_The Need for Speed_
THE DESERT SPRING had fused almost imperceptibly with early summer.
The temperature climbed to a routine 105 degrees in the shade.
Edwards became a hell of wind and sand. The wind moaned through the
cracks in the temporary buildings; the sand and dust heaped in piles
on the sills and in the corners. I considered it a minor miracle that
the mechanics could keep the jewel-like machinery of the research
airplanes operating in such conditions. We pilots retreated, between
flights, to the comfort and cleanliness of air-conditioning. One
day in late May, 1951, I was killing time in Walt Williams’ office,
sipping coffee and discussing the future of the research airplane
program which had by now become inextricably entwined with my own
future.
“Walt, I’m telling you we have got to move in and do something about
Bell’s X-2. The whole deal is going sour.”
My feet were propped up on the edge of Williams’ desk. An NACA
research airplane pilot at Edwards got to be an old hand fast in
those days. I had been there almost a year: I was an old hand. I
had accumulated more than half a hundred flights in the X-4, X-1,
Skyrocket, and D-558-I. I had flown supersonic. I was becoming wiser
in the ways of government and industry politics. One had to at NACA,
because the agency was caught in the middle of all the political
currents. The X-2 situation was one of those touchy ones.
NACA existed to serve the industry. It received its planes from the
military services which, in turn, were customers of the industry.
Thus it was dependent on everyone for survival and, as I learned,
it was important not to bite the many hands that fed it. The
competition among the aircraft companies striving to sell their
products to the military was intense, as was the competition among
the various military services. Thus there were always a hundred minor
controversies going on. We at NACA, to survive, tried to remain aloof
from these internecine battles, taking protection behind the cloak
of science. The information we garnered was passed out impartially
to all of industry and the military services. If the military asked
our advice about a certain competitive airplane, we responded in
double-talk and purposely contrived, abstruse mathematical formulae.
We had to do this. The governing body of NACA itself was a committee
composed of the leaders in aviation. Any conclusion NACA reached was
instantly known everywhere in the aviation world. It was like working
in a fish bowl.
All of this naturally generated conservatism within NACA. Before we
passed judgment or recommended a course of action, we had first to
weigh the impact on half a hundred points of contact. Thus, while we
flew fast in the air, we moved at a snail’s pace on the ground.
The data from my flights were accumulating by the bushel-basketfuls.
But all of these were concerned with the subsonic, sonic, and
trans-sonic zones, about which we were beginning to know a great
deal. In our thoroughness, I felt, we were losing sight of the forest
for the trees. The new supersonic Century Series fighters, which
could outfly our research airplanes, were almost on the point of
factory roll-out. There were a thousand different things we didn’t
know at Mach 1.5 and above. Two especially grave unknowns loomed
before us: high-speed instability and aerodynamic heating. What
we needed was much more speed to stay out in front of the combat
airplanes. In short, our research airplanes were too slow, and NACA
was not, in my opinion, doing enough about it.
After the fabulous success of the X-1, the Air Force had invited
Bell to build a second generation of straight-wing, rocket-powered
X-1 airplanes. These were to be larger, faster, with longer-burning
rocket engines. The planes were to have a “combat cockpit,” an
uninspired idea of someone who thought the craft _might_ be used for
brief high-speed reconnaissance bursts over enemy territory. These
airplanes were designated the X-1-A, X-1-B, X-1-C, and X-1-D. Some
said these planes might fly at Mach 3--three times the speed of
sound. At the very least we knew they would nearly double the speed
of the original X-1s.
These planes were conceived shortly after Yeager’s historic flight
in the X-1. By then the ingenious team sparked by Bob Stanley, which
had pioneered the X-1, had left Bell. Advanced airplanes are not
the product of a company, but the product of men with boldness and
imagination. The Air Force blew hot and cold on these advanced X-1s
and supplied money, virtually a month-by-month dole. As time passed,
inevitably the airplanes grew in complexity and they fell far behind
schedule. Even the third model of the original X-1, which was being
converted to a low-pressure fuel system, had not yet been delivered
to NACA.
