It Looked Good on Paper

by Bill Fawcett

  The first of these was the center of balance in an aircraft wing. The director of the Smithsonian understood the principle of the airfoil—the classic wing design that creates low air pressure over the top surface of the wing, and thus results in “lift” from below—but he made a crucial mistake in the application of that principle. Langley decided, logically enough, that the center of balance of an airfoil was down the middle of the wing. Therefore, his wings were supported with guy wires located in that position.

  The Wright Brothers determined, through hands-on experimenting, that the actual center of gravity in an airfoil was only about a third of the way back from the leading edge. They actually worked out the equations needed to determine the coefficient of lift, which allowed them to build an engine that was only as powerful as necessary. Furthermore, they understood where the stress would come to bear against the wings. As a result, they placed their supporting wires in that position (something that every model airplane builder understands today). Thus, the Wright Flyer was strong enough to hold together under the stresses of flight.

  The second failure of Langley’s design is harder to understand: he apparently failed to consider that a flying machine would need to be controlled—i.e., “steered”—through three dimensions. While his aerodrome possessed a crude rudder potentially capable of turning it to the right or left, that rudder was located in the middle of the machine, not at the tail. In addition, it had no wing warping ability at all.

  Wing warping, which in the early days literally meant bending the airplane while it was in the air, was a crucial component of the Wright Brothers’ design—and, later, a key element of their patent. Perhaps their experience in building bicycles and gliders helped them to grasp this requirement. In any event, the pilot of the Wright Flyer (who lay prone on the lower wing) used his own muscle power to twist and bend the airplane, which was a key component of keeping it in stable flight, not to mention providing at least a limited amount of steering capability.

  Aided by the labor of his staff and a War Department budget of $50,000, Langley’s Great Aerodrome was completed in October 1903—two months before the Wright Brothers were ready to take to the air. The machine was carried to the same houseboat in the Potomac from which the unmanned flyers had been launched. A courageous volunteer, the aptly named Charles M. Manly, took the controls on October 9. The engine roared, witnesses gathered to observe the historic event, and a catapult snapped forward, propelling the Great Aerodrome into the air.

  For about a second. Then the wing twisted out of alignment as the supporting wires failed, and the machine plunged straight down, into the waters of the Potomac. Although Manly was fished out of the water, none the worse for wear, the experiment was a very public failure. Nevertheless, Langley went to work on building another machine, and Manly again volunteered to fly it. This craft was ready by December 8, 1903—which was already five days after the Wright Flyer took to the air at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina—but the date was really rather insignificant as this aerodrome, too, collapsed upon launch and plunged into the river (Manly, who perhaps should have been nicknamed “Lucky,” again survived.)

  Langley died in 1906, his dream unrealized. The Smithsonian carried on his legacy to the point of having Glenn Curtiss modify the aerodrome in 1914. Curtiss put the wing wires in the proper place, and the machine did in fact take to the air—though it still could not be properly steered or controlled. Even so, this “success” caused the museum’s new directors to exhibit the aerodrome prominently, and label it “the first machine capable of manned flight.” (Part of the reason for the exaggeration lay in an attempt, ultimately unsuccessful, to void the Wright Brothers’ patent on powered aircraft design.)

  The resulting display led to a feud with Orville Wright (his brother had died in 1912) that led to the original Kitty Hawk flying machine being displayed in a museum in London, instead of the official American history and technology museum. It was not until 1942 that the Smithsonian corrected the label, explained the details of Curtiss’s modifications, and allowed the Wright Brothers invention to claim its true place in the history of aviation.

  “There is the right way, the wrong way, and the Navy way.”

  The First U.S. Navy Catapult Launch

  Douglas Niles and Donald Niles, Sr.

  The Wright Brothers’ successful design of a powered, controllable airplane was tested and improved by the two brothers over the years from 1903 to 1908 under a shroud of secrecy. They were apparently the only designers who understood—probably because of their roots as bicycle makers—that the machine could be steered through turns by banking it to the right or left. They were awarded a patent for their steering mechanism, and took some pains to keep the method secret from competitors.

