streets with connecting spokes ringed the hangars and other flight-related buildings that lined three sides of what was then a circular landing area.
The installation was dedicated as Randolph Field. It was named after William M. Randolph, a member of the naming committee who, ironically, was killed in a plane crash. When it opened for the primary phase of training during November 1931, Randolph was already recognized as a masterpiece. Not only was the blend of Spanish Colonial Revival and Art Deco architectural styles done to perfection, but the layout of the airfield and its supporting infrastructure proved to be every bit as efficient as its designers had hoped. From that point, Randolph Field was known as the “West Point of the Air.”
And it made quite an impression on Righetti when he arrived less than ten years later. Among its many features, he was particularly taken by the meals. “I thought Ryan fed well,” he wrote, “but Randolph makes Ryan grub look like dog food. In the first place, we enjoy officers’ mess. Every meal is a formal occasion—table linen, including cloth napkins, a long string of silverware, soft lights and salads (individual), soup, at least two main courses to choose between, and several vegetables. Cake and ice cream are common desserts but we always have strawberries or chocolate sauce for the ice cream. On Washington’s Birthday we were given two-pound boxes of chocolate-covered cherries, and day-before-yesterday a carton of cigarettes apiece (I sold mine for a buck).”
The aircraft Righetti flew during the basic phase was the North American BT-9 Yale. The BT-9 was a good example of how Arnold primed the aviation industry’s pumps during this period by contracting for existing designs that were, at a minimum, “good enough” for the task at hand. “I felt that every factory must be given orders for maximum production, whether it had won a design or flight-test competition or not, whether it built planes of its own design or some other firm’s.”7
This practice served several purposes. Firstly, it kept manufacturers afloat so that if America entered the war, there would be factories and a trained workforce available to build the needed aircraft. Those factories and workforces could then be expanded as required. Also, Arnold’s approach obviously got aircraft into the hands of the men who needed them. And it additionally gave the Air Corps an opportunity to try out different types before selecting the one or two that were best capable of performing specific missions or tasks.
First flown only a few years earlier in 1936, the BT-9 was a single-engine, two-place, low-wing monoplane with fixed landing gear and enclosed cockpits. It was an iteration of a line of trainers that eventually evolved into the famous AT-6 Texan. It was satisfactory for its purpose although it did have quirky characteristics in slow-speed flight. Ultimately, the Air Corps added roughly two hundred examples to its inventory before switching procurement to updated variants, most notably the BT-14.
Righetti liked it. “I guess I’ll get along OK with my flying, since I’m crazy about the BT-9,” he wrote. “It is a very heavy ship compared to the ones I’ve been accustomed to flying. It weighs over 2 tons [fully loaded] and has 400 horses. It cruises at 140 MPH and I imagine would top around 170. It’s really a peach to fly and Pop, it would make you feel safe on account it doesn’t bob around quite so bad as the Aeronca K—I’ll take you up sometime.”
The schedule that dictated Righetti’s daily life was structured and demanding, but not harsh by any measure. He described his typical day as a “real snap.” Reveille came at 5:30 followed by breakfast at 6:15. The two hours from 7:30 to 9:30 were spent in the classroom. The cadets then moved to the flight line where they were given a briefing prior to two hours of flying from 10:00 to 12:00. An hour of rest and lunch took up the period from 12:00 to 14:00, followed by a one-hour class on Morse code.
The afternoon was rounded off with physical education from 15:00 to 16:00, followed by a rest period that lasted until the evening meal which ran from 17:30 to 18:00. The rest of the night was free for rest and study until 21:00 when the cadets were expected to see to their ablutions before taps was blown at 21:30. The schedule guaranteed more than eight hours in bed prior to reveille the following morning. Moreover, Wednesday and Saturday afternoons were free, as were Sundays.
Righetti was competitive by nature and was anxious to solo in the BT-9 as soon as possible. “I am at present making out very well,” he wrote. “I have logged three-and-a-half hours dual time and I expect to solo perhaps tomorrow. If I do I will have soloed in almost record time, but if I don’t,” he explained, “I won’t feel too awfully bad as average time is six hours. Time of solo depends almost entirely on the instructors as some teach a lot of fundamentals and then solo their students, while others want their students to solo early and learn the fundamentals later. I have one of the former types of instructors but feel that I’ll solo early as he tells me that I’ve made very satisfactory progress on my fundamentals.”
