I wrote about my WW2 work as a parachute rigger. To set the stage, I
described the parachute's purpose, e.g., to lower a weight, be it a human
being or an object (cargo) at a safe rate of descent from altitude to the
ground. In time of war, the controlled descent might be that of an
aircrew member who had to abandon an aircraft because it could no
longer remain safely airborne.
In another context, during WW2, more than one hundred thousand
airborne troops parachuted from transport aircraft with their weapons
and gear as part of military operations. At least equal in numbers, cargo
parachutes lowered food, equipment, ammunition and other essential
supplies to the fighting forces and to isolated civilian communities.
Parachutes also have a wide range of uses in peacetime, as examples,
sports parachuting, 'fire jumpers' fighting forest fires, and rescue
operations in terrain or other circumstances that preclude less hazardous
access.
Parachutes must work the first time; there are no second chances.
***
In September 1941, I was a civilian parachute rigger for the Air Service
Command at Patterson Field, near Dayton, Ohio. My job was to repair
and pack-for-service personnel and cargo parachutes for United States
Army Air Corps aircrews, Army parachute troops in training, and for
U.S. and friendly foreign nations' special operations in which the U. S.
was involved around the world.
The months from September through November of 1941 were busy
times for our shop. An intense conflict raged across Europe and on
many fronts in Asia and Africa. The United States Armed Forces
accelerated their training programs, and Americans were also active in the
war zones of other nations. The parachute shop, as in most other
industrial shops at Patterson Field and many other air bases throughout
the United States, worked a round-the-clock seven-day week.
Damaged man-carrying and cargo parachutes were brought to our shop
in large quantities from United States training bases and overseas
theaters of operations. Often, the parachute harnesses, which are
designed to wrap around the jumpers to lower them safely, were
shredded, canopies and shroud lines torn or severely abraded, and
canopy containers (packs) and emergency survival accessories scorched
or missing. I was part of a crew that repaired and packed all types of
parachutes, and drop-tested a representative selection that had received
major repair and packed for operational use.
The drop test consisted of attaching a service-packed parachute to a 120-
pound weight or canvas-covered dummy, and loading the weights or
dummies into a C-47 (Dakota) airplane. A 30-foot lanyard, with snap-
hooks at both ends connected the parachute's ripcord grip to the airplane
inside the door. The door was lashed open before takeoff. Each of the
two men on the test crew wore a parachute and was also secured to the
airplane frame by heavy belts as a precaution against falling out.
The pilot took off and circled the field at an altitude under one thousand
feet. Approaching the drop zone, the co-pilot flashed a warning light
above the door where the parachute handlers were stationed. At the next
signal, the handlers, one on each side, heaved the dummy out. The
lanyard, reaching full extension, pulled free the rip cord's pack closing
pins, the pack flaps were instantly drawn back by strong bungee cords,
and a small spring-loaded pilot chute ejected, opened, and caught the air
stream, drawing the main canopy out to the full length of its shroud
lines. The canopy skirt caught air, opened, inflated the canopy fully, and
the parachute and its 'weight' descended. The ground crew tracked the
parachute visually to estimate where it would land.
Ground crew work was not dull. I remember how we spread out along
an aircraft's line of flight as it neared the drop zone, observed the chute
ejection and canopy opening, and the dummy swinging in an arc
underneath. There were times during low altitude drops when ground
crew had to move fast to get out of the way. As soon as we thought that
we knew where the parachute would land, we'd run toward it and, as soon
as we got to where the parachute landed, jump on and pin down the
dummy, haul in one (preferably two) of the webbing straps (risers), spill
air from the canopy, and get it all together with the least possible damage
to the parachute-and ourselves.
There were times, even on a relatively calm day, when a gust would pass
across the field and re-inflate the canopy before we got to it. A partially
inflated canopy in a gentle breeze can drag a 120-pound dummy along
the ground faster than ground handlers can run. Also, a canopy (made
of natural silk in those days) that drags the ground usually collects
snags.
