was a former corporal of the Landswehr who had dreamed up a screwy
idea and by force of his own conviction had sold it to the German
people. Similarly, Lenin had generated an idea and, through sheer
fanaticism, had come up from the dregs to impose a new tyranny on
a people who had never known much else. Worse still, the cockeyed
idea had spread into other lands in the short two decades since
the Armistice from a war to make the world safe from such things.
In Italy, it was Mussolini; in Japan, Hirohito. Here were four men
on horseback, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and no one was
doing anything about a counterattack with a better idea. One was
ready at hand in the Christian faith, but subversive influences
had persuaded Christians that it was unsophisticated even to talk
about it. Protestants were so busy attacking Catholics that they
were unwittingly led into an attitude toward communism which, if not
sympathy, is at least not outspoken opposition.
Meanwhile at home we buried our heads in the sand. Unable to conceive
such an idea as attacking others, we persuaded ourselves that some
miracle would protect us. Our only means of counterattack was to
pass a law against war and the current nostrum went under the title
of “Arms Embargo Act.” It had its origin in the ancient myth of the
war profiteer, an old wives’ tale founded on the idea that greedy
munition racketeers in search of profits had fomented World War I.
Its approach to keeping the peace was to prohibit the sale of arms to
all belligerents. But, as Tom pointed out, it wouldn’t work out that
way.
To date it had served as a good excuse for French bureaucrats to
oppose the purchase of arms in the United States, on the grounds
that delivery could be cut off by Hitler; all that was necessary
was to declare war on France and convert her into a belligerent.
The Act thus became an invitation to Hitler to make war whenever it
suited his convenience. The Germans and Italians needed no American
help; they had made themselves self-sufficient. From the moment the
air-mail cancellations had thrown a rough lock on our own aviation
program, they had seized upon the opportunity to expand their own air
power as a new weapon with which the have nots could take what they
wanted from the haves. Hitler had made no bones about it; such Nazis
as Goering, Milch, and Udet bragged about their prowess to every
American who visited Germany.
Among these, Charles A. Lindbergh had sought to sound a note of
warning when he said to a Nazi assembly in Flyers-House in Berlin in
July, 1936,
Unlike the builder of the dugout canoe, we have lived to see our
harmless wings of fabric turned into carriers of destruction
even more dangerous than battleships and guns. We have lived to
carry on our shoulders the responsibility for the results of
our experiments which, in other fields, have passed to future
generations.
We in aviation carry a heavy responsibility on our shoulders, for
while we have been drawing the world closer together in peace, we
have stripped the armor of every nation in war. It is no longer
possible to defend the heart of a country with its army. Armies can
no more stop an air attack than a suit of mail can stop a rifle
bullet. Aviation has, I believe, created the most fundamental
changes ever made in war. It has turned defense into attack. We
can no longer protect our families with an army. Our libraries,
our museums—every institution which we value most, is laid bare to
bombardment.
Aviation has brought a revolutionary change to a world already
staggering from changes. It is our responsibility to make sure that
doing so, we do not destroy the very things we wish to protect.
Reports as to German preparations by Lindbergh and numerous other
competent observers had been discounted at home. A naval air attaché
at Berlin had been threatened with orders home and accused of being
pro-Nazi because he had made a factual report of German preparations.
And at the very moment when Tom could arouse no interest in France or
England looking to utilization of American products, the Italians,
the Germans, the Japanese, and the Russians had come knocking at
his door. At the time it was difficult to be selective. As the Four
Horsemen jockeyed for advantage in the race for world dominion, no
one knew who would be on our side. As it ultimately turned out, all
four were against us at one time, what with the Rome-Berlin-Tokyo
axis supported by the Russian nonaggression pact. But United Aircraft
did draw the line in one situation; we quoted such high prices for
our technical assistance that the Russians refused to buy from us.
We knew, of course, that this did not prevent their getting whatever
they wanted but at least we kept them out of our plants.