The same fate had overtaken the much-heralded X-2, which I was
supposed to fly for NACA in due course. The X-2 had been designed
years earlier, only a few months after the original X-1s. Two ships
were under construction. In concept the X-2 represented a tremendous
jump over the X-1. On paper it had over eight times the power--a
15,000-pound-thrust Curtiss-Wright engine--sharply swept wings, and
an escape system--a nose that could be separated from the main body
of the airplane in emergency. The X-2 was to be built of stainless
steel in order to withstand the tremendous frictional heat it was
expected to encounter at its maximum speed of nearly Mach 3. Its
windshield was to be tinted to resist solar radiation, which might be
a menace at the X-2’s maximum altitude of 150,000 feet. However, the
X-2 was already three years behind schedule.
Altogether, then, Bell had seven rocket airplanes in the plant in
various stages of construction. All of them were capable of flying at
over twice the speed of sound. All of them were behind schedule, and
falling farther behind every day. Meanwhile, at Edwards, no one had
yet exceeded Yeager’s speed of Mach 1.4, set in the original X-1. The
new military fighters were designed to exceed that speed. Even faster
military fighters were then in the advance design stage.
“If we don’t watch out, Walt,” I said, “we’re going to be coming up
with these data a day late and a dollar short. The gap is closing.”
Walt Williams, of course, knew this as well as I. But there was
little that NACA could do about it. The situation was an “Air Force
problem.” The Air Force supplied the planes. The Air Force’s main
attention was focused on producing enough airplanes, right that
minute, to fight the Korean War.
“Walt,” I said. “We have the technical say-so with these aircraft.
We can make recommendations through headquarters in Washington. Why
don’t we propose that I be assigned to the Bell plant and bird-dog
this thing in our behalf?”
“Nobody would buy that, Scotty,” Williams said. “We can make
technical judgments when invited to do so, but we can’t stick a man
in the plant full-time.”
“Why not?” I asked. “We need these planes in a hurry, don’t we?”
“Well,” Williams said, “I really don’t think you know what you are
proposing. Geez. Can you imagine an NACA man in the Bell plant? And
you of all people?”
I had developed something of a reputation as a driver and an
iconoclast. It was not strictly my doing. Part of it was the fact
that I had arrived coincidentally with the outbreak of the Korean
War, and the new sense of urgency had come at the same time. It was a
fact, however, that I frequently challenged the accepted method. Like
many other pilots, I particularly deplored the growing gap between
desk designer and pilot. Machinery was being put in illogical places
with little thought for pilot efficiency or maintenance ease; the
mounting overemphasis on safety had reached the point where engineers
were putting cotter keys in cotter keys. All of this was slowing us
down at a time when we urgently needed to be picking up speed.
As for my proposal to go to Bell to bird-dog the lagging rocket-plane
program, on reflection I am certain now that it was the goal of my
life trying to peck through its shell prematurely. I realize now the
time was far from propitious. The X-1, X-2 thing was a mess, and in
time it would become worse. Had I gone there, I might have helped
some. But I might also have fallen far short of my dream.
I let the matter drop. Williams had been around NACA far longer than
Scott Crossfield. I knew and admired him as a man of action. I was
certain that if he could perceive even the faintest glimmer of hope
of NACA’s bailing out the rocket planes, he would be in favor of
positive action, and in spite of the prevailing conservatism within
the agency, would press for it. Obviously, the safest course as far
as Bell was concerned was hands off.
“Besides, Scott,” Williams said, dangling a diverting sweet, “you
have the Skyrocket program.”
I couldn’t argue that point.
* * * * *
The Skyrocket then was the one bright ray of hope on an otherwise
darkly blotched horizon. Douglas Aircraft was a big, bustling
corporation with enormous military and commercial business. The
company had withstood the postwar aviation famine quite well. In
fact, it had thrived on production orders for DC-6 transports,
and Navy carrier-launched fighters. At Douglas there had been
money and engineering talent enough to sustain a healthy research
and development program, which included, of course, the D-558-II
Skyrocket. During the fall of 1950 the emphasis had been placed on
the conversion of the original jet-only (JATO boosted) Skyrocket to
an air-launch, all-rocket vehicle, which conceivably might reach Mach
2 and 100,000 feet. On paper it was easily capable of shattering
Yeager’s X-1 speed record of Mach 1.4 and Everest’s altitude record
of 73,000 feet. The Navy and Douglas were anxious.
