_End of the Line_
During my first five years at Edwards NACA achieved a remarkable
safety record. No NACA pilot had bought the farm; no airplane had
been lost through accident. This was due partly to luck, partly to
excellent maintenance and a thoughtful approach to flight test. But
our luck was bound to run out. It did, finally, in August, 1955.
I was sitting at my desk in the pilots’ room, roughing out a report
on a Skyrocket flight--the old ship was still going strong--when the
emergency broke. Somewhere high over the base, Stan Butchart, the
B-29 mother-plane pilot, was about to air-launch Joe Walker in the
X-1-A. I was absently following the progress of the flight over the
radio loudspeaker as mother-plane pilot, chase pilot, and Joe Walker,
strapped in the cockpit of the rocket plane, talked back and forth,
getting set for the drop.
“We have a fire.” The words crackled from the loudspeaker. I snapped
to attention.
“Fire?” Butchart repeated.
“Yes. There’s been an explosion.”
I raced upstairs to the NACA control tower. Soon it was jammed with
NACA engineers and mechanics, crowding the loudspeaker, shouting
conflicting accounts of the accident, and helpful and unhelpful
suggestions.
By that time NACA had had possession of the flashy X-1-A, in which
Yeager and Murray set their speed and altitude records, and her
sister-ship, the X-1-B, for a little over one year. We had not logged
much flight time on the ships. NACA had shipped them back to the Bell
factory for ejection-seat installation, and then filled both planes
with data instruments. All this took time and delayed the flight
program. The installation of the ejection seats caused considerable
controversy. I was in favor of proceeding without them because of
the urgency of the program and because Yeager, Murray, and Everest
had demonstrated that the airplanes could be recovered from unstable
flight. As senior pilot my views were carefully weighed, but the
majority at NACA favored the escape device.
The fire that broke out in the X-1-A was later traced to a similar
source as that which destroyed the X-1-D, Queenie, and the first X-2
over Lake Ontario. After those accidents the airplanes were modified
to reduce the possibility of a single catastrophic explosion. In
theory, a fire from that source might be “controlled,” or held down
to a smouldering effect. This was all theory, however. In my view, a
fire in any airplane was dangerous. A fire in a rocket plane, loaded
with tons of Lox and alcohol, brought to mind the picture of a bomb
with a lighted fuse. In my opinion, there was only one thing to do:
get rid of it, and fast.
Each rocket-plane pilot had worked out, in conjunction with the pilot
of the mother ship, a procedure to follow if an emergency developed
in either plane. Jack McKay, who had developed into a very able test
pilot, and I had agreed with Butchart that if something went wrong
_after_ either of us had entered the cockpit of the Skyrocket and had
closed the canopy, he would immediately jettison the rocket plane,
leaving the rocket-plane pilot to look after his own hide. As a
matter of fact, McKay and Butchart later ran into such an emergency.
One day something went haywire in a propeller on the B-29 mother
plane. As agreed, Butchart instantly cut loose the Skyrocket. A
split second later the B-29 prop tore loose and cartwheeled through
the space the Skyrocket had just vacated. McKay landed without
difficulty; but had Butchart not cut the parasite plane loose, the
prop would have ripped into its fuel tanks, causing an explosion that
would have killed everyone, including McKay.
“What’s the situation up there?” Vensel yelled into the control-tower
mike.
“Well, we’ve got a fire in the X-1-A,” Butchart replied coolly. “We
got Joe Walker out of the cockpit. He’s standing by in the bomb-bay
compartment now. The fire’s pretty bad. I figure we ought to drop
this thing pretty quick.”
“Now let’s not take any chances,” Vensel said. “Don’t try to save the
airplane if there’s any danger.”
I fought down an urge to grab the mike and tell Butchart to pull
the jettison lever then without another second’s delay. But he was
already getting enough advice from the ground, and I couldn’t get
near the mike, anyway.
The Air Force chase plane was piloted by Major Kit Murray. He had
been tucked up close to the X-1-A when the explosion occurred. The
X-1-A wheel doors had blown off and smashed into Murray’s plane.
Above the chatter in the control room I heard Murray report: “I might
have a little damage here. I’ll try to stick around ... Butch, you’re
getting a lot of smoke out of the back end. The Lox and hydrogen
peroxide are dumping overboard....”
Murray, with a plane damaged to an extent no one thought to
investigate, was still hanging on, relaying an account of the scene
from the outside. But how long could he remain on station with a
damaged plane? Was he needlessly risking his own life?
I ran to the nearest telephone and put through a call to Air Force
Fighter Ops. Pete Everest answered.
“Pete,” I said, “Murray’s up there. His plane’s been hit. How soon
can you get a relief chase plane up?”
“We’ll be up there in five minutes,” Everest said, ringing off
hurriedly. I think he jumped into an airplane and flew up to relieve
Murray. In any case, Murray soon landed without further difficulty.