Tom, having long resided in France, had a strong attachment to the
country and its people. Now with Hitler arming, he redoubled his
efforts to interest the French Air Ministry in an arrangement which
would place our facilities at their command in the emergency. After
much delay he had finally succeeded in persuading them to test our
engines in their laboratories with a view to “homologuing” them and
clearing the way for later purchase, if desired. The engines had met
all demands and had even got by in spite of some sand and glass which
somehow always tended to get into the test engines.
Moving as Tom did in military and diplomatic circles, he had
acquired an unusual outlook on the European situation. Yet he had
not, as yet, been able to forecast the final line-up. Nazism and
communism, though similar under the skin, were natural enemies. If
British diplomacy, bent on maintaining the old balance of power on
the Continent, could involve Russia and Germany, she might win a
respite for western Europe. But if Russian diplomacy could bring
Moscow into the Rome-Berlin-Tokyo axis, at least temporarily, Hitler
would have a free hand with western Europe—where fifth columns had
already penetrated—and might dominate British sea power with an air
force based on shore and operating from interior lines. Meanwhile
our natural friends abroad scorned our products even as our enemies
scrambled to buy our technology.
And so the Yankee Peddler who had set out to advance the new art
of air transport, and in so doing expand world trade and promote
prosperity, suddenly found himself in the cloak-and-dagger business.
The war, he knew, would set air transport back at least ten years to
say nothing of incalculable damage in every other aspect of life. We
were caught in a net spun out of the idea first suggested by General
Jiulio Douhet and later endorsed by other fanatics. And all the while
the biggest idea in human existence, the doctrine according to Jesus
Christ, lay fallow for lack of ardent advocates.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A Chill Sets In
Don Brown, our president, who had been in ill health for some time,
was now unable to give personal attention to the multitude of
matters, and it fell to me to try to get some coordinated action
on industry problems. Any sort of joint action by our Aeronautical
Chamber of Commerce had long ago been proved impossible, first
because joint action called for unanimous consent and no two of our
bully boys in the industry could agree on anything. Of course on rare
occasions we reached an agreement, and such an occasion developed one
day in the office of the Assistant Secretary of War.
Out of the confusion and extravagance incident to the last war,
Congress had passed the Army Reorganization Act of 1921, under
which responsibility for production planning and mobilization had
been lodged in the Assistant Secretary of War. That office had been
collecting an array of card indexes which purported to assign some
sort of role for mobilization to each manufacturer. After some twenty
years of this, the Assistant Secretary, then Mr. Louis Johnson,
having decided to take a look at his handiwork, had summoned the
aircraft industry. The conference was called to order by General
Westover, then Chief of the Air Corps, who was supported by “Hap”
Arnold, Assistant Chief, and by Colonel Burns, from the Office of the
Assistant Secretary of War.
General Westover stated the situation: the Army would like to have
our estimate of the effectiveness of their war plans effort. If,
after looking the situation over, we gave general approval, they
would ask us to remain over another day to suggest improvements.
They wanted our frank opinion of progress. General Westover then
introduced General Arnold, who conducted the inquiry.
Hap Arnold was a favorite with the industry. Forthright, courageous,
and decisive, he had supported Billy Mitchell at a time when less
able men would have taken the easier course. Along with a handful
of similarly able men like Hugh Knerr, a classmate of mine and rifle
teammate who had transferred to the Army, Louis Brereton, also a
Naval Academy graduate, Frank Andrews, Carl Spaatz, Jimmy Doolittle,
and others, Hap had preached the air-force doctrine in fair and foul
weather. Now he grinned at us across the table.
“Well,” he inquired, “who wants to drop the opening bomb?” From the
back of the room the salty voice of Dutch Kindleberger resounded.
“If you ask me,” he volunteered, “I think you’ve had twenty years of
hogwash.” There was a murmur of surprise.
“From time to time,” Dutch went on, “you send your bright young
men to ask us the same question: ‘how many airplanes can you
manufacture X days after M Day?’ And when I counter that question
with another—‘what kind of airplanes?’—your young men don’t have the
answer.” As Dutch finished, Glenn Martin put in his oar.