Bridgeman and the Douglas crew had arrived with the all-rocket
Skyrocket in January of 1951. The plane had been parked in the
Douglas hangar next door, alongside the older jet-rocket version of
the Skyrocket. When the word got around, it caused a sensation. I
hurried over to take a look at the ship, which I would fly soon after
Bridgeman had established its “envelope,” and had, incidentally,
scratched up some new speed and altitude records for the Navy.
The ship was dazzlingly white. Its lines were similar to the old
Skyrocket, except that it was cleaner. The jet engine scoops were
gone.
When Bridgeman first climbed into the Skyrocket, snugged in the belly
of the mother plane, Yeager and Everest flew chase for the Air Force
with more than casual interest. However, the first blush paled. The
Skyrocket was new and untried. Like all new research airplanes, it
was dogged by trouble during the de-bugging stage. During January,
February, and March, 1951, Bridgeman had gone aloft six times in the
mother plane. Six times the launch had been canceled at the last
minute.
On the seventh attempt, in April, a hair-raising event occurred that
will never be forgotten at Edwards. When the mother plane bore down
over the launch point, all gauges were in the green. Bridgeman, who
through no fault of his own was gaining a reputation for being a
Reluctant Dragon, was pressing hard for a launch. At the last second
a tank pressure fell off. Grudgingly Bridgeman reported:
“No drop. This is an abort.”
He prepared to go through abort procedures to return to the base.
Then to his horror he heard the mother-plane pilot, George Jansen,
ticking off the launch countdown on the radio: “Ten, nine, eight,
seven....”
“No drop! No drop!” Bridgeman shouted over the radio. Everyone heard
him but Jansen, who had keyed his radio mike for the countdown.
Nobody, not even the star Bridgeman, could get through to George.
Frantically, Bridgeman brought the plane’s ailing machinery to life
and squared away for an undesired launch.
Falling away from the mother plane, Bridgeman lighted the rocket
engines. The Skyrocket roared heavenward, just short of Yeager’s
record speed of Mach 1.4. Bridgeman growled over the radio:
“Goddammit, George, I _told_ you not to drop me.”
“You got keen friends, Bridgeman,” said Everest, who was flying chase
that day.
After that incident, countdowns were shortened; research airplanes
were equipped with a switch on the instrument panel, connected to a
light on the mother-plane instrument panel. A green light meant the
rocket pilot was ready to launch, and only if it was on would he
be launched. And so far as I know, no pilot after that was dropped
against his will.
The Douglas test program dragged on through May and June. At NACA
we became very anxious to take over the airplane. In fact, in an
unprecedented move NACA headquarters wrote Douglas telling them,
in effect, to hurry up. We urgently needed the Douglas plane for
high-speed flight data. Another reason was that the word had
gotten around that Bridgeman was afraid of the airplane. This was
unfortunate because Bridgeman, I thought, was one very superlative
pilot. He later admitted that flying the Skyrocket unnerved him. But
the delay in the Douglas flight program was not his fault. It was
the usual work of the gremlins which flock to research planes like
seven-year locusts.
Not long after my chat with Walt Williams the slow-starting Douglas
Skyrocket program blazed into a stem-winding finish. In the next
four powered flights, the last of which took place on August 15,
1951, Bridgeman flew the Skyrocket to a speed of Mach 1.87 and an
altitude of 79,000 feet. Both figures were records by a wide margin.
Bridgeman assured his place in the Hall of Fame, and demonstrated
that the Skyrocket was all that they had hoped. Bill went on to the
X-3 and some brilliant airmanship. The Navy, now holding the official
records, beamed, and Douglas released a flood of press handouts. With
little ceremony NACA took over the plane and mother ship, assigned me
as Skyrocket pilot, and I got set to probe the high-speed mysteries
the Skyrocket had already brought to light.
