McCook Field, Dayton, Ohio, one of those government arsenal-type
establishments and about as far apart from Warren Noble as it was
possible to get while still remaining on the same planet. The chief
of the Engine Branch out there was Ed Jones, a former Air Service
major, now in civilian clothes, and a good solid citizen. He
displayed none of the usual Air Service antagonism to naval aviation,
and received us warmly.
His assistant, Sam Herron, was, like Chilton, a clever Englishman,
one who had done highly useful research in air-cooled cylinders
under Professor Gibson, in England, then the outstanding man in his
field. Sam Herron was probably better informed on this important
subject than anyone in this country and had done some good work even
under the handicaps of a government establishment like McCook Field.
Among other things “The Field,” as it was called by the Air Service,
had designed a 300-hp air-cooled radial engine which it had turned
over to the Curtiss Airplane and Motor Company, of Buffalo, after
competitive bidding, for construction of the first experimental model.
Leighton expressed lack of confidence in this procedure, which had
carried over from the war. When disorderly reconversion had forced
the automotive people out of aircraft production, “The Field” had
determined to establish a great engineering division at Dayton, and
to undertake its own design. After the government wizards had dreamed
up their pet projects, a manufacturer would do the rest. Leighton
argued that this procedure just divided the responsibility for a
development between the government and the industry.
“The government,” he remarked, “will claim all the credit for
everything that turns out well, and will hang the contractor for all
mistakes, especially its own.” That, he insisted, was not the road to
success.
“The only way to get progress,” he added, “is to put a good engineer
in a tight place where he will have to fight to survive. When it’s
‘root, hog, or die,’” he concluded, “they always do the impossible.”
A run over to Detroit brought us to the Packard Motor Car Company,
and another kind of setup. Here was one of the few remaining
automotive companies with a continuing interest in aviation. This
had probably resulted from the fact that Col. Jesse G. Vincent, a
Packard vice-president, had been one of the designers of the original
Liberty, and Capt. Lionel Woolson, Packard experimental engineer,
still retained his interest in aircraft. The company felt that much
of the aviation experimental work could be used in the automotive
engines and was willing to continue to participate as a public
service. In another emergency, in which the automotive industry must
again convert to aircraft production, they could do a better job at
it, against a background of continuing experience with aviation. The
one drawback to this picture was the air-cooled engine; Packard could
hardly be expected to show much enthusiasm for this.
Meanwhile, there was another consideration involved in continuing the
automotive industry on a stand-by basis with respect to aircraft.
“Automobile prices,” Leighton explained, “demand low-cost volume
production, a requirement that is just incompatible with the
high-quality, high-precision production required in aircraft. When
your automobile breaks down,” he added, quoting the old darky of
the ancient wheeze, “why there yo’ is. But when yo’ airplane engine
quits, where is yo’?”
And now as we moved on to Buffalo, Leighton gave me a quick preview
of the Curtiss Airplane and Motor Company. Here was one of the
“old-line” aircraft organizations. Though it had bid in the Army
air-cooled radial project, now called the “Curtiss Radial 1454,” its
heart lay in the liquid-cooled development. The Curtiss D-12 was now
one of the best in the world; both the Army and the Navy were using
it in fair quantities. Curtiss, he thought, was one of the smartest
engine builders in the country—sometimes he had wondered if they
weren’t a little too smart for their own good.
When we saw the R-1454, we were impressed. Herron’s cylinder was an
advance over anything we had seen at Wright. The valve-gear rocker
boxes enclosed the valves and provided forced lubrication for them
in place of the old Alemite fittings of our P-1. And the Curtiss had
a single carburetor in place of the triple type on the Wright, an
improvement made possible partly by the use of a gear-driven blower
that sucked the mixture from the carburetor and pushed it up to the
cylinders. This was geared low for rotary induction, and gave fine
distribution; someday it could be geared high for supercharging.