Now a big debate was raging in the NACA control room about what to
do: keep the rocket plane attached to the mother plane and try to
save it, or throw it away? No one asked me my opinion, but I gave it
anyway:
“Throw that damned thing away as fast as you can.”
The experts thronging the control room soon swung to this conclusion.
Then a second debate arose over where to drop the airplane. There was
concern that the X-1-A might fall on a house or an automobile. Vensel
called the Air Force and requested they assign a remote bombing area
into which the stricken rocket plane might be jettisoned. While this
discussion took place, the fire in the X-1-A raged about the plane.
A new thought flashed to my mind. If the Lox had drained out of the
rocket plane and the alcohol remained in its tank, the plane would be
dangerously tail-heavy. When it fell away from the mother plane, it
might pitch up sharply, perhaps fatally ramming the mother plane. Had
the fact that the Lox drained away reached Butchart amidst all the
bureaucratic chatter about where to drop the X-1-A?
I ran downstairs and found a radio mike in a secluded room.
“Butch,” I called, breaking in on the radio circuit. “This is
Scotty.” I kept my voice low, trying to restore some semblance of
order in the chaos on the radio circuit.
“Go ahead, Scotty,” Butchart replied.
“The Lox is drained, Butch. Be sure to pull some G’s when you drop
her. Otherwise, she’ll pitch up and might climb right into the
bomb-bay.”
“Okay, Scotty, already thought of it, thanks anyway. I’m going to cut
her now. I’m pulling G’s. I’m in a hard left bank. I think it will go
okay.”
Butchart pulled the lever and the smoking X-1-A disengaged from the
mother plane. As we feared, the tail-heavy plane pitched up. In fact,
it climbed right by the B-29 and almost _looped_ before dipping and
spinning crazily into the desert floor.
Butchart received further instructions from the ground. Among other
things, he was advised to land the mother plane as quickly as
possible. I knew Butchart’s good judgment would prevail. He would
check his ship thoroughly, with landing gear down and locked, before
descending. Butchart had brought many damaged airplanes back to base
in the Pacific during World War II.
This accident reduced our stable of rocket airplanes to three: the
X-1-B, the X-1-E (still being slowly rebuilt by hand), and the
Skyrocket--and set off another prolonged investigation which grounded
the Bell airplanes. It also influenced the future of the Bell X-2.
That jinxed ship had finally arrived back at Edwards and was then
being feverishly prepared for its first powered flight by Pete
Everest and the Bell crew. Following the loss of the X-1-A, the Air
Force passed the word that if the X-2 had not flown by December 31 of
that year, the project would be completely abandoned. The plane would
be consigned to the Smithsonian.
Facing this harsh deadline, Everest finally got off a shaky powered
flight. It took place on November 18, 1955, less than six weeks
before the expiration date set for the X-2 program. It was almost
ten years to the day since the X-2 had been conceived, and about
three years and five months after Skip Ziegler had made the first
X-2 powerless glide flight at Edwards. Everest held the X-2’s speed
subsonic and landed hastily after a fire broke out in the tail of
the plane. This flight gained the program a reprieve--an extension.
In spite of this Pyrrhic victory, it seemed dead certain at the time
that the X-2 would never provide the U. S. with useful aeronautical
research data in time. The other rocket planes in our stable were
almost obsolete.
* * * * *
By comparison, NACA’s advanced research airplane, then officially
dubbed the X-15 (the experimental vehicles from the X-6 to X-14
were mostly unmanned missiles), was showing strong promise. Six
months after the Air Force asked for bids, or by June, 1955, all
returns were in. Four companies--North American, Bell, Douglas, and
Republic--submitted proposals. The lack of interest among the other
aircraft companies is explainable. Research airplanes, as their
stormy history clearly indicates, are unprofitable projects from a
management standpoint. In the beginning they require superlative and
expensive design and engineering talent. They do not result in big
production orders, which are the bread and butter of the industry.
Since the X-15 was an NACA project, all information and new theory
and ideas developed with the plane would be made available without
charge to all of industry. Many companies reasoned: why assign our
most talented people to develop ideas which our competition can
exploit?
The bids were meticulously analyzed. The Republic proposal was
extraordinarily good, but it showed clearly that the company lacked
experience in the research airplane field. The Douglas airplane was
essentially a redesigned version of the “advanced Skyrocket,” which
its engineers hoped to sell to the Navy. The Bell airplane looked
very good and demonstrated the company’s long experience in rocket
airplanes. But because of many political factors, Bell’s wonderful
flair for exotic inventions, and the recent performance of the
X-1-A and X-2 planes, the Bell bid was not approved. In retrospect,
it seems to me that from the beginning the contract was almost
pre-ordained for the fourth company, North American.
