Four
Full Years
A
portion of an autobiography
by
Glenn
Thomas Black
Preface
It was after we moved to Oregon in 1985 that I began writing my autobiography. In my “retirement” I have been so busy that my writing has been sporadic. Using a computer helped, but completion remained a distant goal. Recently Wally Nygren, our daughter’s father-in-law, suggested that I complete my autobiography in sections. That sounded like a good way to proceed.
For millions of people, World War II was a defining “moment.” Certainly for me, World War II set the course for the rest of my life. Probably those who read my biography will find that section to be the most interesting section.
Many nations preceded our nation’s becoming involved in the war. The attack on Pearl Harbor catapulted us into the conflict. That is where I begin this section of my writing. Although the war was over in August of 1945, for me, in a sense, it has never ended. I suffer endless physical pain from it. (Usually the pain is not great. I don’t even think about it most of the time.)
As a title for this section I have chosen “Four Full Years.” It is not an intriguing title. I have been admonished that the title should be more spectacular. It was an intense time for me, full of unrepeatable activity. The years were filled to overflowing, and the time is actually more than four years.
Why should I be writing an autobiography? Is it not a self-seeking activity? God forbid! If it is that, it is a self-condemning activity. If God is not glorified in and through it, it is, at best, wasted time. “. . . whatever you do, do all to the glory of God.” (I Corinthians 10:31 NKJV.)
Glenn T. Black
CONTENTS
1. Pearl Harbor 1.
2. California Bound 3.
3. Santa Ana Army Air Base 5.
4. Hancock College of Aeronautics 9.
5. Gardner Field 15.
6. Roswell Army Air Force Advanced Flying School 19.
7. Greenville Army Air Base 27.
8. North Africa 35
9. The First Fifty 41
10. A Brief Respite 59
11. Back to Work 61
12. My Longest Day 63
13. 35th Station Hospital 71
14. Naples 75
15. Transition 77
16. Reparations (Being Repaired) 79
Conclusion 91
1
Immediately after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, I wanted to enlist in the military. I had no desire to kill or to be killed, to hurt or to be hurt, but I believed that it was necessary for someone (really a multitude of “someones”) to put a stop to the aggression of the Axis powers, and I didn’t believe it would be right to leave that up to others entirely. However, none of my friends seemed to feel as strongly about this as I did, so I merely continued at Denver University and the Secretary’s Office for a time.
Even before Pearl Harbor I would sometimes be in what was to me a boring class, daydreaming. Instead of being in class I would be in a Spitfire, rising to prevent Nazi bombers from dropping their lethal loads.
One evening in January 1942 on the front page of THE DENVER POST was a very small article that caught my attention. It stated that the requirements for entering aviation cadet training had been changed. The age limit had been lowered to eighteen, and only high school graduation was required. Instead of going to my classes at the university the next day I went to the army recruiting office. The recruiters were ignorant of the change but encouraged me to keep in contact with them. That encouragement was unnecessary.
Oftentimes government wheels turn slowly, and this was no exception. In spite of my moving as fast as I could, it wasn’t until near the end of March that I was sworn into the army. (At my first physical exam I came close to being rejected; I was underweight for my height or too tall for my weight. The examiner said, “Let’s check your height and weight again.” I couldn’t do anything to change my weight at once, but I could do something about being too tall. Upon the next measurement I bent my knees slightly. Sure enough, I was no longer too light for my height.)
Immediately following being sworn in I was furloughed to await the time I could actually enter cadet training. In the meantime I had not continued in my classes at the university but had begun working full time at the Secretary’s Office. I have regretted my discontinuing my university studies, for it turned out that I could have completed one full year of college at that time.
June 9, 1942 was to be Carmen’s graduation day. With my receiving a new 30 day furlough in April and May it appeared that I might still be in Denver for her graduation. We had had such a good time the night of my graduation that we were planning a similar night, if I was still in Denver.
June 1st Carmen and I decided to be engaged officially. When we would marry was completely uncertain, but we agreed that we’d let the world know we were committed to each other.
2
It was with mixed feelings that I received the letter instructing me to be at the City Auditorium prepared to leave for Santa Ana, California June 6th. I was very anxious to enter pilot training, but I didn’t want to leave my loved ones, especially Carmen, and I didn’t want to miss her graduation.
Parting WAS difficult! To this date tears well up in my eyes when I recall what Carmen’s mother told me later. Carmen had held up very well at the auditorium, but when she got home she cried as if her heart had been broken.
The trip to Santa Ana was a most unpleasant one! We boarded the train in Denver fairly late in the day on the 6th. I think it was between Denver and Colorado Springs that I saw beautiful towering cumulus clouds to the east, tinted peach and pink by the setting sun. Colorado was too beautiful to leave.
As far as I know, all the young men on the train were headed for Santa Ana. Most of them were 20 to 26 years of age. I don’t remember meeting any who were under 20 at that time. Neither do I remember meeting any who had not had two years of college.
When I first heard I was to go to Santa Ana, a place I had never heard of before, I was disappointed. Having known of Randolph and Kelly Fields in Texas for years, it was my hope and expectation that that was where I was to go.
On this trip to California we were in New Mexico three times and in Texas twice. From Colorado we went into the northeast corner of New Mexico, then to Dalhart, Texas. From there we went back into New Mexico and then to El Paso, Texas. From El Paso we went back into New Mexico, then to Arizona and California.
Oftentimes we would be shunted off onto a siding to await the passage of another train. As we passed through the desert we thought it was unbearably hot. It turned out I had been assigned to a railcar that was air conditioned. We thought it was hot in our car, but other cars were not air conditioned, and their passengers would try to find excuses to come into or pass through our car.
It was either late at night on the 8th or early in the morning on the 9th that we arrived at Santa Ana. At any rate, we were stopped in Santa Ana when I awoke on the 9th. I believe it took us a little less time than it would have taken for a letter to go from Colorado to California via Pony Express.
3
Special thanks are due James William Clardy (Bill). Bill, who served as Best Man at our wedding, sent me a copy of “The SAAAB Story.” It is a detailed history of Santa Ana Army Air Base. The first cadets to arrive at SAAAB arrived February 20, 1942, according to the book. The base, therefore, was quite new when we arrived on June 9th. It became our classification center and preflight school.
“Classification Center?” Prior to Santa Ana I don’t remember hearing that aviation cadets might be trained for being something other than a pilot, i.e. a navigator or bombardier.