That evening we were dinner guests of the company at a hotel
overlooking Niagara Falls. Afterward, Arthur Nutt, chief engineer,
gave us a sales talk on the D-12. Roy Keyes, president of the
company, expressed no fear of competition from the air-cooled
radials. Curtiss, he confided in us, had bid in the Army 1454 just
to keep it under their control. He considered it unlikely that any
radial rock crusher could replace the D-12; in fact, he had no
intention of letting it.
That night, Leighton and I sat on the edges of our twin beds in
the hotel room and, smoking a last cigarette together, sized up
the situation. Curtiss, a good manufacturer, had a fine engine but
was keeping it under wraps. Wright, also a competent producer, had
an inferior engine and no enthusiasm for air-cooling as such. The
problem was to get the best features of the Herron-designed 1454 into
the second engine of our P-series at Wright. If we could sell them on
that and build up their enthusiasm, we might put a new set of valves
in the heart of the airplane and even build up its muscles. That
called for another visit to Paterson.
But when we returned to Wright Aero we found that a change had taken
place. Fred Rentschler had resigned from the presidency, leaving
Charles Lanier Lawrance, the daddy of the American air-cooled
radial, in his place. There was nothing left to worry about on the
score of air-cooled enthusiasm, though the company had lost an able
executive. Guy Vaughan, a dynamic and personable fellow, had moved up
from quality manager to factory manager. A former automobile racing
driver, Guy had plenty of zing. With George Mead to do a finished
engineering job, we could release the P-2 engine with all the latest
wrinkles in it.
Back at BUAERO, Bruce Leighton wound up his affairs in the Engine
Section. For three and a half years he had fought and bled there,
stacking up brief moments of triumph against hours of grief. As a
matter of fact, aircraft engines were one big pain in the neck.
Reports of poor performance in service streamed in under the heading
“Trouble Report.” If by some chance they performed well, that was
only as it should be and certainly not a subject for comment. The
art was still young, and even the best equipment could hardly be
classified as safe to fly. In the face of disheartening problems,
Bruce Leighton had never let his enthusiasm slacken; his heart and
soul were all wrapped up in what he himself characterized as “these
funny damned airplanes.” He had pioneered air-cooled engines in the
face of universal resistance; he had stood by private industry when
everyone else had plumped for government ownership. Now he was “off
to sea.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Toil and Trouble
The summer of 1925, like most summers in the nation’s capital, was
almost unbearably hot and sultry. Even after one of those violent
electrical storms had whirled up the Potomac and deluged the
blistered asphalt with a tropical downpour, its passing left the
whole town sweltering in a steaming heat, even more prostrating than
before the storm. It was sticky enough in the permanent buildings,
but in our temporary shack on Constitution Avenue, work became quite
impossible, and we often sent the Bureau staff home in the early
afternoons. And before that fateful summer could pass, lightning
struck twice in the same place—BUAERO.
When Bruce Leighton had passed out to sea, most of his small staff
went with him, having already overstayed their allotted period of
duty on shore. Luckily, Ricco Botta, a lieutenant who had come in by
way of the Naval Reserve, held over with me. A pilot, an engineer,
and a skilled mechanic he had now become the practical wheelhorse
of the Engine Section. Later on, Henry Mullinix joined up, bringing
just the right qualities to balance out our little organization.
Henry had been honor man in his class at Annapolis, had later led his
flight class at Pensacola, and had finally completed the aviation
postgraduate course at Massachusetts Institute of Technology with top
honors. And along with his intellect, Henry had a fine personality
and an admirable character. Our organization was rounded out by young
Lt. (jg) Ralph Parsons, who now handled the highly technical liaison
with the Aero Engine Laboratory at the Naval Aircraft Factory,
Philadelphia, while Henry, Ricco, and I concentrated on the task
of cleaning up the bugs in the engines and accessories under our
cognizance.
Take, for instance, the Lawrance J-1 air-cooled radial engine,
that coffee grinder on which all our hopes were based. It was so
rickety that Lt. C. C. Champion, a rising young West Coast pilot,
formally reported to BUAERO that, when embarking on a fifteen-mile
cross-country flight from the Naval Air Station at North Island,
near San Diego, to an emergency airport at Ream Field, down near the
Mexican border, his squadron always carried a whole “quiverful” of
spare push rods to replace those sure to be sprayed along the beach
of the Coronado Silver Strand. Our treatment for this sort of trouble
was to call in Charlie Lawrance or Guy Vaughan of Wright Aero and
give them a session of plain and fancy kidding, with just the right
amount of sting in it.
