At about this time the first of my flying instructor colleagues were being sent out to train for tactical flying. They were sent to four-engine schools for the most part, to learn to fly heavy bombers. I was among those who had volunteered for such service, and finally in June I was told that my name would be on the next list of orders that came in. I was delighted, and yet I felt a glimmer of uncertainty and a hope that I was not making a mistake because life in San Angelo with Anne had become more enjoyable than ever. I met many people there whom I liked and whom I never would have met except for Anne. I was exchanging this life for one unknown and beyond a doubt much harder.
Sebring, Florida, where I was to spend six weeks in four-engine training, seemed the hottest place on earth during July and August, 1942. And for a fellow with 1100 flying hours in a basic trainer it was a long hop to get checked out as the first pilot of a Flying Fortress and at the same time learn the things a tactical flier in heavy bombardment has to know. Learning to work with a crew of ten men, learning to fly a proper bombing run, learning a new type of formation flying, getting used to high altitude flying using oxygen, all were new to me.
The chief purpose of the school at Sebring was not to teach tactics in flying operational unit numbers of B-17s. It was to teach pilots how to handle their individual airplanes. We got a little of the tactics of formation flying, and to some degree of bombing. But in the main we received crews, and we worked with those crews to learn the use of a single heavy bomber. Our crews consisted of four officers—pilot, copilot, bombardier, navigator—and six enlisted men—engineer, assistant engineer, radio operator, assistant radio operator, tail gunner, belly gunner. The assistant engineer and assistant radio operator doubled as gunners in the waist gun positions when not needed up front.
Sebring was an indispensable part of my training. I was glad to learn to fly a Fortress, though I had always longed to be a fighter pilot. Perhaps I had seen too many movies about World War I. I rationalized that in this war the bombers perform the magnificent role of the offense. Fighters are merely the defense, and I would rather be one who carries the ball than one who runs interference. As a generalization at that time that was fair. But later the fighter boys changed this concept a lot. They protected the bombers, true, but they also went out on sweeps on which they bombed and strafed and threw rockets into enemy installations.
The best thing about Sebring was the fact that the time passed quickly. I got on well with my flying in spite of the personality clash I had with the instructor, and suddenly I was graduated. Although nearly all of the students in my class had expected to go into combat, we were told that many of us were now too valuable to go. Many of us would become instructors. And though most of us were given no definite idea what to expect, we must realize the need for instructors.
A few boys went out with their crews to operational units; most of them were sent to Caribbean and South American bases. The rest of us were directed through Salt Lake City, which was the redistribution center of the Second Air Force. There we were to receive orders to other stations. I was listed to go to Salt Lake. I sent Anne to Kentucky to wait until I found what to expect from the assignment at Salt Lake. The morning I arrived in Salt Lake I went to the redistribution center and checked in and checked out almost in the same motion. Our group from Sebring was split four ways to four different stations, some going on in B-17s and others going to schools where they were to be put into B-24 Liberators. I was on the list to go to Tucson, Arizona, to fly B-24s.
At Tucson we were simply told that here cadres were being made up that would eventually land overseas, and some of us would go more or less directly out on such a cadre. Others would go out after some other intermediate duty. I didn't care particularly, except that I wanted overseas service, and I thought Tucson would be as nice a place for Anne and me as any I could think of to spend the remaining days together. With that in mind I wired Anne to join me.
The business of getting checked out in B-24s was easy because they were not too different from B-17s. The crews of the two airplanes were the same size and the B-24s seemed only slightly “hotter”—that is, they landed a little faster and were slightly more difficult to handle. But they were bigger, they had longer range, and were faster at their altitude than the Fortresses I had been flying.
I had been at Tucson a little less than a month when the major, who was my CO, told me I was not to be sent out on a cadre headed for combat, but was to be retained as an instructor. I was quite angry that my path seemed endlessly beset with obstacles. I went through the whole rigmarole with him about not being able to do well what I disliked. The major heard me out and then said: “Of course you'll do this whether you like it or not. But I'll tell you what I'll do: If you'll work hard in this job until New Year's, I promise I'll send you out with your own cadre. If you left now with your experience in four-engine flying you would be a flight commander. I promise you will get a better job than the one you would have if you went out now.” I stayed, of course, and liked it.
By far the best news for me about that time was that Anne was pregnant. Lesser good news was that I got a house. It was only very little bigger than the motel hut we had become used to, but it had a homier look about it. Our lives in that delightful spot were more enjoyable each day.
My only important duty at Tucson was to fly with students. They were, of course, student officers, not cadets. When a new group of officers came in we would check them out very quickly for daytime operation of the ships. Thereafter we instructors would fly almost entirely at night. I didn't mind night flying because when I flew at night I usually stayed home all day. I used to fly every week night, usually for four or eight hours between midnight and dawn. Some thought that a rough schedule, and I think the operations officer kept me on it as a penalty for not hanging around the flight office more in the daytime. When I understood the situation I began to spend a few hours a day around the flight line, though there was little or nothing to do.