Newly-arrived cadets were greeted with, “You’ll be sorry!!!” “So you wanted to fly?!” Neophytes were readily recognized, even after donning ubiquitous coveralls, by long hair and pallid skin; but those changed quickly, and it wasn’t long before we were calling out, “You’ll be sorry,” and meaning it, and, “So you wanted to fly,” and meaning it.
Our “SAAAB” stories were not all happy ones! Most of us were fresh out of civilian life. The only thing worse than weary bones being aroused by the bugle’s reveille call early in the morning, as the way to start the day, was when we were aroused more quietly a couple of hours earlier for KP duty. That duty started very early in the day and included being involved in the serving of two meals at each meal time, two breakfasts, two lunches (dinners) and two dinners (suppers). We had to scrub the tables and the floors after each meal.
There were at least two reasons for the “So you wanted to fly” calls. One was that MANY who arrived with the hope of becoming pilots, never became pilots. The other was that even for those who eventually became pilots, the goal seemed very remote at Santa Anna.
Concerning the first of these reasons, even though we had had fairly thorough physicals prior to being accepted by the army, many were eliminated for physical deficiencies discovered at Santa Ana. They weren’t all eliminated from the army, but they were eliminated from the cadet program. Some were eliminated through psychological examinations. One was eliminated because of his father’s German ancestry. Some failed academically.
Concerning the goal seeming to be remote, very little that we were doing at SAAAB seemed to be preparing us to pilot airplanes. It was a thrill to us when a BT-13 circled the base at perhaps a thousand feet.
What I can still see to this day was another morale booster. A dangerous, foolish thing was done, but it was encouraging to me. At that time there was a great deal of sensitivity about a possible invasion by the Japanese, or at least their conducting a nuisance attack. Coastal patrol was conducted by pilots flying P-38’s, in addition to other types. One day a P-38 swooped down toward the parade ground. As he passed over the wide open area he did the most beautiful slow roll I had ever seen. As his wingtips passed the vertical they were only a few feet above the ground. Shortly after he passed by he was followed by a second P-38 which did exactly the same thing. It was beautiful! Foolish? Yes. Dangerous to themselves and hundreds of others? Yes. But that’s not the way I thought about it then.
SAAAB was an experience unlike any other most of us had ever had. Most of us came from civilian life where we had dressed more or less as we pleased, got up in the morning and went to bed at night according to the schedules we had worked out for ourselves, were free to come and go as we pleased (with some requirements according to our school, work or family schedules), etc. But at SAAAB we all wore the same kind of zoot suits (coveralls) until we were issued uniforms, and then we all wore the same uniforms that the occasion required. We could be gigged (receive demerits) for any irregularity of uniform, such as having a shirt pocket unbuttoned. We got up at the despised call of the bugle. Taps sounded at 10:00 p.m.
Some were at SAAAB because they wanted to be officers rather than enlisted men. Some were there because they didn’t want to be in the infantry. Some of us wanted very badly to be pilots.
The time came for classification of those who had not been eliminated for physical, psychological or other reasons. We had been given the opportunity to express our preference, but the tests could result in our being classified for our second or third choices, rather than our first. My only desire was to be a pilot, but if, God forbid, I would not be classified as a pilot trainee, then navigator was my second choice and bombardier a distant third. We were told we could appeal our classification if we didn’t receive what we wanted, but there was no assurance the appeal would accomplish our purpose.
It was a tense time as our names were read off, together with our classification. We were to respond immediately as to whether or not the classification was accepted. When “pilot” followed my name I began to breathe again. I learned that my qualification for pilot was only one point above my qualification for navigator training, and my points were high for both.
It wasn’t until we were classified that we received our uniforms. They were an improvement, psychologically, over our zoot suits. They were not comfortable in summer weather, however. Our class “A” uniforms were comfortable in cool weather, but not in warm or hot. Our khaki shirts and trousers were made of very heavy material and were uncomfortable in hot weather. We always had to wear a tie when we were in uniform.
During WW II all in the military services were required to wear their uniforms at all times except when engaged in athletic activities or other times when a uniform would be inappropriate, such as in a shower.
Once we were classified we began our classes in earnest. I didn’t have much confidence in my academic abilities, but, as it turned out, my grades were good consistently.
Aircraft identification was emphasized heavily. Generally that was no problem for me, but I didn’t like the WEFT system we were required to learn. Because I had looked at pictures of airplanes as much as I could all my life, and I looked up at just about every airplane I heard overhead, it was second nature for me to identify airplanes from many different angles, merely by glancing at them. But the WEFT system required us to describe the shape of the Wing, the number of Engines and the shape of the Fuselage and the Tail. (Wing, Engine, Fuselage, Tail equaled WEFT.) In our tests we would be shown, for a fraction of a second, a formation of planes, or an airplane or part of an airplane. Can you imagine going through the WEFT system in a fraction of a second? Aircraft identification tests were dreaded by some, but, apart from WEFT, they were a snap for me.
Having learned the Morse code as a Boy Scout, code proved fairly easy, also. As a Scout, however, although I had learned the alphabet, I had not had training in aural reception of code. That came to me fairly easily. My final grade was 99%. Actually, in all my tests I received 100%. On one test, however, one letter was sent wrong. All of us who had recorded the letter as it was sent were marked as if we were wrong on that letter. I complained that my grade showed a consistent 100%, whereas my final grade was 99%. I was told, “Nobody can be perfect,” and I couldn’t argue with that.
The army tried to make it clear to us that we were training, first of all, to become officers. That we were training to be pilots was to be considered as secondary. That’s what THEY said. If a measurement could have been taken to identify which classes were interesting to me and which were boring, I expect it could have been seen that THEY were not very successful in my case. Some of the time it was difficult to stay awake in class. It may be there were times I didn’t stay awake in class.
Falling asleep was not a problem on the firing range on the beach. I enjoyed firing the Thompson submachine gun, but I didn’t enjoy firing the .45 semi-automatic pistol, and I didn’t score very well with it. I know I would have been more accurate with it had we used the present day stance, holding the gun in the right hand and steadying it with the left hand, holding the gun directly in front of oneself, standing in a semi-crouched stance. We had to stand erect, holding the pistol in the right hand with the hand and arm pointed 90 degrees to the right and our head also 90 degrees to the right. With me the gun wavered and danced continually, and my score consistently corroborated that fact.
After about five weeks at SAAAB we were given a weekend pass which allowed us to be off the base from late afternoon Saturday to approximately the same time Sunday. We weren’t permitted to have a car in the vicinity, so most of us made use of the bus transportation that was available. Cadets were not supposed to hitchhike. Once when I was walking toward Balboa Beach a couple, probably in their forties, picked me up. They said they planned to go to a movie, but when they learned I wanted o go to Balboa Beach they decided they would take a drive instead, and they took me to Balboa Beach. En route they told me that the locals commonly would pick up cadets who looked wistfully at passing automobiles, and there was no regulation against that.