Ironically, many at North American, for many of the reasons just
cited, were not seriously interested in building the X-15. Its
designers, like those of other companies, had huddled with NACA
engineers to find out what was wanted. Afterward the North American
advanced design group came up with a scheme superior in detail to,
but in general outline quite like, the other proposals. Actually,
the North American proposal was carried through only as a “design
exercise” for the company engineers, a not uncommon practice in
the industry. One man, however, Harrison (“Stormy”) Storms, Chief
Engineer of the Los Angeles Division, with a long-range look ahead,
had sparked a growing interest in the endeavor within the high levels
of the company.
There were several reasons why the Air Force found North American
the ideal company to build the X-15. For one thing, North American
was an old friend of the Air Force and primarily an Air Force
contractor, with an outstanding history going back to World War II,
when it produced P-51s and B-25s by the thousands. At that time North
American had built more jet airplanes--F-86s and F-100s--than any
other company, and its relationships with the Air Force were close
and very simpatico. North American’s engineers were conversant with
high speeds and the problems of aerodynamic heating and instability.
The company had great depth, in terms of engineering talent and
money, on which it could draw in case of trouble. Its Rocketdyne
division was producing the most powerful and reliable rocket engines
in the U. S.--the power-plants for the missiles Thor, Jupiter, and
Atlas. North American engineers were then in the advance design
stages of a Mach 3 fighter, the F-108, which would benefit directly
from the X-15 experience. Finally, North American, a Los Angeles
corporation, was convenient to the Edwards test base.
* * * * *
“Walt, I want to make a proposal to you.”
“What is it, Scotty?” Williams said. He bounced out of his chair and
paced about his office. I followed him with my eyes, but I didn’t
move from my chair.
“Do you remember my proposal in 1953 to Dr. Dryden to go to Bell and
ride herd on the X-2?”
“Sure. Certainly.”
“You see where the X-2 is now,” I said. “That would have been a
pretty good idea if we had followed it through. Right?”
“Maybe,” Williams said. “Then again, maybe not. It may be that no one
could have salvaged the X-2. Why?”
“I’ve been thinking about this X-15,” I said.
“Well, now, that’s a surprise. You wouldn’t kid me, would you? Have
you been thinking about anything else?”
“It’s a little difficult to spend time thinking about it, what with
having to do most of your thinking besides.” At that, Williams
chuckled and tossed his pencil at me, missing by yards.
“Okay, Scotty. I can see you’re being real serious,” he said. “What
do you have in mind?”
“I want to do with the X-15 what I proposed for the X-2. I want to be
assigned to the North American plant full-time on the X-15 project,
carry out the company demonstration flights, and then return with the
airplane to NACA, Edwards, and make the maximum-performance flights.
I want to get in on the project from the beginning and stay with it
right on through to completion.”
Williams sat down heavily in the chair behind his desk. He doodled on
his scratch pad, rubbed his head, turned and peered out the window,
staring fixedly into the desolate wastes of tumbleweed, and said
nothing for fully three minutes. I could imagine in detail every
single political thought running through his mind. (The stars had
long since gone from my eyes.) I could see him mentally arranging
the complicated chessboard, putting NACA men, North American men,
Air Force men, and other industry men in their proper starting
order and mentally playing the game through. I had done it many
times myself. Apart from the strictly personal relationships, there
were larger questions to resolve in this game: how would it affect
NACA’s relationship with the Air Force, with North American? How
would it affect the operation at Edwards? What about the Air Force
pilots--Pete Everest, Chuck Yeager, Kit Murray, and the other
experienced hands? There were a thousand moves that might leave the
King--in this case, Williams--or the X-15 program--vulnerable.
“Why does this thing mean so much to you?” Williams asked me.
“I’ve told you before, Walt. We must do something to get one of these
research airplanes built in time to do some good,” I said.
“But what will North American say?” Williams said. “That’s a huge
company. A good company. They’ve got about five thousand engineers on
the payroll down there. You know how they’ll react if we come butting
in.”
The answer from Williams was already coming through loud and clear.
It was “no.” His reasons for arriving at that conclusion were
perfectly sound, but the answer ill-suited my ambition. The time
had come, I knew, to part company with NACA. It would not be easy
to walk away dry-eyed. I had cut my teeth there, and formed many
deep and lasting friendships, including that with Walt Williams. My
future, however, lay not with NACA but with the product of its total
genius, the X-15.
“Walt, this is the end of the line,” I said.
“Scotty. You want to think this one over carefully. You’re not a
young pilot any more--you’re thirty-four. If past history is any
example, that plane won’t be flying for a long, long time. You might
be forty years old by then, and they might be looking for a younger
pilot. A hundred things could go wrong.”
“But you don’t understand. It’s _not_ just the flying. I _do_ want
to fly the plane. But I want to help _build_ it, too. I want to be a
part of that airplane,” I said.
“We’ve still got a lot of airplanes around here you can be part of,”
Williams said. “You practically built the X-1-E yourself. And if they
ever finish the X-15 you can fly that, too--if you live that long.”
“I’m sorry, Walt. I may never be able to explain this properly to
anyone. But I am going with that airplane.”