I piled up hours in Liberators. I flew one hundred of the several hundred hours I got at Tucson with only twelve hours of logged daytime flight. I would sit in the right-hand copilot's seat and gaze into the star-punctured desert night, enjoying the thoughts those enjoy who are alone. The student pilot would be working with rapt attention to the flight instruments as he flew his radio beam orientation problem. My eyes would flit automatically over the dully lit engine instruments without disturbing my train of thought. Cylinder head gauges, okay; oil temperatures, normal; vacuum up; gas pressure a little low but sufficient; oil pressure good, and steady except on number 2 engine. That one fluctuated slightly, but I knew the ship well enough to know it was nothing to worry about. The manifold pressure and tachometers rode at a good easy power setting so as to give a slow cruising speed and low gas consumption.
I remember the view from the northwest leg of the beam coming into Tucson. I could see the lights of the city down there and off in the distance ahead curtained behind by just a faint moon-streaked outline of the Catalina foothills. I would think about getting my share of the war over as soon as possible and plan that Anne and I would go back to Kentucky and start out together in some small town like Frankfort or Paris or maybe Lexington. There I would practice law and try to support the large family I hoped for.
The day after New Year's I moved out to El Paso, Texas, as a squadron commander of a cadre group beginning its training for overseas service. The Germans then were losing their long offensive at Stalingrad, and in two weeks the Russians were to break the siege. Our cadre was a skeleton organization and had a long way to go to become a real command. But my CO at Tucson had made good his promise to get me a better job than the one I might have had by going out earlier, and from now on it was up to me to take the people given me and weld them into a fighting unit. The other three squadron COs who went out with me and were assigned to the same group as I were Captains Paul Burton, Adelbert Cross, and William Yaeger. A squadron of heavy bombardment consists of four flights of
three airplanes and crews per flight. Four squadrons make up a group, and usually two or three groups make up a wing. The actual number of aircraft in any unit may vary from time to time because of the need for replacements, the current attrition rate, and a number of other things. But basically four flights of three crews and airplanes each made up a squadron, and four squadrons made a group. Consequently, though my squadron hadn't reached anything like the strength it would attain before going overseas, it would ultimately consist of twelve heavy bombardment crews with all the equipment and administrative support that go with them.
The first day I reported to the field I met the group commander, David Lancaster, then a major. He was a North Carolinian who had flown many of the transoceanic hops for General Olds in the early days of the Ferry Command. He had won a Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC) for his pioneering flights, and in those days a pilot with a DFC was quite a man. I had respect for his experience and liked his simplicity of manner and solicitude for his men. He felt the best way to develop the command was to give the commanders under him leeway to use their own initiative. In the case of our group it was a successful training policy.
Almost immediately I found myself engaged in a race of intense competition with the other squadron commanders. I was determined to make my squadron the best. I believe Captain Yaeger had about the same competitive spirit as I, but Captains Burton and Cross had less of it. Sometimes Del Cross seemed almost indifferent to comparisons between the squadrons. Paul Burton was not, but his ideas differed so from Yaeger's and mine that I never felt an adversary spirit with him like I did with Yaeger.
Somewhat in between the squadron commander and our group commander was Captain John A. Brooks III, West Pointer, and now the group operations officer. John was a tireless, imaginative fellow whose position put him in line to catch such flak as flew off the squadron COs. About this time Brooks had commented that he didn't think Del Cross was of a serious enough turn of mind to have command of a squadron. His comment found its way home to Del and almost overnight the feeling rose to a pitch somewhere close to civil war. Major Lancaster had always felt his squadron commanders should rank the group operations officer, and so he was not very happy about Brooks's comment. He indicated his dissatisfaction to Yaeger, the senior squadron CO. I liked all the other squadron COs, but I also liked Brooks. I felt John had a tendency to usurp power not properly delegated to him by military regulation, but I admired his energy. He was a tireless worker, and his energies seemed bent in the direction of general betterment of the group.
In the midst of the heat of the quarrel, Yaeger called a squadron commanders’ meeting. He stated the case against Brooks and suggested we go together to Major Lancaster and ask for a replacement for him. I put in a plea against precipitate action. I made no apology for Brooks because I knew such an apology would meet with no approval. I merely said we should not be hasty. We were about to do something very injurious and therefore should give Brooks the benefit of every doubt before taking such action. After I had talked a while Del remarked that he thought I was right. That was quite a generous attitude for him to have, and I began to realize what a good-hearted spirit Del really was. Paul Burton declared he also thought we should not ask for Brooks's removal at this time. The case against John collapsed, though I believe from the way it started it might have easily gone the other way. For a time after that meeting the feeling continued to run high. The presence of factionalism was felt by all, but I think all of us hated it so that it soon was put down to a level below notice.
My new combat crews were coming in and I flew with them a lot. My operations officer, Don Buck, was as good a person as I ever met, but I would get upset with him for not working harder, not flying more, and not being more zealous to have the best operations in the group. He didn't feel so keenly as I the competitive aspects of our squadron's progress in the group. My assistant operations officer was a ball of fire by the name of Ed Fowble, from Hobart, Indiana. He was a very young fellow with a childish way about him, but he was the most ardent flier in the squadron and perhaps in the group. Ed would fly twenty-four hours a day if permitted. Once he did fly eighteen in one day, and I got a call from the flight surgeon about it, threatening to ground him if I didn't slow him down.