Charles Goodner had preceded me to Balboa Beach. When I located him at the USO he had not obtained overnight lodging for us, but we were on the USO’s waiting list. Eventually we did get a clean room in a private home, and it cost each of us $1.50 for the night.
The only recreational activities I engaged in on my few weekend passes were swimming and sailing. Salt-water swimming was a new experience for me. I have never floated with ease, so the greater buoyancy I had in salt water was appreciated as an advantage. Body-surfing was also a new experience for me. On one occasion I was the only one swimming in the area. Charles Goodner was watching me from the beach. The beach sloped steeply to the water, and one could be unable to touch the bottom only a few feet from the water’s edge. The breakers did not break until quite close to the shore. I thoroughly enjoyed the shore-ward rides I was getting. Right now it doesn’t seem possible that it could have happened, but I remember distinctly being deposited on the shore not far from Charles, feet first and sitting upright.
Sailing was also a new experience. Charles was experienced in sailing, and we were able to rent a very small sailboat for a nominal fee. All our sailing was done in the calm waters of the bay. This, too, was a very enjoyable experience.
Although there were many, many things I did not like about my situation at SAAAB, what was the hardest for me to take was my separation from Carmen. Our training didn’t leave us much free time every day. We really needed to study during what “free” time we had, but I managed to write Carmen daily. It wasn’t a chore for me to do so. I felt as if I were talking with her. There was always more I wanted to say than time allowed. She kept my letters, and it is because of them that I have been able to write some of the foregoing.
Prior to the war cadets had not been permitted to marry; no married men were accepted into cadet training. I suppose it was at the same time that the age limit was lowered and the college requirements were dropped that married men were accepted and cadets could marry while they were still cadets. It had always been my intention, however, that I would not marry until I was able to support a wife. It was my intention that we would not marry until after I graduated, IF I graduated. In my letters to her and in hers to me it was quite evident that graduation couldn’t come too soon for either of us.
When we were classified we were assigned to a particular class. The class was identified according to the time graduation would take place - if one graduated. I was assigned to Class 43C. This meant that I was in the class that would be the third to graduate in 1943. After Pre-flight pilot candidates would go to Primary, then to Basic and then to Advanced flight training. Each of these would last about nine weeks. At each school (Primary, Basic and Advanced) there were two classes at the same time, the lower class and the upper class. The classes graduated about five weeks apart, so 43C would graduate in March 1943.
Probably there were fewer changes at SAAAB after the base had been in operation for a number of months, but during our time at SAAAB there were many things that didn’t go as we had been told they would. I’ll give only one example. Before I was classified I was assigned to three different squadrons in three different locations in about the same number of days. Late in July, for some reason I don’t recall ever hearing, we were moved into Class 43B. To us the reason wasn’t important. We would be delighted to leave SAAAB and were anxious to begin actual flight training.
It has probably been true throughout the ages that rumors abound in military organizations. We had heard our share in our weeks at Santa Anna. We had had contacts with many cadets who had washed out of pilot training and had been returned to SAAAB for reclassification. Therefore we knew something about the various schools that might be our next destination. Hancock College of Aeronautics at Santa Maria, California had a reputation of being a HARD flight school. We had heard that the class that had just finished its Primary flight training there had a 97% attrition rate. That was the school to which I was assigned.
4
Hancock
College of Aeronautics
After a bus trip of about 180 miles we arrived at Hancock College of Aeronautics in the morning of July 27, 1942. Virtually everything about our new, temporary home looked good to us. Santa Maria was attractive, and the school was right on the edge of the city. Although our barracks were older than those at SAAAB, they were more attractive. I can recall one exception to the attractiveness - the upperclassmen!
Because of the pattern we had become accustomed to at SAAAB, of things not taking place as we had been told they would, we expected that we wouldn’t get to begin our flight training for perhaps a week. We were wrong! I had my first army instructional flight on Thursday, July 30th. In that day’s letter to Carmen, concerning that flight I said, “It was plenty okay.” I loved it!! Including stalls and a spin.
Our airplanes were Stearman PT-13’s or PT-17’s. The PT-17 had a 220 h.p. Continental engine. The PT-13 had a 225 h.p. Lycoming engine. I couldn’t tell any difference in their performances.
Cy Perkins was my instructor. At 36 he was the oldest instructor in our squadron and perhaps in the school. As it turned out I was happy to have him as my instructor, rather than some of the others. He was demanding, but he wasn’t rude or abusive. I had no complaints about him whatsoever. (Throughout the years we sent him our annual Christmas letter, and usually we heard from him in response. He died in 1997.)
The Primary schools were civilian schools under contracts with the army. We were told that Hancock College was owned by a millionaire who wasn’t out to get every penny he could from the army. Feeding the cadets was a part of the contracts’ requirements. Other schools, seeking to gain the most profit possible, skimped on the food. We were fed royally! We had steak so often during the week that we would seek hamburgers when we were on weekend passes. At every noon meal there would be a gallon of ice cream at each end of each table. If we emptied them we could request more, and it was always given to us. This was NOT typical army chow!
Soon after we arrived we asked the upperclassmen why there were so many less of them than of us. They answered, “Wait and see.” We didn’t have to wait very long.
Cadets were required to have a minimum of eight hours of dual instruction before they soloed. If they had not soloed by the time they had eleven hours they had to go up for a check ride. There was a good possibility of being washed out if you had not soloed by then.
At that time in my life I wasn’t in the habit of asking God to guide me into His will for me. I decided what I wanted to do, then asked God to enable me to do it. He did give me gifts that enabled me to make good progress as a student pilot. Flying seemed to come easily to me. (I didn’t realize this fully until years later when I was instructing.) I became confident that I would solo as soon as I had eight hours. But it wasn’t to be. About the time I had six hours of dual my instructor said I should be able to solo at eight hours, IF I kept making as good landings as I had been. I didn’t!
The Stearman has a high center of gravity, narrow landing gear and a tail wheel. The center of gravity is behind the main landing gear on an airplane with a tail wheel. On landing, if the nose is pointed at all to the right or left at the time the main gear contacts the ground, the tail will seek to go first. A ground loop is a likely outcome.
During the time that many cadets were soloing for the first or second time, at each noon and evening meal a request was made. (I’m confident a “buddy” would make the fact known if someone who should respond failed to do so.) Those who had ground looped that morning or afternoon were asked to stand. They would be “applauded.”