The magnetos for our air-cooled engines were something to write
home about. Here was the instrument that provided the vital spark
so essential to keep the engine ticking over, yet it had proved the
least dependable of the parts of the high-strung mechanism behind
which pilots risked their lives. And when we looked around for
more promising sources of supply, none was to be found. The Delco
Company, producers of the wartime Liberty battery-generator ignition
systems, could not be interested in a new development; the volume to
be expected was too small. The manufacturer of cheap truck magnetos,
to whom we now looked, was willing to brighten up the outside finish
but was unwilling to go further for the same reason—no volume. The
board of directors of the great General Electric Company had, we
were advised, studied the problem with ponderous care and finally
concluded there was more money in electric light bulbs. A small
privately owned company was willing to help, but lacked know-how. It
looked like a stalemate until the Army Engineering Division at McCook
Field discovered Scintilla.
Scintilla magnetos proved to be the answer to a maiden’s prayer. Made
in Soleure, Switzerland, they could be bought through Tom Fagan, of
New York, and at a reasonable price. However, since we could not
place full dependence on a foreign source that might be cut off in
time of war, we investigated the possibility of creating an American
source. The Swiss company had an excess of machinery and personnel
and was willing to export them, but the red tape surrounding such
a transaction, even back there in the days when the United States
government had faith in private enterprise, tied us hand and foot.
To cut through the tangle involved so many risks that we should have
been completely discouraged save that the other alternative was to
accept responsibility for the deaths of youngsters who daily risked
their lives in the air.
In dilemmas of this kind, resort might be had to what was politely
called “memoranda for file” but known privately as “the cover-up.” A
letter was prepared for the file covering the details of the proposed
transaction and carried through the whole system to be finally
approved by the Secretary of the Navy himself. Then, after the Great
Seal of the Navy Department had been attached, and the author had
privately retained a copy for his own use, the document was carefully
filed away against the day when some Congressional investigation
might be looking for a noteworthy scalp. When the spirit of cover-up
gets into a business organization, the evil finally shows up in the
financial results; in government it is just absorbed by the taxpayer.
It was through such a time-consuming process that we finally
succeeded in transporting a part of the Swiss company bodily to the
town of Sidney, New York, where it continued to be this country’s
source of dependable magnetos. And the time even came when I had
to flash the Great Seal of the Navy Department to keep from being
crucified for bringing it here. Later, when Charles A. Lindbergh
arrived in London, after having flown the Atlantic behind a Scintilla
magneto, it turned out that the General Electric Company had all
along had the license to manufacture the British Thompson Houston
Company’s magneto, but no one in Schenectady had recalled the fact.
Meanwhile, in addition to concentrating on the job of keeping engines
running, we had not neglected the other task of getting them started.
The Aeromarine Inertia Starter, created by Chilton under Leighton’s
initiative, though employing a quite novel principle—the utilization
of energy stored in a flywheel—had developed into the most dependable
and efficient device in our gear locker. When, therefore, Messrs.
Charles Marcus and Raymond P. Lansing of the Eclipse Machine Company
called on us with a view to interesting us in a line of electric
starters they had developed for the Army, we presented them with an
affable but none the less impenetrable front. Things electric not
only involved heavy lead storage batteries, heavy copper motors, and
everything else designed around “base metals,” but they always proved
undependable and difficult to maintain. My years as engineer officer
on a man-of-war had generated in me a sales resistance of many ohms.
On the day when we were honored with the visit from Charles Marcus
and Ray Lansing, I bolstered my disinterest with a glowing and
somewhat detailed account of the virtues of the Chilton starter
and was somewhat taken aback by Charles Marcus’s suave remark that
Aeromarine had infringed an Eclipse patent involving the fundamentals
of the Bendix drive. Marcus doubted that Eclipse could let Aeromarine
live at all, and his inference was that I should shift my enthusiasm
over to the Army-type starter.