Ed felt as I did that it was a good thing for any young flier who wanted to live a long time to spend some time each day planning how to meet emergencies in the air in the type of ship he expects to fly in combat. We agreed on the wisdom of landing a B-24 from a very steep glide using as little power on the approach as possible. Then, we reasoned, when we got in combat and were coming home with a couple of engines knocked out, we would know how to bring the ship in without much power. You can fly okay on two engines. Sometimes you can keep aloft for a while on one. But once you put your landing gear and flaps down and start an approach for a landing the airplane is coming down. With an engine or two out you can't afford to miss the first approach because it is likely to be the last, and you can't drag into a field from five miles back. Time after time I've seen Ed land a Liberator without using any power at all from the time he turned off his base leg onto his final approach. He would pull his throttles completely off and leave them off. This is what is known as making a “dead stick” landing, and it isn't easy to do. I've never seen another pilot with Ed's ability and zest for flying. He was never too tired to learn more or to fly more or to talk more about flying. Thus he acquired a great deal of experience in a short time.
All the squadrons had what was known as a “model crew.” The pilot of my model crew was a tall, dark, good-looking fellow named Ben Walsh. Walsh was a very serious, unsmiling, hardheaded young man. I may have thought him hardheaded because he disagreed with me fundamentally about the way a B-24 should be flown. Though I was his squadron commander, in his eyes it gave me no right to suggest to him anything about the conduct of his flying. At times a good deal of heat was generated by our difference of views. Ben loved to make low approaches. He would get his ship right down on the treetops and pull it in from about a mile back from the field with a lot of power on all engines. I would watch him from the flying line and shudder.
In spite of the differences in the squadron it was evident the combination of types was good. I tried to be a bit of a public relations man with my organization. I was obviously not super-military like Yaeger, and I rarely resorted to pulling my rank or issuing orders because I believed the success of a command of Americans largely depended on something more solid than rank. My men responded well and gave me reason to be proud of them.
The group that trained ahead of us at Biggs Field lost a number of planes and some crews during their training, partly because of their getting some poorly rebuilt engines. When the engines were put in their airplanes many of them failed in flight. The pilots were green and unused to the emergency procedures in case of engine failure. Soon after our arrival they lost a few airplanes because of mistakes made by pilots after engines failed. The result was to create an inordinate fear of engine failure in some of the other pilots. The effect of the combination of mechanical and personnel error sometimes produced near panic among pilots.
Some of the difficulties of that group aided us, I know. I was constantly going over emergency procedure with my pilots and trying to convince them that our ships were rugged and safe in such emergencies as engine failure. The only thing that had to be watched was that the pilot not make some mistake to add to his difficulty. I had two pilots who were continually complaining about the airplanes. I made a point of taking them up and feathering both props on one wing. That is, I shut off two engines on the same side and used the feathering mechanism so that the props of both engines stopped windmilling. I demonstrated how nicely the airplane would fly with two good engines on one side and two dead ones on the other. This calmed these pilots and thereafter they did better.
All our new pilots practiced three-engined operation and three-engined landings with competent instructors supervising. In the beginning I did much
of the instructing myself. New men saw that three-engined flying took only application of common principles and calmness. They learned how to set the trim to make a ship fly straight and level when it had an engine out. And they learned that when a ship is so trimmed it must be untrimmed carefully as the power is reduced on the glide into the runway for landing. If it isn't carefully untrimmed, since the airplane was set to keep itself flying level with three good engines and one dead one exerting only drag, the trim would take over. This would pull the plane to one side and off the runway as the power was reduced.
The group that preceded us had several pilots come in with an engine feathered and miss the runway. On several occasions the pilots had tried to go around on three engines to make another landing. In each such case the ship had crashed, not having been able to clear the field on three engines with landing gear and flaps fully down. And so that group had a rule that under no circumstances would a pilot attempt to go around for a second approach if his airplane had one engine out. Once the pilot committed his plane to a landing he would make it even if he was off the runway.
One day just after Fowble's arrival, when he was still a little green in B-24s, I was flying with him when the principles of three-engine landings were well demonstrated to us. Ed and I had been to the bombing range northeast of the field and had lost an engine. With absolute calm Ed went through the procedure of feathering the prop on the dead engine. He trimmed his ship properly to fly on the three remaining engines and increased the power on those engines to give a safe cruising speed. Then we started back to Biggs. Ed made a good traffic pattern and a good turn from his base leg into the final approach to land. He set his glide perfectly and then with his landing gear fully down and locked and his flaps fully down, he started to pull off power to slow up the glide for landing. As he pulled off power the trim started to take over. It pulled the ship into the good engines. Our engines are numbered from left to right and the number four engine, that is the right outboard engine, was the dead one. The ship had been given a lot of left trim against the good engines and when Fowble pulled the throttles back the ship started turning to the left. The power of the trim was too much for him to correct on the rudders and the wheel. Obviously the only thing for him to do was to take off some of the left trim.
Bomber Pilot Page 6