A ground loop early in one’s solo experience usually did not send him to the Maytag, the washing machine, the washing-out process. A ground loop after one had a number of hours could signal the beginning of the end.
At the dual flight after I reached eight hours my instructor said some of the instructors would have let me go solo. This was mid-August, and we were having gusty cross-winds, and there were many students ground looping. Mr. Perkins said he wasn’t going to let any of us (he had five students) solo until we had ten hours. He said he had never had a student ground loop, and he didn’t want his record spoiled.
As my time built up I seemed to get worse. On August 21st Mr. Perkins said, after an hour’s instruction, that I had been doing things all wrong and that I needed to loosen up. He said I should forget it if I was thinking of soloing. He said I wouldn’t solo until I improved. He indicated I was letting the airplane do what it wanted rather than making it do what I wanted it to do. I thought, “I’ll show you!” Throughout the next take off, flight around the pattern and landing I made the plane do exactly what I had been taught it was supposed to do.
The following is quoted from my letter to Carmen that evening. “After the last landing he told me to go back and try another. He kept watching me in the mirror as I taxied and approached the wind “T” in the middle of the field where all the instructors get out for soloing their students. I kept right on taxiing. When we reached the place he told me to slow down, and one of us stopped the plane. He looked up in the mirror and grinned. I don’t remember what he said, if he said anything, but I grinned, too, for some reason. He got out and unfastened the gosport and fastened the safety belt in the front seat and made everything fast in the front cockpit. He gave me some final instructions as to traffic and keeping the plane from drifting from using too much crab angle and what to do if traffic was so that I couldn’t land. He said to go around again and again if I didn’t feel it was safe to land, because I had enough gas for 3 hours if it was needed. He also told me he didn’t want me to spoil his record by getting a wing and told me he didn’t think I would if I remembered everything he told me.”
The flight went very well! As is not uncommon for one’s first solo landing, it was a good one. He sent me back for a second solo trip around the pattern, and that went very well also. Solo flight was great!! My dual time prior to solo was nine hours twenty- three minutes.
Dale Wilson, a farm boy from Iowa whom I liked very much, had not done as well as I had in our early hours. He was afraid he would wash out, and he wanted very badly to succeed. He also soloed that day, the first of Mr. Perkins’ present students to solo. I was almost as happy that he soloed as I was that I had. Later one of our five did ground loop and end Mr. Perkins’ perfect record.
By this time we were beginning to understand what the upperclassmen had meant when they told us to wait and we would see why there were so few of them. It was common to call the procedure by which cadets were eliminated from flight training the “Maytag,” or the “washing machine.” By whatever name, it was busy. By the time 43B completed its Primary training at Hancock 58% of our class had washed out. Later I heard that 85% of Class 43C at Santa Maria had washed out. The school earned the name, “Hancock College of Elimination.”
Bill Albright, whom I first met in the recruiting office in Denver (perhaps in January), had had Advanced CPT (Civilian Pilot Training) through which he had obtained his commercial pilot’s license. We could hardly believe him (I think he said this while we were at SAAAB) when he said he expected to wash out. He said he was too slow thinking and probably would not be able to fly to the army’s standards, and he was correct. When he did wash out he told us he was surprised he had gotten as far as he had. I was very sorry to have him leave. He went on to OCS (Officers Candidate School) and probably became an officer before 43B graduated. He did become an officer, and I believe he spent the rest of the war in Florida.
Moving toward Marriage
Making plans
via letters was not the most satisfactory way, but it was the only viable
option open to Carmen and me. It
was my intention not to marry until I was able to support my wife.
I figured that, as far as military life was concerned, one had to be an
officer in order to support a wife. Many
enlisted men were married, but almost invariably their wives worked outside
the home. We received no solid information as to what to expect
relative to furloughs, leaves or any kind of time off.
Normally we had parts of Saturdays and Sundays off, but even on those
days we might be restricted to the base for one reason or another.
In my daily letters to Carmen occasionally I would write about rumors
bearing on what we might expect relative to time off.
Not one of them proved to be correct.
Gradually we began thinking about marrying at the end of December. I would not have finished my training by that time, but if I had not washed out by that time there was a good possibility that I would make it the rest of the way. Actually it was believed that if one survived the school at Santa Maria, there was a high probability that one would make it through Basic and Advanced.
Carmen and I were very young to be planning to marry, but neither of us had any doubt concerning our love for one another or our commitment to one another for life. Dad’s only expressed objection had been our youth, but he appeared to have acquiesced. Likewise Carmen’s mother and stepfather, who were going through divorce proceedings, were not opposed. Her mother had been the most vocal opponent, but over time she became more willing to accept our plans.
All of us cadets were from 18 to 27 years old. A cadet could not have reached his 27th birthday at the time he was accepted into training, but he wasn’t kicked out if he turned 27 during his training. Only a very few were married. I think admitting married men into cadet training came about at the same time the lower age limit was set at 18. But, married or not, we all had loved ones for whom we were lonely.
One cadet had played the trumpet in one of the popular big bands of that time. He did a most beautiful job of playing “Taps” each night. Total silence didn’t always follow his playing of “Taps.” But one night was different! Following his playing of “Taps,” he played “The Blues in the Night.” He played it slowly, perfectly and with purity of tone. I consider it the most beautiful rendering of a popular song I have ever heard. I’m confident the thoughts of every cadet were focused on persons many miles away. Total silence followed the last note. I don’t recall hearing another sound prior to falling asleep.
It was difficult to write Carmen daily, but I had promised to do so. I took advantage of waiting time on the flight line, any breaks in our tight routine and use of some of our night study time. Often we flew off of satellite fields, which we reached either via bus or airplane. When we flew from them, we had more time free for such things as writing letters. When we flew off of the home field, we were to see to it that a cadet would be at each wingtip of each plane taxiing in to the flightline. That allowed less time for writing. Often it was a time filled with “Hangar flying.” Hangar flying was simply airplane or aviation talk. Probably the ignorance that was expressed during such times could fill more books than have ever been written on aviation.
Progress
toward the Goal - Wings
Flying time built up very slowly prior to solo. We were scheduled for morning flying one day and for afternoon flying the next day. Sometime the fog would not burn off until after noon, so there would be no flights that morning. Some times the fog would roll in from the Pacific early enough in the evening that late afternoon flights would be curtailed. When an instructor had five students, sometimes less than the five would be able to fly on a particular day.