These mysteries somehow leaked to the press, which sensationally
proclaimed that Bridgeman had discovered a phenomenon known as
“Supersonic Yaw.” Actually we had expected it. Bridgeman had expected
it. It was one of those unknowns about which we urgently needed data.
Reduced to simplest terms, “Supersonic Yaw” meant that airplanes
nearly became directionally unstable at high speed in thin air. The
nose turned sideways and the plane skidded obliquely through the
air. What we had to do then was to find some means of improving the
controls or the design of airplanes to avoid it, or else develop
a technique for living with it. This was one reason alone for the
need for speed. The same thing could happen to our military planes,
causing needless death in peace and war.
Following Bridgeman’s footsteps, I made four quick flights in the
all-rocket Skyrocket. The first flight was, in a way, a milestone
for me. I broke my first-flight jinx, launching and flying with no
unusual difficulty. I achieved a speed of Mach 1.6 and an altitude of
60,000 feet. These were not records, but we at NACA were not out to
set records. We wanted to find out in actual flight about Supersonic
Yaw, among many other things.
On all flights the Skyrocket was loaded with hundreds of pounds of
delicate instruments which recorded every significant fact about the
flight: speed, altitude, G forces, pressures, air flows. Bridgeman
had intuitively conceived a method of taking the plane to its near
limits without meeting disaster. Under his skillful coaching, I
successfully carried out his idea, and the information we recorded
kept the engineers busy for months. After these four flights the
plane was laid up for some badly needed repairs which had been
deferred during our quick investigation.
One day not long after I had completed the last of these flights, I
stopped at the coffee machine to pass the time of day with Hubert
Drake and Bob Carmen, NACA’s long-range design “dreamers.” In a
friendly way they probed for first-hand information about the
Skyrocket.
“How’d it go?” Drake asked.
“It was all right,” I said. “You people and Douglas had already
sensed what to do and I just did it. No special trick. We got the
data, but the problem is that the airplane is already old for its
time. The plane is obsolete for those speeds.”
“Yes, I know,” said Drake.
“Some day I hope we can get ahead of this game,” I said. “I would
like to see a research airplane built from scratch that can fly like
it is supposed to--stable, that is--and far enough ahead of the
game to provide some useful data to industry. In another few months
they’ll be catching up with us.”
“You ought to come down and see our stuff,” Carmen said.
“What have you got?”
“We think we have an airplane that can perform at Mach 6 and fifty
miles,” Drake said.
“How do you get that kind of performance?”
“It’s simple. First off, the mother plane is a rocket plane. She has
five Viking engines. The research airplane, a modified X-2 with a
one-rocket engine, rides piggy-back. You take off and launch at Mach
3 and about 70,000 feet. The research airplane goes on up to maybe
Mach 6 and maybe 250,000 feet. It’s all done with existing hardware.”
I had a vision then of trying to make ready and light off the five
temperamental rocket engines on the mother plane. The effort would
be something like the invasion of Europe. The odds that everything
would work, and that the research airplane would launch--and light
off--were, conservatively, about a hundred to one. Still, it was an
idea. Dreamers should never be discouraged. An engineering analysis
of the Columbus voyage had shown it couldn’t be done.
“Well, why don’t you write it up and send in a report?” I asked. “God
knows someone ought to try to get ahead of the game. That would be a
big jump forward.”
“We _did_ write it up,” Drake said, crumpling his paper coffee cup.
He aimed carefully but missed the big G.I. can.
“What happened?”
“We turned it in to Walt Williams,” Drake said. “That was back in
November, 1950. He read it and said it was ‘premature.’ Told us to
pigeon-hole it for a while.”
The Drake-Carmen report was still in a pigeon-hole, gathering dust.
In later years Walt Williams still felt it was wise to delay that
report. Maybe he was right. Had it been brought forward in late 1950,
NACA might have been laughed out of school. No one else was ready.