As it developed, he had to wait longer than he wanted. “I finally soloed today,” he wrote a few days later on February 27, 1940. “I could and should
have soloed days ago, but the ceiling [lowest cloud layer] has been 600 feet or less since Sunday. And today is a typical southern summer day—it is very hot. And we got our full uniforms yesterday—they’re all wool and we have to wear upper and lower underwear. Gawd!”
Although the pace at which the cadets washed out during the basic phase was slower than it had been during the primary phase at San Diego, it still continued. Cadets were eliminated for any number of reasons including poor academic performance, inadequate flying skills or disciplinary breaches—among many others. Sometimes, it took only a single, seemingly minor incident such as a hard landing or a breach of flight rules, to cause a cadet to be sent home.
And Righetti, as did every cadet to a certain degree, worried about failing. “I feel that my chances of getting through here are very good although there are plenty of washouts. However, the more washouts I see of the fellows that I know have ‘plenty on the ball,’ the more convinced I become that he who survives either leads a ‘right’ life or is a superman.”
It was partway through the basic phase of flight training that the students were permitted to use the radio. The experience was new to most of them as the aircraft they had flown during the primary phase had no radios, nor did most small civil aircraft. Righetti enjoyed the experience. “I started my first radio flying on Friday, and boy is it okay,” he wrote on March 3, 1940. “We call in, get a clear field and take off. Then, we’re supposed to stay tuned to the tower for further directions, but since most of the time they don’t give us any, we just tune in some Mexican music and do our lazy eights and chandelles with a ‘Mex’ rumba accompaniment. What fun! Then, just before we come in, we call in and tell ’em we’re coming in so that they won’t think we’ve gotten away with Uncle Sam’s $20,000 BT-9.”
Notwithstanding his bravado, Righetti appreciated the beauty and sensation of flight. He was particularly taken with night flying. Already established as a top performer among his peers, he was among the first from his class of more than two hundred to start training at night. “It kind of thrills you to just sit up there alone with the stars and moon and the wind that blows against you. I love to fly with the hood [canopy] clear back,” he explained, “so as to get the sensation of motion. You can see lights, millions of them, after you get up a bit. San Antonio off a ways, and in between, a bunch of little towns. The field is just a cluster of green, red, orange and white lights—some of them blinking. You’ve gotta watch them because sometimes they signal to you with them to see if you’re minding your business. Most of the time they jabber at you by radio.”
Righetti experienced difficulties during mid-March that tempered his usual temerity. He no doubt swallowed some pride when he reported back to the family: “I’ve run into a little trouble lately with my flying, so to speak. It’s the same thing I had almost get me down in San Diego. They tell me I’m dumb and I don’t like it so I try too hard to prove otherwise, and as a result, my natural ability suffers.”
It came to a head when Righetti flew his twenty-hour check and “sorta messed it up.” The chewing out he received included a back-handed compliment. “The flight check lieutenant said, in part, ‘Righetti, I feel that you’re the best flyer we’ve got in the outfit, but damn your hide, you don’t use your head.’ I knew better than he did that my real trouble wasn’t that, but rather my old weakness of damfool carelessness.”
The lieutenant told Righetti that he was to stay under his tutelage, “for a week or so to see if he can’t ‘bring out my ability’ as he aptly puts it. He didn’t say what he’d do if he couldn’t, but he made it pretty clear that if I didn’t learn to think (get over being careless), that I would be threatened with dire circumstances.” Righetti tried to close the matter with a positive note: “I’ll let you know just as soon as I see how I’m going to make out. I don’t have any serious worries but I’m going to have to change my pace I guess.” Despite his declaration that he didn’t have “any serious worries,” it is certain that Righetti felt otherwise; his entire future hinged on how he performed during the next several months.
As hard as General Hap Arnold pressed to build the Air Corps into a much larger and more capable fighting arm, there was still time during the prewar period to enjoy niceties that not only provided the cadets some needed diversion, but also—in theory—helped to develop them as officers and gentlemen. “We’re starting to get excited about our next weekend guests, the five hundred Stephens College gals. We’ve all been handed a blind date and anticipate quite a time. They call here every three years (the other two they go to Annapolis and West Point). The school is a ‘Rich Gal’s College’ where they go to learn beauty and grace.”