“I agree with Dutch,” he began, as a titter greeted the idea that
these two might agree on anything.
“You expect us to give you a war plan,” Glenn went on, “before you
have answered the question; and furthermore, you expect us to give
you something worthwhile at no cost. According to my estimate,” Glenn
continued, “it would cost at least ten thousand dollars for us to get
up anything useful, and you apparently expect us to advance it out of
profits. It can’t be done.” As Glenn finished, Hap glanced my way.
My experience with Army was more limited than that of the others. In
Hamilton-Standard, Ray Walsh had handled Army business. In Sikorsky
and Vought, the dealings had been mostly with Navy. In Pratt and
Whitney, “Tilly” Tillinghast, himself a former Army pilot and a
favorite with all, had handled Army contacts. However, there were
some fundamentals that seemed to apply to both.
“I agree with Dutch and Glenn,” I began, adding to the unusual flurry
of interindustry agreement, “and I’ll go a step farther. For a real
test of your war plan, I suggest that you start a staff exercise on
mobilization and watch what happens.” Hap Arnold flashed me that
quizzical Army expression that wonders how any good could come out of
the Navy. I went on to explain.
My own experience in naval operations had shown me that in a dress
rehearsal it is seldom the high private in the rear rank who
falls down. More likely, it’s the green second lieutenant in the
file closers who gets tangled up in his sword. He’s been so busy
drilling others, he’s forgotten to read his own book. You have
to put machinery into operation to find out where it creaks the
loudest. In this case, if the Secretaries of War and Navy would
order mobilization for drill purposes by designating a certain day
as M Day, Headquarters could then announce the types of airplanes it
wanted to put into production and the number of each it required, and
then procurement officers could go ahead with drill purchase orders,
and the contractors could place orders to suppliers, and so on. About
here I noticed a flicker in Hap’s steely eye.
“I guess Dutch and Glenn are right,” he said with a wry grin. “Hell,”
he went on, “I can’t begin to tell you today what airplanes we would
want to buy, let alone how many. I don’t even know who we expect to
fight, nor when, nor where.”
From here on the conference moved rapidly to the crystallization of
an idea. Since time is of the essence in mobilization, one way to
save time was to build the mobilization plan into current purchasing.
When the government placed an order for a certain type of equipment,
it could include in the original contract an item calling out a
detailed war plan to be paid for under the contract. Such a war
plan would include options for war quantities and the contractor
would place stand-by orders with his own suppliers for the amounts
of materials of all kinds required to fill the options. He and his
suppliers would go ahead with architects’ plans, drawings, and
all other paper work incident to creating the expanded facilities
required by the options, the idea being to get all contract paper
work done, even to the determination of critical materials and
priorities. Then, upon a signal of execution designating an option,
the machine could start operating, without all the preliminary
delays, and still leave the procurement agency free to make its
decisions at the last minute.
Hap Arnold listened to the discussion. “Well,” he remarked, “I see we
won’t need that second day for this conference.” With that he called
in General Westover and Colonel Burns, to whom the general plan was
explained. General Westover closed the conference with the statement
that he intended to get some such plan in operation, if it was the
last thing he did.
But of course, with things as they were, neither he nor anyone else
could put such an idea into operation. With the outbreak of the war,
responsibility for mobilization was shifted out of the Assistant
Secretary’s office and into a new and independent agency, which
started as the National Defense Advisory Committee and changed its
name, at intervals, to the end of the emergency.
Meanwhile, when I got back to Hartford and reported the experience to
Don Brown, Don sat a long while looking out the window, across acres
that had once been peaceful tobacco fields.
“Well, Skipper,” he said finally, “it looks as though you had sold
United Aircraft something, whether the Army buys it or not. We’ll
start building our own war-plans organization and get it ready for
trouble.” After our estimates of the cost of such a program had come
in, we discovered that they totaled just $10,000 per year, the figure
Glenn Martin had mentioned down in Washington, but, like Glenn, we
had no idea where the money was to come from.