Following the first solo flight a student was to complete successfully two more supervised solos before he could obtain a plane for unsupervised solo flying. Once that hurdle was passed, a student might get in three or four flights in one morning or afternoon. Neither our planes nor our field were equipped for night flying. Even if they had been, and even if night flying was practiced at Primary schools we probably could not have flown at night because of fog. Maybe I did see them, but I don’t remember seeing stars at night while at Santa Maria.
Usually we had a pass each weekend, beginning sometime in the afternoon on Saturday and ending perhaps at 1800 on Sunday. The townspeople of Santa Maria had “The Little Theatre,” a building exclusively for the recreation of aviation students and aviation cadets. (Earlier Hancock College had been training aviation students only. If and when a student got his wings he became a flight officer rather than a second lieutenant. A flight officer was equivalent to warrant officer.) The Little Theatre had books and magazines, card tables and ping pong tables. Free soft drinks were available. At times there would be special events. Sometimes there would be dancing. It was a kind, thoughtful thing the Santa Marians had done for us.
In addition to spending time at the Little Theatre on weekends I managed to go swimming at least once and horseback riding at least once. Arthur Clarke went horseback riding with me. I was delighted to obtain a lively, responsive mount at the riding academy.
Our pay was $75 per month. At Santa Anna money was taken from our pay for a number of things. Less was taken out at Santa Maria, and I was able to send as much as $50 per month to Carmen to put in savings in preparation for our life together.
My first solo had come later than Mr. Perkins and I had anticipated. If I had any further problems in Primary, they are lost to my memory. We sweated out each of the progress checks, at 20, 40 and 60 hours. We received a minimum of cross-country experience, hardly worthy of the name. We had one dual flight to and from San Luis Obispo, then one solo flight to and from the same destination. The distance was 27 miles, and we didn’t land at San Luis Obispo. The dual round trip took 43 minutes, and two days later the solo took 42 minutes. (Time was then recorded to the minute, starting with the take off and ending when we shut the engine down after returning to the line.)
If there was a disadvantage to the excellent meals we were enjoying, it was that we ate a lot, and some didn’t do so well keeping their recent meal down if they flew soon after eating. This was true especially when we got into acrobatic flying. The only time I came close to airsickness was when we were practicing Lazy Eights. We were not taught then to do Lazy Eights as pilots are taught now. Now the bank is to be 30 degrees or less. Then our banks approached the vertical. I enjoyed them, but when doing one after the other for quite a period of time I would begin to become conscious of my stomach.
Early in our introduction to Stearmans we were told that the Stearman was a rugged airplane, that it could take anything we could take. Except for being low powered for its size, weight and draginess, it was a good plane for acrobatics. For any maneuver requiring much speed we had to power dive to attain the desired speed. Because they wanted us to learn to fly “by the seat of our pants,” they had covered the airspeed indicator in the back cockpit, the student’s cockpit. When doing acrobatics dual, our instructor would indicate when we had attained a high enough speed for the particular maneuver he had requested. When doing them solo, we would dive until we thought we were approaching the speed we wanted, then we would lean to the left far enough to look at the airspeed indicator in the front cockpit. Those, with only one exception, were the only times I saw an airspeed indicator in flight in Primary.
Dale Wilson once said, with tongue in cheek, that at first he thought a slow roll was designed for a quick loss of 500 feet. In my estimation a well-done slow roll is a most beautiful maneuver, much more beautiful than an aileron or barrel or snap roll. In a well done slow roll in level flight there is neither a loss nor a gain in altitude throughout the maneuver. When one is learning, there is a distinct tendency to do exactly the wrong thing when flying upside down. When you are inverted, the nose tends to come down. When flying right side up and the nose is going down, to stop the downward movement you pull back on the stick. When you are inverted and the nose is going down, you rather naturally pull back on the stick and ruin your attempted slow roll. You end up doing half of a loop. Eventually one learns to hold sufficient forward pressure to keep the nose up while inverted.
One of the most difficult things about the slow roll is that since the plane is rolling slowly, but continuously, throughout the maneuver, the wings’ lift is varying constantly, so elevator pressure must be varied continuously, whether back pressure while right side up or forward pressure while inverted. Also rudder pressure must be varied and must be used to hold the nose up as the wings approach and pass through the vertical attitude. Those two P-38 pilots at Santa Anna were sharp!!
I’m not sure I ever got to the point that I could really hold altitude throughout a slow roll, but I did get so I ended up at the same altitude at which I started.
Check
Rides
Our check rides were given by Army pilots. I think it was at my 20-hour check that the following occurred. The air was rather turbulent, and I didn’t feel as if I was doing a very good job. The lieutenant said, “Let me have it.” I released the controls, and he flew for awhile. I don’t remember what maneuvers he went through, but I remember that, in his hands, the airplane seemed to be rock-solid. I was impressed!
The captain who gave me my 60-hour check ride was known as a stickler for details, a hard man to get by. Before we took off, he told me exactly what I was to do and in what order. He said that if I did everything right the flight would take 41 minutes. If I remember correctly, he didn’t say a word to me throughout the flight. I logged 42 minutes. I wondered, “Did I pass?” I had no inkling from him.
After the engine was shut down, he critiqued my flight with two negative comments. He had told me to do a spin following the 720-degree steep turns both right and left, and I had done so. But before I did the spin I had done clearing turns (which we always did before doing any acrobatic maneuver). But he said I had wasted time by doing the clearing turns. He said my steep turns had provided the opportunity to clear the area prior to the spin. The truth is that I had concentrated very hard on doing the best steep turns possible. I think we were to keep our altitude within 100 feet of our starting altitude. I remember distinctly that on one of my steep turns I had lost less than 10 feet in the beginning of the turn, and the needle didn’t move a whisker for the rest of the turn.
The captain’s second objection to my flight was that after I turned onto the final approach I had allowed the plane to drift one plane-width to the left. We didn’t have a runway that we used for our landings - it was simply a wide grass field. He said I could have drifted in front of another plane that might have been landing behind us.
Following his two criticisms he warned me about the danger of becoming overconfident. He evidently didn’t realize I was wondering whether or not I had passed the checkride. It was only after I had been instructing others for a number of years that I realized that I had done a nearly perfect job of flying on that occasion, that the captain had had to stretch to find something to criticize. Probably he thought there was danger of my becoming overconfident. Confidence wasn’t in my vocabulary at that time.