Patents, I now pointed out, were outside the jurisdiction of the
Engine Section. If Eclipse elected to make trouble for us, that
was their privilege. If, however, they wanted to make our kind of
starters, that was also their privilege. The patent matter could
be left to the courts. I noticed an intent expression on Charley
Marcus’s face.
“Commander,” he said quietly, “your approach is new to us and we may
find it difficult to conform at first, but from the point of view of
development and the public interest, it looks so sound to us, we’ll
play the game your way.”
The Eclipse Machine Company did play the game our way. They
developed a new starter for the Lawrance radial, and when, on its
first installation down at Pensacola, it developed the usual bugs,
the company moved most of its shopmen down to the air station and
campaigned the trouble so enthusiastically that they made more
character out of their defects than Aeromarine gained out of its
satisfactory equipment.
When, after several years, the patent matter finally came to trial,
the examiner for the court remarked that he could not recall a
similar case but thought everyone’s interests had been well served,
as a result of the Bureau policy, and especially so the interests of
the public.
Another perennial problem was spark plugs. It was almost incredible
how sensitive such little things could be. One might think that
the manufacturers should long ago have discovered all the secrets
of such a simple device, and reduced the product to some degree of
standardization. But everything in aviation was so high-strung, every
device so sensitive, it seemed that just changing one minor dimension
of a standard nut or bolt set in motion a whole chain reaction of
troubles. Pressing always for higher power on lower weight, we
created more and more troubles for ourselves. In this field we
came to lean on the BG plug, and on Roy Hurley, its salesman, who
was responsive to our suggestions and worked hard to improve his
product. Mr. Goldsmith, the proprietor of the company, and a jewelry
manufacturer, had turned to making spark plugs during World War I and
now subordinated his other interests to doing a good job for aviation.
And so we fired away, searching for better accessories of every
kind—a new fuel pump here, imported from France perhaps by Jimmy
Diamond—a new carburetor there, produced by Stromberg under the wise
direction of Leonard S. Hobbs—a new fuel developed by competing
oil companies and fortified by Ethyl under the direction of Dr.
Graham Edgar, of the Ethyl Corporation, and so on to cover the whole
field. And in the process we began collecting a little group of
sales engineers like Roy Hurley, Luke Hobbs, Tom Fagan, Ray Lansing,
and others, men to whom we passed on the demands of the operating
squadrons and with whom we connived to beat Old Man Trouble. To
facilitate operations, we urged these key technicians to visit
the flying units and get the word at first hand. We brought them
into close contact with George Mead, of Wright, Arthur Nutt, of
Curtiss, and Lionel Woolson, of Packard; and we keyed them in with
our competitors out at McCook Field, so that we finally had a team
of competitive yet cooperative agents, all working for the cause of
dependable and durable power plants.
And behind our day-to-day jobs of trouble shooting on the accessory
front, we had the major problem of engine development. Wright
Aero, in order to earn the money with which to carry on their own
experimental and development work, must first generate a reasonable
volume of steady profitable business. This meant that we, and others,
must buy enough airplanes to create the demand for new engines. But
before we could do this, the airplanes must have been conceived,
created, and tested. A number of aircraft had already been built
around the air-cooled radial, among them the Chance Vought UO and the
Curtiss TS, but the total was hardly impressive. Then Wright got a
real break when it found a new home in Reuben Fleet’s Consolidated
Army training plane.
Fleet, a former major in the Army Air Service, had created a new
company up in Buffalo which he called Consolidated Aircraft, and
had designed and built a new type of training plane. Using the
welded-steel tubular construction introduced to the United States by
Anthony Fokker, the Dutch manufacturer, Fleet had created an airplane
that was easy to build, easy to maintain and, more important,
extraordinarily safe. His welded-steel fuselages, unlike the old
stick-and-wire type of the Army Jenny or its Navy counterpart, the
N-9, wouldn’t splinter all to pieces in a crack-up nor punch holes
in the ribs of hapless student aviators. The Army had tested the
plane extensively and with such outstanding success that Fleet felt
impelled to try to sell it to the Navy with obvious advantages to all
parties.