In anticipation of the gradual drying up of government business and
with a view to trying to get funds from Congress to help tide us over
slack periods, Don Brown had outlined his situation to BUAERO and the
Army Air Corps. As a result of efforts by the Armed Forces, Congress
had appropriated funds for new engines to be ordered from Pratt and
Whitney. It had seemed to us at the time that, with war imminent,
the administration might have made better use of relief funds than
raking leaves. As a matter of fact, a good deal of relief money was
being invested in air fields and armament, but the program was not
coordinated; Mr. Ickes and Mr. Hopkins differed as to who was boss.
The idea prevailed that peace could be had by just wishing for it.
To have spent money for arms, or even to have directed it into the
business stream so as to keep the production machine at a high level,
would, at that time, have been considered unmoral. On the other hand,
spending money wastefully for made work seemed to meet with public
approval. The bald fact remained, however, that with war but a few
months away, Pratt and Whitney Aircraft, one of the two dependable
sources of proved aircraft engines, faced a shutdown, and with it,
dispersal of an organization which could never have been reassembled.
To our relief, however, Congress appropriated funds, and the Army
notified Pratt and Whitney that it might proceed with the procurement
of materials and the production of engines in advance of the formal
contract, with the idea of utilizing the allotment to best advantage
from the point of view of readiness for emergency. Then, sometime
after we had swung into our program, the Air Corps, to our amazement,
canceled this informal assurance, and diverted the funds to the
procurement of Allison liquid-cooled engines. At that time the
General Motors Corporation, owners of Allison, had indicated little
need for public relief funds, but to Pratt and Whitney, now almost
wholly dependent upon government business, the loss of this critical
order was a body blow.
When, later, Don called upon the Assistant Secretary of War, Mr.
Louis Johnson, to point out to him the results of his decision,
he was advised that the Army had decided to scrap all air-cooled
engines in pursuit planes. Next year would probably see the last of
air-cooled engines in bombers. He was instructed to start Pratt and
Whitney designing liquid-cooled engines at once. To Don, knowing
that Allison, equally surprised by the decision, had not yet started
tooling, while Pratt and Whitney, already tooled, must remain idle,
the decision hardly made sense.
Somewhat bewildered by the change, Don then called on Hap Arnold.
Here he learned that the secretary’s decision had also taken the Air
Force by surprise. Anxious to keep Allison ticking over, Wright Field
had built up such a strong case for liquid-cooled, that the secretary
had decided to scrap air-cooled. Since recent pursuit planes like
the Seversky had been designed for air-cooled, the decision had left
them on a spot. Apparently, however, the decision once taken could
not be recalled. No one in the Air Force had dreamed for a moment
that it would be taken, but here we were, out on a long limb, and war
was in the offing.
As the year 1938 came to a close, we began laying off men, dropping
first those who could be the more readily spared. But the time came
when the organization was being seriously hurt, and the year-end
forecast indicated that, by July, 1939, we would reach the end of our
production. Since materials must be in hand five to six months ahead
of delivery of the finished article, that meant that time had already
begun to run out for Pratt and Whitney. We had long since cut back
expenses to the bare minimum and there remained nothing but a final
decision to suspend manufacturing operations. Yet even then, Don
Brown kept the War Plans Division intact.
Now we had but a single remaining hope: Tom Hamilton in Paris. Tom
reported by radiotelephone that the French, now reduced to dire
straights, still vacillated, but had established financial credits
in the United States and would send a purchasing commission to
Washington to open negotiations direct with us. Don Brown, sick as he
was, went down to Washington with some of our staff to battle through
hours of legalistic verbiage, in smoke-filled rooms of Washington
hotels.