I'll always remember chasing a descending parachute that touched down
in a sudden gust that dragged, rolled, twisted, and bounced the dummy
along a grassy field we were using for the drop zone. I was closest and
gave chase. Finally, with a lunge, I landed on the dummy, wrapped both
legs around it, and grasped and hauled back one of the risers. I managed
to spill enough air to deflate the canopy. Controlling a dummy that is
being tossed around by a sudden gust is akin to riding a lively pony.
Back at the shop after the tests, we inspected every part of a repaired
parachute closely to see how well it had withstood the test. Some years
previously, apprentice parachute riggers were not certified until they had
jump-tested a parachute that they, themselves, had inspected, repaired and
packed. The requirement for certification of riggers by 'jumping their
chutes' was suspended in 1941 because of enormously increased shop
workloads shortly before the U.S. formally joined its allies in the war.
***
On Sunday, December 7, 1941, I was working the night shift in the
Parachute Shop. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor had occurred that
morning and was being reported on the radio in continuous news
flashes. About an hour after my work shift began, the shop supervisor
instructed all parachute riggers to go immediately to the aircraft
maintenance main hangar nearby. Several hundred men from aircraft
repair, sheet metal, and instrument repair shops, and other shops on the
base were already there when I arrived. They were milling about; I
joined the crowd and wondered why we had been assembled.
A military officer climbed to the work platform at the top of an aircraft
maintenance stand. Drawing everyone's attention, he announced that the
Army Air Corps needed skilled technicians and supervisors immediately
at Hickam Field in Hawaii. Whoever wanted to go, he said, should raise
his arm and his name and badge number would be entered on a list.
I happened to be single, footloose and fancy-free at the time, and my arm
got caught in the updraft. We were directed to stand by, and the others
instructed to return to their shops. Those of us who stayed formed a
line, our identities were verified against our badge numbers and
photographs, and our job titles entered on a list. Each was given an
instruction sheet and ordered to comply.
The next morning, following instructions, I reported to the dispensary
for vaccinations and immunization shots and on to the Personnel Office
to sign papers that came at me from all directions. I was informed that I
had one week to get my affairs in order; after that I would be on standby
for departure.
A week later, along with several hundred other volunteer workers, I
boarded a train on a siding adjacent a base supply warehouse. The train,
with all windows covered by blackout curtains, departed Patterson Field,
Ohio in the dead of night, and arrived three days later at Moffett Field
near Mountain View, California. Disembarked, we lined up for bedrolls,
and were pointed toward rows of tents in a muddy field adjacent a
dirigible hangar. An instruction sheet, tacked to the tent's center pole,
told us where the mess halls were located, and the meals' schedule by
tent number.
Additional trains arrived in the days that followed. Hundreds of civilian
workers joined us in the tents waiting for the next leg of our journey.
We soon became acquainted; we were from all across the country: New
York and Pennsylvania, Ohio and Georgia, Alabama and Texas, Utah
and California. The Army Air Corps bases where we signed up were
Griffis and Olmstead, Patterson and Robbins, Brookley and Kelly and
Hill and McClellan. We were part of a vanguard moving out with little
or no advance notice. Except for a carry-on bag with a change of
clothing and a few personal items, our luggage had gone directly into the
ship's hold.
Days passed. The 'alert' came one night about 2 AM, shouted along the
tent lines, 'This is it, you guys. Movin' out. One hour.'
In a torrential downpour, we slogged through ankle-deep mud and
climbed into the backs of canvas covered trucks. Flaps down, escorted
by an armed military escort in Jeeps, all the trucks were blacked out
except for dim lights gleaming through slits in the headlights. We
formed up as a miles-long convoy rolling north along US101 from
Moffett Field, and arrived shortly before dawn at Fort Mason, adjacent
Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco. The trucks filled the wharf in
double and triple lines from end to end. A gangway led up to the deck
of a ship alongside. We learned later that the vessel was the U.S. Grant,
a World War I troop transport.
Herded below deck, we jammed into compartments where the narrow
bunks were five high along aisles barely wide enough for passing. A
'Now, here this....' over the loudspeaker restricted all passengers to their
compartments, and to passageways only when necessary until we were
out of the harbor. We were to have our life preservers with us at all
times.