This decision in itself was perhaps indicative of the audacity of
one of aviation’s immortal enterprisers, for none knew better than
Reuben Fleet what the handicaps were; as a former procurement officer
at McCook Field, Fleet had played the old Army-Navy game hard. And
it took a swashbuckler like Fleet to dare intimate that anything
designed for the Army could be worth hell-room to the Navy. And he
probably would not have got to first base either, save that he had
been smart enough to use the air-cooled radial Wright instead of the
war-surplus Hispano engine. The Engine Section, at least, could be
expected to favor the adoption of the Army PT, in order to increase
the use of the air-cooled engines. And Reuben Fleet was right on that
score.
But there were formidable obstacles. Naval air training was centered
at the Air Station, Pensacola, Florida, where the N-9 seaplane was
well established as a local favorite. Nearly every pilot in the Navy
had qualified on it and now cherished for it the affection of a kid
for his first pony. In order to keep the ancient aircraft flying,
the station had built up an assembly and repair department manned
entirely by civilians from the town of Pensacola—skilled carpenters,
riggers, and fabric workers, fully competent to overhaul the
stick-and-wire N-9’s. As a matter of fact, they could build them new
from the ground up, and this was where the rub lay. After an airplane
had been washed out in a crack-up, it was supposed to be stricken
from the list, an action that in due course would have absorbed all
the war surplus and led to new construction. But at Pensacola, there
were no washouts. In the local jargon, they just “jacked up the
number plate and built a new airplane under it.”
And so in addition to the natural reluctance of the old-timers to
make a change in type, there was the powerful vested interest of
the Pensacola workmen. This fact, however, was never brought into
the open. It appeared rather that the Consolidated NY had a nasty
flying characteristic, probably inherited from its Army ancestry: it
possessed an “abnormal spin” as compared with the N-9. If the “good
old N-9” lost flying speed and stalled, it whipped suddenly into a
spinning nose dive that would lead to a crash if the pilot did what
came naturally and opened his throttle. If, however, he “cut the
gun” and dived to regain flying speed, he could recover control.
The object of much of the student’s early training was to get him
to disobey that impulse and cut the gun in a spin. This, to our
old-timers, was a “normal spin.”
The trouble with the Consolidated NY was that it was difficult
to make it spin at all, and equally difficult to get it out of a
true spin. The old-timers, passing over the obvious advantage of
reluctance to spin at all, and the priceless benefit of a fuselage
that could not splinter and poke holes in a pilot, now stressed
the disadvantages of the new plane; how could you teach a pilot to
get out of a spin if you couldn’t get him into one? To combat this
argument and get the plane adopted so as to increase production of
new Wright air-cooled engines was the task of the Engine Section. And
the cockpit for the final contest was Admiral Moffett’s corner office
and a meeting of what was called officially a “Bureau conference.” In
the course of several contests here, I had begun to learn some of the
ins and outs.
As the heads of divisions and chiefs of sections of BUAERO flocked
into the admiral’s office that morning, each one took up his position
more or less according to rank; that is, with captains and commanders
on the admiral’s right. This suited me because I had come to learn
that the discussion worked downward according to rank and that
sometimes the last fellow to speak might turn the tide, especially
if he could present some reasonable compromise. I knew, of course,
that every man in the room had previously buttonholed the Old Man
in an effort to sell his own bill of goods in advance, but that the
admiral, who knew nothing about engineering and wanted to know even
less, would now stimulate acrimonious discussion and draw his own
conclusions from the discomfiture he saw on one man’s face or the
triumph he observed on another.
And as the contest raged this particular morning, everyone knew the
real issue, including the admiral, but no one mentioned it. Argument
and discussion raged about every irrelevant aspect, but everyone
ducked the matter of Pensacola’s vested interest. After a long while
the admiral turned to me.
“Hasn’t the Engine Section anything to offer?” he asked, well knowing
that of course it had.