If it wasn’t the last flight in Primary, it was one of the last flights, one that was anticipated with relish, a flight in which the student flew from the front cockpit and the instructor was in the rear cockpit. This was a flight in which we were at somewhat of a disadvantage because of having learned to fly with a minimum of instruments. One way of controlling airspeed in a climb was to hold a particular cylinder on the horizon in our line of sight. (The radial engine’s cylinders were all visible as you looked at the engine standing in front of the plane, and several of the upper cylinders were visible from our cockpits.) In level flight the top cylinder was held in a certain relationship to the horizon; I don’t recall exactly what it was. In the power off glide the top cylinder was held a certain number of inches below the horizon. To make a shallow turn you placed and held the lower low-wing’s tip a few inches below the horizon. For a medium-banked turn you laid a wire, one that ran at something less than a 45 degree angle, right on the horizon. For a steep turn you laid on the horizon the strut that connected the upper wing to the fuselage in front of the front cockpit. It was not difficult to know whether or not you were making precisely banked turns.
The problem in this special flight was that our perspective was changed. It wasn’t difficult to govern our banks, but pitch control was more difficult. But overall it was an enjoyable flight. Mr. Perkins would do a maneuver, a loop, for example, then I would do a loop. As I remember we went through all of the maneuvers we had learned. I don’t recall how well I did them from the front, but the pressure was off, we weren’t expected to do as well as we had been doing in our regular place.
My final Primary flight’s length was just right; my total flight time was 60 hours to the minute. It marked the end of a bittersweet time. It had been a time of great pressure, but it was a time of enjoyment and satisfaction. I heard that 58% of our class had washed out. Most eliminations occurred because of not measuring up to the flying standards, which may have been too high. (In 1993 Bill Clardy told me that the army later conducted an investigation of Hancock College of Aeronautics because of their consistently high washout rate. I also heard that Class 43C lost 85% of their class to washouts. But you know how rumors are. I don’t have solid evidence of these figures.) Some washed out because of academic inadequacies. I don’t recall any washing out because of discipline problems, but that doesn’t mean there weren’t eliminations for that reason.
Of all the places I was stationed I liked Santa Maria the best. I would have liked to have had Carmen enjoy it with me. The best I could do was to tell her about it in my letters. At the time, however, I wasn’t reluctant to leave Santa Maria, because I looked forward eagerly to flying BT’s (Basic Trainers) and AT’s (Advanced Trainers) and completing my flight training. Prior to 1942 I had never heard of Santa Maria. Likewise I had never heard of Taft, my next station.
5
Taft, California is located in the southern end of the San Joaquin (pronounced Wahkeen) Valley. We moved to Gardner Field, just east of Taft, at the end of September. The summer was over, but the heat wasn’t! Summer at Santa Maria was comfortable. Early fall at Taft was not! It wasn’t hot the entire nine weeks I was at Taft; there were days that were overcast and comfortable. There was some rain, but if you would ask me for a quick response regarding my memories of Taft, I’d answer, “Hot and dry!!”
Gardner Field, unlike Hancock College, was strictly military. As far as I know, Gardner Field was built during WW II and used then only. Its sole purpose for existence was to provide Basic training for budding army pilots.
The BT-13 was a distinct step us for us. At 450 h.p., horsepower was doubled. Additionally the BT had wing flaps, a two-position propeller, a full panel of instruments and two-way radio.
While in Primary we heard that going from a Stearman to a BT-13 was like going from a Model T to a Cadillac. On my first flight in one I understood why that had been said. Although the headset I wore was not designed for noise attenuation, it helped some. And, since the student while flying dual was to keep his sliding canopy closed, there was less noise than was pervasive in an open cockpit. Then, being heavier and faster, it was not tossed about by turbulence as easily as was the Stearman. In short, it was a pleasure to fly.
My instructor was considerably older than I was. He was 21! I liked him from the start.
Although the two-position propeller was an asset, it added a hazard. Low pitch was used for take off and climb. High pitch was used for cruise. Woe be to you if you attempted to take off with the prop in high pitch; almost certainly you would run out of runway before you reached flying speed. In a motor vehicle it would be like trying to start up a hill from a standing start and in high gear.
Instructor/student communication was much better than in the Stearmans. We had two-way communication with hand mikes and headphones. Also we were introduced to tower communications. Light signals from the tower were available in the event of radio failure.
My first solo in a BT occurred following 4 hours and 45 minutes of dual instruction. If it was not on my first solo, it must have been soon after that, like Red Skelton, “I scared myself! I scared myself!” During take off and landing dual, the instructor kept his canopy open (to make escape from a crack-up easier). Prior to beginning the approach for landing we were to throttle back somewhat then push the prop pitch control forward to place the prop in low pitch. Low pitch gave a higher rpm. On that occasion I reduced the manifold pressure (pulled the throttle back somewhat), put the prop into low pitch, then advanced the throttle. The noise increase was sudden and great! My first thought was that another airplane was close. I remember looking quickly to the right to see where that other BT was. There was nothing there. Then I realized things sounded differently with the canopy open!
That wasn’t the only time I scared myself in the BT-13. In our solo practice in Primary we were permitted to practice all the standard maneuvers we had been taught, but because of the spin recovery record of the BT-13 we were not supposed to practice spins solo during our Basic training.
One maneuver we were supposed to practice was a rudder-exercise stall. In it we were to pull the nose up rather steeply, power on, and hold the nose well above the horizon until the stall occurred and with the stick full back. We were to keep the stick full back as the nose fell, keep the ailerons neutral and keep the wings as level as possible using the rudder only. Recovery was to be initiated by forward movement of the stick after the nose fell through the horizon.
It was such a rudder-exercise stall that I was doing on this memorable occasion. When the stall occurred and the nose was dropping, so also was the left wing. I applied right rudder, but the left wing didn’t come up. I think I even used full right rudder without the left wing rising. I thought, “I must be using the wrong rudder.” I kicked in full left rudder. Immediately the plane snapped into a tight left spin. I had never before entered a spin with power on, and I had never before done a spin to the left. I pulled the throttle back and held the stick full back and the left rudder all the way forward for a brief time, for we had been taught that recovery from a spin in the BT-13 was more likely to take place, and take place promptly, if we were in a clean spin. Then I followed the procedure I had been taught, kicking and holding full opposite rudder (in this case the right), counting to three, then slamming the stick full forward. The rotation stopped promptly, and recovery to level flight was anti-climactic.
The stall, the spin and the recovery took only a few seconds. During those few seconds I was not frightened, but after I was flying straight and level again it was a different matter. Throughout the history of flight, to this very day, accidental spins have claimed many lives. In my case I was high enough that the recovery was made with altitude to spare, and I had received adequate instruction so no harm resulted. It may be that I have been a safer pilot these past 60 years because of this experience.