Hours later, the ship's vibration, a rolling about sensation in my center of
gravity, and creaking along the bulkheads, told me we were under way.
Scuttlebutt was that we were in a convoy escorted by destroyers. Enemy
submarines were suspected off the coast. Rumors abounded.
We took turns going on deck by compartment number. The convoy of
ten ships zigzagged frequently to minimize the success of an enemy air
or submarine attack. Finally, on the fifth or so day out from San
Francisco, land appeared on the horizon and, shortly afterward, we saw
Diamond Head. Our ship left the convoy and entered Honolulu harbor.
We disembarked under heavy military guard at the Aloha Tower pier and
boarded the Toonerville Trolley, as we got to know the train on Oahu's
narrow gauge railway. An hour later, we were at Hickam.
The devastation was appalling. Burned-out hulks of bombed aircraft
were scattered about on parking aprons and in hangars, and piles of
debris lay along roadways. The roofs of military barracks hung down
along the outside of the structures; they had exploded up and outward
over the walls.
As a senior technician, I was assigned to the recovery and repair of
damaged parachutes, life rafts, inflatable life preservers, oxygen masks,
and the escape-and-evasion kits that air crews relied on when they bailed
out over enemy territory. All of the equipment that came to our shop
was closely inspected and repaired if possible. As soon as parachutes
and survival gear were fixed and ready for service, they were returned to
the airplane from which they came, shipped to air bases in the forward
areas, or into backup supply.
Many of us joined Hickam Field's armed civilians, officially titled the
Hawaiian Air Depot Volunteer Corps. We were a group of employees
who, during non-duty hours, trained to handle and fire a rifle, pistol, and
aircraft machine gun. We patrolled base storage areas at night where
high security was needed, armed with '03 Enfield rifles, also aircraft
maintenance hangers, warehouses, bombsight repair shops, and an
engine repair line underground at Wheeler Field, near Wahiawa in the
Oahu highlands.
As armed civilians, we were each given an identification card to carry in
our wallets. The card stated, in fine print, that if captured by the enemy
while carrying a weapon, we were entitled to treatment as 'prisoners of
war.' The Army Air Corps military officer who commanded our unit
said that, since we did not wear military uniforms, nor carry formal
military identification tags, the card would certify us as 'combatants.'
The statement on the card was supposed to keep us from being shot as
spies in the event Hawaii was invaded by the enemy.
During the war years, I repaired and packed thousands of personnel and
cargo parachutes, and serviced many other types of emergency survival
gear.
After the war, my job was changed. I investigated mistakes that had been
made during manufacture or repair in all types of equipment. My job
was to examine what was wrong, acquire exhibits, and interview
technicians and administrators who had knowledge on how and why an
item of equipment had failed or was otherwise deficient. After compiling
the information, I wrote reports that described the problem and its
possible causes so that specialists and engineers who were located
thousands of miles distant might better understand the problem and how
to correct it.
I worked at Hickam Field until April, 1948, and then returned to the air
base where I had signed up when the war began. By then, the
installation had expanded enormously, and was named Wright-Patterson
Air Force Base.
***
Any questions?
The students e-mailed their questions to me, and I replied, also by e-mail.
An example:
Do riggers jump the 'chutes they pack?
A. Before WW2, the answer would be 'yes,' however, during the war the
requirement was suspended because of the time involved. It is not
unusual for a jumped parachute to incur minor damage in descent or
upon landing, which then required time and materials to repair. The
expense could not be justified under the new priorities.
Q. How did you get from fixing parachutes to writing reports about
mistakes and defects?
A. My change in jobs came about because of an incident when I worked
on parachutes and other emergency survival equipment. In 1942, large
numbers of damaged and deteriorated parachutes were shipped from
mainland U.S. bases to Hickam Field and other Air Corps bases in the
Pacific. For example, we received parachutes that were ripped or had
severely mildewed canopies; their were badly frayed suspension lines,
rusted metal connectors, and the cotton webbing straps that secured the
aircrew member were so rotten that they came apart when handled.