  By 1908, however, they were demonstrating their device for army observers in both the United States and France. While the military uses of flying machines had yet to be demonstrated, forward thinking officers in both countries were gradually beginning to realize that this new invention had a great deal of potential. In the U.S., the initial investment in military aviation came from the Army, with the Navy only slowly taking interest.

  However, by the end of 1908, Rear Admiral Cowles, chief of the Navy’s Bureau of Equipment, had seen enough of the new technology to recommend to the Secretary of the Navy that “a number of aeroplanes” should be purchased by the Navy; that these machines should be capable of flying in less than ideal weather conditions, and “be of such design as to permit convenient storage on board ship.” Eight months later the request was denied with the explanation that, “The Department does not consider that the development of the aeroplane has progressed sufficiently at this time for use in the Navy.”

  With this curt dismissal, aviation-minded naval officers were forced to watch as the U.S. Army continued with its experimental flying machines. It wasn’t until 1910 that Captain W.I. Chambers, USN, was authorized to learn as much as he could about airplanes from civilian pilots and designers. Although his queries were rejected by the Wright Brothers, he found a willing assistant in one of the brothers’ chief rivals, Glenn Curtiss. Chambers arranged for an eighty-three-foot-long platform, sloping downward, to be installed on the prow of the cruiser USS Birmingham. On November 14, 1910, pilot Eugene Ely flew a 50 hp Curtiss pusher down that ramp and into the air, for the first successful launching of an aircraft from a ship.

  By December of that year, the first United States Navy pilot, Lt. T.G. Ellyson, was authorized to train under Curtiss himself and learn to fly. He was “graduated” after four months of study in San Diego at North Field—which would eventually become the huge San Diego Naval Air Station—with Curtiss reporting to the Secretary of the Navy that Ellyson could operate all Curtiss airplanes, and that he “is a man who will make a success in aviation.” By March 1911, Congress provided $25,000 to develop naval aviation, and a few months later the service ordered, from Curtiss, a “hydra-terra-aeroplane” that could fly from land or water and attain a speed of 45 mph. (Of course, since Curtiss lacked access to the patented banking system of the Wright machines, the plane was more difficult to control than those built by Orville and Wilbur Wright.)

  Because of the limited space aboard the decks of ships, Curtiss and Ellyson quickly realized the desirability of flinging an airplane into the air with the assistance of a catapult mechanism. They devised a system that relied upon the strength of two men who pulled ropes attached to the airplane’s wings, and tested it on a beach in September of 1911. Running the aircraft down an inclined three-wire rigging from a platform 16 feet high, they successfully put the plane into the air, where it flew out over Lake Keuka and landed on the water.

  So far, so good. In theory, it should have been possible to do the same thing from a ship. It was not until the next summer, July 1912, that they were ready to try—after making a few improvements. The Navy invested resources in the development of a compressed-air powered catapult system, which was tested on the Santee Dock in Annapolis. The
aircraft, with Ellyson at the controls, was attached to the catapult, and the trigger was released.

  However, the nose of the airplane was hoisted too far upward, perhaps because of the powerful catapult. In any event, the plane shot up, not out, and was immediately caught in a crosswind that cartwheeled it unceremoniously into the water. Ellyson crawled from the wreckage, soaked and chagrined, but convinced that the problem was solvable.

  And it was. By November, they rebuilt the airplane and adjusted the catapult. When Ellyson made his second attempt on November 12, 1912, the plane took to the air. This was the first successful launch of an airplane by catapult. The aviation pioneering team of Curtiss and Ellyson would go on to establish a number of flying firsts, including the development of seaplane operations (with planes landing and taking off on the water) and the use of cranes to hoist and lower amphibious aircraft onto and off of the decks of ships.

  World War I was on the horizon and the U.S. Navy was ready to take to the skies.

  “Airplanes are interesting toys but of no military value.”

  —Marshal Ferdinand Foch, in 1911, who became the Supreme Commander of Allied forces in World War I, 1918

  Where the Buffalo Drones

  The Brewster F2A

  William Terdoslavich

  The Brewster F2A Buffalo sucked. But that would be a mean thing to say. Let’s just say it was “developmentally challenged.”