There was another occasion I’ll not likely forget, but this time I damaged something. In Basic we were introduced to what erroneously has been called “blind flying.” Instrument flying requires continuous use of the eyes. True, you may be totally blind to anything outside the cockpit, but you must be able to see your instruments continuously. In training for instrument flying, one way or another the student is enabled to see his instruments but prevented from seeing anything outside.
On this occasion the instructor told me to do a spin. I entered the spin. When he told me to recover, I followed the procedure we had been taught for the BT’s. I jammed the rudder to its stop. When I did that, I heard a loud bang. I had broken the rudder cable! The limpness of the rudder pedals confirmed that. The spin continued. I tried every control I had. The spin continued. Being at a loss as to how to stop the spin, I lifted the Link trainer’s cover and told the instructor sitting at his desk that I had broken the rudder cable. He got up from his desk, walked toward the trainer and reached out and stopped the trainer’s rotation. (The Link trainer was a ground-based means of supplementing the airborne instrument training.)
A sometimes-enjoyable part of instrument training in Basic was the “buddy rides.” After having obtained instrument experience with our flight and Link instructors, sometimes we practiced with a “buddy.” One student would fly in the front seat for take off and landing. The other student would ride in the back seat. At some point after being airborne the back seat student would shut off his outside view by a black hood that would extend from behind his shoulders and over his head to the top of his instrument panel. Then the front student pilot would tell the back student what to do. The front-seater had the responsibility to keep them in the practice area, to avoid collisions and to recover if the back-seater should lose control
As I think about those buddy rides from the stories that cadets told, it may be that during them more time was spent on one particular “maneuver” than on any other, “recovery from unusual attitudes.” This was a legitimate “maneuver.” As part of our training our instructors would tell us, “Remove your hands and feet from the controls, close your eyes, and, when I shake the stick, recover to straight and level flight.” He would then make turns, perhaps skidding and/or slipping, pitch up and/or down, in short do all kinds of things so that we might not be able, by our feelings, to tell what attitude we were in at the time he shook the stick. When he shook the stick, we were to return our hands and feet to the controls and, by interpreting our instruments, determine our attitude and return to straight and level flight promptly and without overstressing the airplane.
On one of those occasions I was the student under the hood. We were practicing “recovery from unusual attitudes.” Evidently my buddy up front was enjoying what we were doing. One time evidently he didn’t do a very good job confusing me. My feelings told me he was rolling us inverted. When he shook the stick, I simply completed the roll. I’m not at all sure what I would have done if I had not known what was taking place.
One cadet claimed the following had taken place when he was recovering from unusual attitudes while flying with his instructor. I don’t remember what took place first, but somehow he had excessive airspeed in a dive. He pulled the nose up, but he waited too long to reduce the back pressure on the stick. When he did release the back pressure, it simply helped round out the top of the loop he was making. He claimed they did three loops, one right after the other, before they returned to straight and level. He told this as a fact. It’s hard, but not impossible, to believe.
Prior to my entering cadet training I had never heard of Santa Anna, Santa Maria or Taft. Even though I had lived most of my life in the next state north, I had never heard of Roswell, New Mexico until learning that I was being transferred there for my Advanced flight training.
During Basic we had a second opportunity to express a preference. Did we prefer to go to single-engine Advanced or to multi-engine Advanced? Again, there was no assurance we would get what we preferred, but we were given the opportunity to express our preferences.
For several reasons I preferred single-engine. Graduation from single-engine Advanced most likely would lead to flying fighters. Some graduates might end up instructing in Basic or Advanced, and some might find themselves flying liaison airplanes such as the L-4 (a Piper J-3 Cub in olive drab). My instructor in Basic said I was good in aerobatic flying, so he thought I ought to fly fighters. I enjoyed aerobatics and would have liked to do them in an airplane powerful enough that one didn’t have to dive to gain enough airspeed to do slow rolls or other maneuvers requiring excess speed. Also I liked flying alone, and I did not want the responsibility of a crew.
There was only one reason I wanted to go to multi-engine Advanced - I thought I would have a better chance getting a job with the airlines after the war if I had multi-engine experience. The practical won out, and when we were given the opportunity to choose, I chose multi-engine, and I got my choice. When I received my orders for Advanced I learned I was being transferred to Roswell Army Air Force Advanced Flying School (RAAFAFS), Roswell, New Mexico.
6
Roswell
Army Air Force Advanced Flying School
Gardner Field members of Class 43B arrived at RAAFAFS December 3, 1942 after another slow train trip. Having felt so sluggish at sea level, the base’s elevation of 3,671 feet was a welcome change. On the other hand, Roswell’s December temperatures were not most welcome after a summer and fall in southern California. Assembling outside of our barracks before dawn was not a pleasant experience! What pleased me most about this assignment was that now I was just over 400 air miles from Carmen. Mail would be received more quickly, the very few telephone calls would cost less, and there was a possibility of getting to Denver if I would ever be given enough time away from the base.
The one thing we could be confident about the army was CHANGE. What appeared on the bulletin board one day might be superseded with an entirely different order the next day. My last name being near the first part of the alphabet guaranteed an early participation in virtually everything. Being among the first to receive pay was appreciated. Being early in being assigned to a particular duty was not always appreciated. Especially disconcerting was the fact that often lists would disappear, and the new list again would start with the first of the alphabet. I did get a lot of experience that way.
The uncertainty regarding obtaining time for our wedding made planning very difficult! Lt. Long, my instructor in Basic, said he was required to report for instructor preparation the day he was commissioned and received his wings. At some point we were told we would have no leave or delay en route to our assignment following our graduation. On the other hand we were assured we would have New Year’s Day free.
Both Carmen and I preferred to be married at our church in Denver with Rev. Paul D. White officiating. He had always looked upon Carmen and my relationship with favor. And of course we would have liked to have family and friends at our wedding. None of that could be accomplished if I had only one day free.
We heard that it might be possible for a cadet, if he could persuade his instructor to do so, to fly with his instructor to other places for a weekend. It would be necessary to go on Saturday, probably in the afternoon, and return on Sunday. Denver was within the limits. I asked my instructor if he would be willing to do that. He said he might be. Carmen proceeded to arrange for us to be married in Denver, but with the realization we might not be able to go through with it.
My first flight at Roswell was on December 8, 1942 in a Curtiss AT-9-R-650. The AT-9 was an all-metal, two-place, twin-engine trainer specifically designed to be a military advanced trainer. Roswell was the only place I ever saw an AT-9. It had 285 h.p. radial engines and very little wing. A side view of the fuselage, showing an airfoil shape, gave credence to the claim that 10% of the lift was generated by the fuselage. Some said it was an airplane which had no visible means of support. With tongue in cheek it was said it climbed at 120 (mph), cruised at 120 and glided at 120. The truth was that it cruised faster than that.