Other types of survival gear that came to us from the mainland also had
defects which made them useless in an emergency: life rafts and life
preservers did not inflate as they should, and escape-and-evasion kits
had missing components that would have been vital to a downed aircrew
member. In such circumstances, the assembly was unsafe and, at times,
beyond repair.
I complained to my supervisor about the quality of the parachutes and
survival gear that we were getting from the mainland, and he passed my
observations along to his supervisor. He told me to put my complaints
in writing, which I did, describing the defects or damage in detail, often
including photographs or other exhibits. The poor quality of life-saving
gear that had been sent to us, I wrote, added to the risk of an emergency
bailout from a disabled airplane and escape-and-evasion in hostile
territories.
At work one day, I was called to my supervisor's office.
'Just got a phone call from the front office,' he said. 'You're to report
immediately to Headquarters, Seventh Air Force. The soldier in the Jeep
outside is waiting for you. He'll drive you there. Move.'
Sitting alongside the driver, I wondered what it was all about. The
thought that I had made an error in my work made me nervous. Was I
being called on the carpet because of an injury, or worse, that had
resulted from an improperly packed parachute?
At Seventh Air Force headquarters, I was met at the door by a Colonel,
who cleared me past the security guards. I followed him into an office
that had a sign on the door that read 'Major General White, Commander,
Seventh Air Force'. Several men in uniform were standing near a desk at
the far side of the room. A uniformed officer was seated behind the
desk. In the middle of the room lay several packed parachutes were in a
heap on the floor.
When the officer behind the desk noticed me he stood, came round, and
walked to and crouched next to the parachutes. He motioned me down
beside him. On each of his shoulder tabs he wore a Major General's two
stars.
'OK, son,' he said, 'show me the problem.'
My reports had received attention.
I stared at the parachutes. Did any among them include the damage I
had reported? I checked an inspection log in a pocket attached to one of
the parachutes. Directives required that the date of last inspection and
packing be entered by the technician who had done the work. The log
showed that the parachute had been recently inspected and packed at a
stateside Air Corps base.
I stood, bent forward over the parachute, and grasped one of its 'risers.'
The life of the jumper would depend on the strength of the webbing. I
jerked the riser straight up as hard as I could I shook it repeatedly
against the twenty-five pound weight of the packed parachute. The
yanks and shakes I gave the parachute were merely a fraction of the
shocks that it would need to absorb during emergency use in supporting
the weight of a human being.
Several cords, from which the webbing was woven, separated. The
parachute was at the very beginning of its service life in the Pacific Area,
wherein mildew, dampness, rot and other hazards to the strength of
natural fibers was highly prevalent. Here was another dangerously
weakened emergency parachute, packed and tagged 'serviceable'.
The General stared at the shredded webbing, then at me, nodding,
'thanks.' The Colonel, who had escorted me in, motioned to me and
pointed at the door.
As I left, I heard the General say, 'I want a personal on this to Hap
Arnold.' General Arnold was the Commander of the Army Air Corps
worldwide during WW2, and reported to the President of the United
States.
I returned to my job. The quality of parachutes and other survival gear
arriving at Hickam from mainland bases improved.
Serious manufacturing and servicing mistakes were also found in other
types of equipment used by the Army Air Corps. When the fighting
part of the war was over the Armed Forces, in general, looked back on
the 'how' and 'why' of its methods including what could be done to
improve the quality of equipment. I was one of many technicians
assigned to collect as much physical evidence and other forms of
information as possible about what was wrong with military equipment
and procedures and to prepare reports that would help engineers,
administrators and contractors to correct the problems. Several years
after I retired I wrote a pamphlet for the Small Business Administration
titled 'Fixing Production Mistakes' of which about 300,000 copies were
distributed.
Preventing and fixing mistakes is an ongoing and time-consuming task
in both government and industry.
Memoir: Parachute Logistics, Korean War, Wright-Patterson Air Force
Base, Ohio, 1949-1950