Here it developed that the United States Treasury would act as a
sort of intermediary between the French commission and the American
manufacturers, and that Secretary Henry Morgenthau had turned
the job over to Capt. Harry Collins, then head of the Purchasing
Division of the Treasury. With the Arms Embargo Act still adorning
the legislative library, active participation by the Treasury in
negotiations between United States arms manufacturers and a possible
“belligerent” had certain aspects of incongruity. However, the whole
situation was so phony that this detail escaped public attention.
Capt. Harry Collins provided just the _savoir faire_ necessary to
resolve an impossible situation into a completed contract. Harry
had served as supply officer on the ancient destroyer-tender _Iris_
back in the dark ages when I had commanded the four-piper _Truxtun_,
then based on San Diego. He had resigned his commission to go into
business and had there shown the same tact that had endeared him to
the temperamental skippers of the Pacific Torpedo Flotilla.
Throughout the negotiations, Don Brown stood fast on the principle
that prices to be paid for the equipment should be high enough to
permit us to take the necessary financial risks required by the
early deliveries specified. The customer should not hamstring us by
chiseling prices to the point where our willingness to accept risks
was impaired. Fortunately the soundness of this position was apparent
to Harry, and his confidence in us enabled him to support it in the
discussions with Col. Paul Jacquin of the French commission. The
colonel proved to be a man of high character with a sense of fairness
and a degree of integrity that finally brought the negotiations to a
satisfactory conclusion.
The contract was signed on February 14, 1939, at almost the precise
moment when further delay would have done us irreparable harm. As a
matter of fact, the time had long passed when a garrison finish might
be of any help to France; the chief benefit of this contract lay in
the fact that it gave the Pratt and Whitney Aircraft organization a
shot in the arm, and put us in such position that when, two years
later, the Japs smacked us at Pearl Harbor, we could swing into
full-scale production for the American account.
After Don Brown’s return to Hartford, his health forced him to turn
more and more of his work over to me. In this I functioned, much as
I had once done for Admiral Reeves, as a sort of chief of staff,
seeking to do things in the way Don himself would have done them,
had he been personally on the firing line. Somewhat earlier, when
our difficulties had become serious, I urged Don to invite Fred
Rentschler to return to our board as chairman where we could call
on him for advice and get the benefit of his judgment. Now we three
began working closely together—at least as closely as Don’s declining
health permitted.
Don, a singularly attractive and lovable person, having come
upstairs by way of the shop, always displayed a strong sense of
responsibility for his men. The specter of shutdown weighed heavily
on him and now, as the illness that was to prove fatal began closing
in on him, his thoughts were still down on the factory floor.
One day he and I walked along an aisle between the machines. Don made
some remark to the effect that he longed to be back there where the
problems were of the kind a man could get his teeth into. Behind us
we heard the voice of a young kid making some crack about how soft it
was for guys that did nothing but sit on cushions in paneled offices
and look wise. Don turned and brushed the kid away from the machine.
After running it awhile in obvious enjoyment, he turned to the
workman:
“Listen, son,” he said, not unkindly, “I’d trade jobs with you any
day if I could, but you wouldn’t take the responsibility. That’s
something you fellows never want to accept.”
Toward midsummer, we began to hear rumors that the French needed
more equipment than our humming plant could deliver. By this time
Secretary Johnson’s action had reacted to our advantage. The
inventory of raw stock, semifinished, and finished parts which they
had left on our hands when they canceled our order enabled us to get
rolling without the protracted delay which would have been inevitable
had our pipe lines been drained before the big freeze. And so, almost
overnight, we had the machines humming again and the empty parking
spaces around the plant filled up with cars. But this rumor of new
plants was a horse of another color.
First of all, we had no capital with which to construct a new
addition, nor did it seem likely we could get it had we wanted
it—which we didn’t. Having faced the cold shadows of a vacant
factory, we had no appetite for more of the same. The punitive
attitude of our own government had completely dammed up all sources
of private capital for expansion of munitions plants. Actually,
the long depression had all but dried up investment in any private
venture. The fear and uncertainty which had cast such a pall over the
land had been intensified by the drift toward government domination
of business and the rise of bureaucratic dictation.