  At one time in the late 1930s, the F2A took naval aviation from biplanes to the modern age in one very brief swoop.

  That was its high point.

  And then it was quickly eclipsed as the aviation world kept speeding onward and upward.

  Made in Queens…

  The Brewster Company originally made cars, starting an aviation division in the early 1930s. It was a time when the aviation world was transitioning from the open cockpit biplane, with fabric-covered wings, to the low-wing all-metal monoplane sporting an enclosed cockpit and retractable landing gear.

  The Navy was flying the Grumman F3F, a biplane with a squat, barrel-shaped fuselage and an enclosed cockpit. In 1935, it wanted a low-wing all-metal monoplane that could do 300 mph to replace it.

  In an attempt to win the Navy contract, a company named Seversky pulled together a version of its P-35 fighter, refitted with a tailhook. Grumman derived its prototype of the F4F Wildcat from the existing F3F. Brewster designed the F2A as a mid-wing all-metal monoplane with flush rivets. Only the flaps were fabric-covered. It was a lackluster design, but wind tunnel testing and a few tweaks brought it up to speed. The Navy gave Brewster the contract in 1938. Make fifty-four airplanes.

  Pronto.

  Well that was going to be a challenge. The Brewster factory was in Long Island City, Queens—a grungy neighborhood of factories that still had a gritty look long after the manufacturers went away. There was no airfield. The planes had to be trucked to Roosevelt Field (now a shopping mall in Long Island) for final assembly and flight-testing.

  It was not until the following June that the Navy finally started getting its F2As. Each plane took flight with an 850 horsepower Wright Cyclone engine. It had a 1,000-mile range. Two machine guns were fitted under the cowling. Two more were placed in the wings.

  VF-3, assigned to the U.S.S. Saratoga, got the first batch of F2As. By the second half of 1940, the F2A was not living up to its billing. The landing gear proved to be too delicate for the controlled crash landings typically required on a carrier.

  On second thought, perhaps the F4F Grumman Wildcat was the better plane.

  The Navy dropped Brewster from its lineup and switched to Grumman.

  The second disappointment came from Great Britain, then at war with Nazi Germany. The Royal Air Force purchased about 170 F2As, but technical experts faulted the plane for lacking the speed and punch needed to go up against the Messerschmitt BF-109, then the Luftwaffe’s first-line fighter. Adding self-sealing fuel tanks and pilot armor only degraded the F2A’s performance.

  So the British did what the U.S. Navy did—found a way to get rid of the damn thing. In the Navy’s case, that was done by giving the F2As to the Marine Corps. For the RAF, the solution was to pack off the Buffaloes, as the British called them, to the Far East.

  The Buffalo wasn’t good enough to defend London. Perhaps it will be good enough to keep the Japanese away from Rangoon and Singapore?

  This was going to be a stretch. The Buffalo suffered from carburetor tuning problems and had trouble reaching 18,000 feet at 295 mph. Climbing to 25,000 feet took a half-hour, not 11 to 12 minutes as promised.

  The British believed that their second-rate planes and third-rate pilots were more than a match for the Japanese.

  They were proven wrong.

  Destroyed in the Pacific…

  December 7, 1941, would also live as a day of infamy for Great Britain as well as the United States. While Japan attacked Pearl Harbor, it also moved against the Philippines and Malaya in simultaneous operations.

  Four squadrons of Buffaloes made up part of the air force defending Singapore. Another Buffalo squadron was posted in Burma. The Dutch also had a squadron of Buffaloes to help defend the Netherlands East Indies, today called Indonesia. But even ten squadrons would not have been enough, so long as the planes were F2As.

  Whether attacked by the Japanese Zero or Oscar fighter plane, the Buffalo was completely outclassed and gunned down very easily. British historian A.D. Harvey sounded a skeptical note in the plane’s favor, arguing that the Buffalo did poorly because RAF pilots had little training, compared to Japanese pilots with extensive training and years of experience.