Indeed, Stephens College was a private women’s school founded in Columbia, Missouri in 1833. It specialized in the liberal arts and on polishing ladies for life in the greater world. No doubt, the school’s administrators believed the heavily chaperoned engagements with young, prospective military officers were excellent opportunities to practice the social graces.
Afterward, Righetti indicated that the event was very satisfactory. “The Stephens gals were all that was said about them and more so—they were sure swell kids. We had dates with 470 of them and really had a time. My date was a little large, but she had a big escort too, so we all got along very well.”
Aside from structured social occasions such as the Stephens gala, the cadets were allowed off the installation often enough to meet girls from San Antonio and the surrounding area. “The local babes continue to intrigue me—one gal, in particular. Her old man’s a prominent lawyer and she’s schooled in Louisiana. She’s really a beauty, and very Southern. She’s twenty-one [he was twenty-five] and has a voice that sorta gets you.” Despite his obvious interest in the girl, Righetti soft-pedaled the notion that he had any plans to pursue her. He went on to advise his family that they didn’t “need to say too much to anybody about anything.”
“I’D RATHER FLY THAN EAT”
“Anybody” was Evelyn Shepherd, a bright, articulate and vivacious girl from San Luis Obispo. When Righetti was working toward his certification as a private pilot, she had shared his interest and learned to fly well enough to solo. The two were close and the families knew each other. Although there was never any announcement—and Righetti did not give her an engagement ring—there were varying levels of expectation that they might marry.
Evelyn visited him while he was training in San Diego and was eager to spend time with him in San Antonio as well. Although it seemed that he was anxious to preserve some sort of relationship with her, Elwyn was not as eager to advance their arrangement as she appeared to be. This was entirely understandable. As a cadet in the United States Army Air Corps—assuming he earned his wings and was commissioned as a second lieutenant—the world was his oyster. This was particularly true where women were concerned.
In fact, Righetti noted that he was wary of predatory females. “My local shes [sic] keep me kinda busy. I really have a charmer lined up now but am being very careful that she doesn’t get any ideas. Lieutenants in the Air Corps go at a premium here. So I greatly fear that that’s my greatest attraction.”
The cadets were attractive as potential mates for several reasons. Firstly, the Air Corps had already screened them for their above average intelligence, physical condition and psychological demeanor and adaptability. These factors generally combined to make them interesting, companionable and steady. Additionally, the pay of a military officer, although not extravagant, was quite good. The average yearly wage of a man during 1940 was $956; Righetti’s base pay, upon completing flight training and receiving his commission as a second lieutenant, would be double that.1 He would also receive housing and other allowances, and as a pilot would receive flight pay equal to half of his base pay. So then, at the beginning of his career with nothing but upside remaining, Righetti would be earning three times the salary of the average American man.2
When it is considered that the girls maturing into young women at that
time had grown up surrounded by the poverty and paucity of the Great Depression, there is little wonder that they were interested in the budding flyers. Aside from their individual attributes and their salaries, the young officers lived a dashing lifestyle as part of a glamorous and tradition-bound organization that promised stability and relative comfort. There was also a sense of community that was difficult to overrate. No matter where a man was stationed, he was bound to find friends from earlier postings, and sure to make new friends he would encounter in later assignments. Those friendships often lasted a lifetime.
In a sense, the officer community in the Air Corps was an exclusive club with both national and international chapters. But it was one with a serious purpose and one that was often deadly. Aside from the dangers the men would face in the event of war, flying was dangerous in its own right. During 1940 the Air Corps suffered forty-six fatal aircraft accidents that killed ninety men.3 This was during a time when the service counted only 3,500 officers in its ranks.4 Consequently, everyone lost friends to accidents. In fact, some of them would eventually become the friends that were lost to accidents. More would be killed in the fighting to come.
However, during most of 1940, Righetti’s chief concern was simply getting through flight training. And it was a valid one. “This class,” he wrote, “has had exceedingly bad luck in washouts, in that 47 have gotten it in the neck out of 249.”
Aside from flying and ground school, military discipline also figured into how the cadets were evaluated. At that point, a significant degree of authority was exercised by upperclassmen. Each of the three phases of flight training—primary, basic and advanced—was designed to a nine-week schedule through which two classes matriculated at any one time while logging approximately seventy flight hours. As the upperclassmen graduated, the cadets of the trailing class—halfway through the phase—became the new upperclassmen who were charged with “mentoring” the cadets of the new class just entering the phase.