In AT-9’s instructors demonstrated something that students were never supposed to do, a full-flap, power-off descent for a landing. To see the runway during a gear-down, full-flap, power-off approach one had to look through the eyebrow glass over the top of the windshield. It was said the descent angle was 70 degrees. I have trouble believing that, but it was true that one had to look at the runway through the glass above the windshield. Also it was necessary to add power while rounding out at the bottom of the approach to prevent stalling.
After 5 hours 35 minutes in AT-9’s I was transferred to Cessna AT-17’s. All cadets were supposed to have some AT-9 time, but most hours would be spent in the much more plentiful AT-17’s. I would rather have had my AT-9 time after getting twin-engine experience in the 17’s, but some cadets had to have their AT-9 time first, and I was among those.
The performance of the AT-17 was similar to that of the BT-13. The major difference was that the AT-17 had retractable landing gear and two 225 h.p. engines with constant-speed props whereas the BT-13 had fixed gear, one 450 h.p. engine and a two-position prop. The AT-17 was a civilian airplane drafted into military service. (Some AT-17’s had been manufactured for the Royal Canadian Air Force and were equipped with fixed-pitch wooden propellers.)
In addition to learning the complexities of multi-engine flying we had more formation, cross-country and night flying in Advanced.
Damaging
Aircraft and Men
Whether it was true of AT-9’s as well as AT-17’s, I don’t remember. Perhaps it was because the weather was warmer the first week of our flying at Roswell, but I don’t remember there being any ice or snow while I was flying the 9’s. We had a problem in the cold-weather starting of the AT-17’s. If an engine was over primed, and fairly heavy priming was required for a cold-weather start, and a backfire occurred, a fire was likely to occur. The fire might be on the ground (blacktop) directly under the engine, or in the exhaust stack or in both places. When we were ready to start an engine, a man had to be standing-by close to the engine, ready with a fire extinguisher. Fires were so common we almost took them for granted. But I don’t recall ever hearing of any serious damage done by any of the fires.
Speaking of aircraft damage, this appears to be a good time to broach the subject of casualties during cadet training. In Primary there were many planes that suffered relatively minor damage in ground loops. I observed one accident that caused rather serious damage to two planes on the ground.
All but one of us in Class 43-B at Santa Maria were Aviation Cadets. The exception was an officer, Second Lieutenant Kedian. On one occasion I was watching a Stearman taxiing into the parking area after landing. In the three-point position it was impossible, from either cockpit, to see anything but fuselage and engine straight ahead. To avoid hitting what might be in front we were required to do S-turns continuously, looking first out one side then out the other as we turned. Also we were supposed to taxi no faster than a man could walk, and a cadet was supposed to have a hand in the handhold that was on each lower wing tip when we were taxiing in the parking area. None of these requirements were being followed by whoever was taxiing this particular Stearman. He was taxiing straight ahead at a faster-than-a-man-could-walk speed and with no wing walkers. As I watched I thought my depth perception must be off, for it appeared to me that he was heading directly toward the first Stearman on the parking line. My depth perception was NOT off! The plane smashed into the sitting plane’s fuselage just behind the rear cockpit, the lower left wing hitting the sitting plane’s tail and the right wings colliding with the sitting plane’s right wings. The engine stopped at once, and there was no fire, and the student pilot was unhurt. Perhaps he had to take a “wash” ride. If he did, he passed it, for Lt. Kedian was with us at Gardner Field where he earned a nickname for another, lesser failure. I have wondered if his being an officer had anything to do with his not being washed out.
When flying with an instructor in BT-13’s we were to have our canopy closed, whereas the instructor was to have his open during take offs and landings. When we were flying solo, we were to have our canopy open for take offs and landings. Whether it was for a one-time occurrence or for doing it repeatedly, I don’t know. But for failing to have his canopy open, Lt. Kedian earned the name “Canopy Kedian” at Taft.
This brings to mind another minor mishap that resulted in a minor injury to a roommate of mine. Evidently not all cadets always used all their “Buddy” time as we were supposed to. Mister (that’s how cadets were addressed) Allen was up for instrument time with a buddy. He was relaxing in the rear cockpit, with his safety belt unfastened or very loose, when his buddy suddenly dumped the stick forward, making Allen a little less than weightless. In other words, the plane went down faster than an unattached body would begin its fall. Allen’s head went through the canopy, but only to his nose. Every time I think of him I see him with the scab on his nose where the skin had been scraped off. I don’t remember the story the two cadets gave to explain the hole in the canopy and the missing skin, but it was not the story they told us, and they were permitted to continue their training.
Charles Goodner was from Colorado Springs. I may have met him on the train en route to Santa Ana. I considered him a good friend through Pre-flight, Primary and Basic. At Taft I watched him go through something I’m confident he remembers to this day. I was with my instructor, doing take offs and landings. A low ceiling had restricted our flying to the home field. There were 20 or 30 planes taking off, landing and taxiing back for another take off. We were taxiing back for another take off when we saw a solo BT-13 flying at a very low speed about 20 feet in the air. I think the sequence was as follows: he stalled about 20 feet above the runway, gave the engine full power to recover from the stall and go around, dropped to the ground left wing first, cartwheeled, hitting the engine, then the right wing, then the tail, knocking off both wings, the engine and the tail, leaving the fuselage intact and sitting right side up. The engine came to rest on the stub of the right wing. Immediately the student stood up in the cockpit and waved to us before crawling out. It was Charles Goodner!
Goodner probably was near the bottom limit in height. I thought he may have been too short to give full right rudder, and that was why he hit left wing first. He said that was not true. He passed the check ride, went on to Advanced, graduated and flew in the army until the end of the war.
To my knowledge Class 43-B had no fatalities in Primary at Santa Maria or Basic at Taft. In Advanced at Roswell there were several fatalities. I don’t remember if any of them were in 43-A while we were underclassmen or in 43-C when we were upperclassmen or in 43-B either of those times. There was at least one mid-air collision. I think one of the four men parachuted safely, but the other three were killed. On one occasion a wing came off of an AT-17, and from that time on we were to keep our speed under a specific number. I believe it was in my last week at Roswell that a B-25 crashed, killing all who were on board. It was theorized that the automatic pilot might have been involved. (It was possible to have the plane enter a violent, uncontrollable maneuver if the controls of the autopilot were not set properly at the time the autopilot was engaged.)
Logging “Solo”
When we were ready to “solo” in Advanced, we didn’t