  In the end it did not matter much. Japan overran Malaya and captured Singapore. It had no trouble swatting Dutch Buffaloes over the East Indies or RAF Buffaloes over Burma.

  Six months later, it was the Marines’ turn to take a beating. A squadron of Buffaloes based at Midway Island flew off to defend it from Japanese air attack on June 4, 1942. VMF-221 went up with nineteen Buffaloes—and came back with six. Captain Phillip R. White, who survived the mission, said, “Any commander who orders a pilot out for combat in an F2A should consider the pilot lost before he leaves the ground.”

  The U.S. Navy had to begin the war with the planes it had, not the planes it wanted to have, to paraphrase Donald Rumsfeld. But the United States does not put up with second best for very long. The Marines and Navy transitioned quickly to the F4F3 Wildcat, while the Buffaloes that continued to come off the convoluted Brewster assembly line went into service as trainers. If it had wings and couldn’t fight, some other use could be found for it.

  But the first fifty-four Buffaloes the Navy bought never saw service in the Pacific. The Navy was eager to get rid of the Buffalo at any price, so the U.S. State Department found a buyer.

  Finland.

  Yes, Finland.

  Second-rate Plane Destroys Third-rate Enemy

  Was the Navy a sucker for buying the F2A or was Finland a bigger sucker to buy them second-hand?

  Hard to say, but Finland did come out ahead in the bargain.

  In late 1939, the former Russian province was attacked by the Soviet Union. The Finns fought the Russians hard in the Winter War, at first winning the battles, but slowly losing ground over time to the ever-growing Red Army and Red Air Force arrayed against them. Finland needed planes from any nation willing to sell them, and they couldn’t afford to be choosy.

  Since the Soviet Union was an ally of Nazi Germany at that point, Great Britain and the United States eagerly helped, selling Finland any surplus second- or third-rate aircraft on hand. Finland bought the fifty-four Navy Buffaloes for $54,000 each. The planes were stripped of their arresting gear and life rafts, packed on to steamships, and sent to Norway. From there, they were shipped to the Saab plant at Trollhatten, Sweden, for assembly before being flown on to Finland. Six made it by March 1940, at the tail end of the Winter War. One squadron got the F2As and trained hard to master the beasts.

  After the Winter War, Finland, eag
er to regain land lost to the Russians, became the only democracy to ally itself with Nazi Germany.

  To Germany, June 22, 1941, was the beginning of Operation Barbarossa, the invasion of Russia. But to Finland, it was the first day of the Continuation War. The Buffaloes of LeLv 24 were flying against the far more mediocre Red Air Force, wrecked during the Stalin purges of the late 1930s. The Finnish front was not the first worry of the U.S.S.R., which sent its better units to fight the Germans, so the worst of the worst flew against the Finns.

  For the Finns it was open season to kill Russians, no bag limit. The Buffalo scored 496 kills with only 19 losses. Thirty-five of Finland’s 50 aces scored their kills while flying Buffaloes.

  The plane had “redeemed” itself, but it was at the cost of carrying an asterisk in the history books. While the Buffalo sucked, the inexperienced Russian pilots flying the lesser planes of the Soviet arsenal sucked even more.

  But that situation was not permanent for the Russians.

  The F2A was transitioned out of Finnish service by 1943, outclassed by increasingly more modern Soviet fighters being flown by better-trained and experienced pilots. By the time the Continuation War ended, with Finland again calling it quits, LeLv 24 had given up Buffaloes in favor of Me-109s. Territory regained was lost again to the Russians, and Finland had to learn how to live next door to the Soviets for the entire run of the Cold War.

  The last Finnish Buffalo flew in 1948. By that time, the Brewster Company was out of business. Only two Buffaloes remained out of more than 500 made.

  Finland has one in a museum.

  The United States managed to get its hands on the other surviving Buffalo, salvaged in the late 1990s from the bottom of a Russian lake where it had ditched during World War II. That plane awaits restoration at the National Museum of Naval Aviation in Pensacola, Florida.