Aviation had come a long way by 1928. The world speed record was now 249.342 miles per hour; the altitude record was 38,474 feet; the aircraft endurance record was 51 hours, 11 minutes. There had been many improvements in engines, propellers, aircraft structures, radios, fuels, and instrumentation. Flying was becoming safer because the military services and the aircraft industry realized that, in order for the potential of the airplane to be fulfilled, the risks had to be reduced. The Air Commerce Act of 1928 became the law of the land for aviation and helped make safety the watchword for commercial aviation. Pilot licenses were required, and I was issued transport license number 18.
Post Office Department airmail pilots had pioneered the airways that now crisscrossed the country. They had been replaced by commercial airlines that carried the mail on schedule and had begun to carry passengers. And they did it day and night when the weather was satisfactory.
That was the catch: “when the weather was satisfactory.” Most flying in the early 1920s was “contact” flying. When a pilot was unable to see the ground and therefore had no horizon, he often became disoriented. His senses were unreliable and contradicted what his instruments told him. He felt he was turning in one direction when he was actually turning the opposite way. He was confused and tended to believe his senses rather than the instruments. Many accidents where weather was a factor were dismissed simply as “pilot error,” without further explanation. This was true, but the error was too often the pilots’ refusal to believe their instruments instead of their senses. They suffered from vertigo, which Malcolm W. Cagle, a veteran naval pilot, said was “a flight hazard since the first aviator flew into a cloud, happily discovered that he didn’t get wet, and then stalled and spun out the bottom.” Weather was aviation’s worst enemy.
When I was an instructor at Rockwell, I remember telling our students not to rely on the instruments. We believed then that they had to get the “feel” of the ships they flew—whatever that meant. As a result, aviation could not progress unless planes could fly safely day or night in almost any kind of weather.
There had been some progress in solving the problem of what we called “flying blind.” The turn-and-bank indicator had been invented by Elmer A. Sperry, Sr., during World War I, which told us when we were turning right or left. If we entered clouds, we could tell in an elementary way that we were flying straight and level by referring to this instrument and our airspeed indicator.
On a test flight in 1921, Army lieutenant J. Parker van Zandt flew a de Havilland DH-4B equipped with a turn-and-bank indicator through heavy fog and clouds from Moundsville, West Virginia, to Washington, D.C. It took him an hour and a half, but he made it. Two Martin bombers that were escorting had to turn back; neither had the indicator.
For the 1922 cross-country flight from Pablo Beach to San Diego, I had a turn-and-bank indicator installed. It proved itself to me on the first leg when I ran into solid overcast and then severe thunderstorms. For a while the lightning flashes were almost constant and, in the otherwise black night, so intense as to light up the ground clearly for a considerable area. Some flashes were so close that their familiar ozone odor could be detected, but although it seemed that one could reach out and touch them, none struck the plane.
The air was extremely turbulent and the airplane, despite its excellent stability characteristics, was violently thrown about its axis as well as up and down. I held it on a relatively even keel only with great concentration and effort. After the lightning died away, the turbulence appeared to intensify, and there was about an hour in the jet-black darkness when no ground reference point could be seen. It would have been quite impossible to maintain proper attitude and course without the blessed turn-and-bank indicator. Although I had been flying almost five years “by the seat of my pants” and considered that I had achieved some skill at it, this particular flight made me a firm believer in proper instrumentation for bad-weather flying. I’m not sure I could have made the night portion of the flight without it.
Slim Lindbergh told of his first experience with instruments in his classic book The Spirit of St. Louis. He was caught in a snowstorm while flying the mail one night, and his description vividly explains what this veteran mail pilot was thinking at the time:
Instrument flying was new. I’d never flown blind, except for a few minutes at a time in high clouds. Could I keep my plane under control? If I turned to the instruments, how could I make contact with the ground again? Night had closed in behind me as well as ahead, and there was a low ceiling over both Spring-field and St. Louis. Besides, even if I found a hole in the clouds, even if I saw the lights of a village farther on, how could I tell where I was, how could I locate the Chicago airfield—unless the ceiling there is much higher? “A good pilot doesn’t depend on his instruments.” I was taught that when I learned to fly.…
Suddenly, the vague blur of treetops rushing past at 80 miles an hour, a hundred feet below, jumped up in a higher mass—a hillside? I didn’t wait to find out. I pulled the stick back, gave up the ground, and turned to my instruments—untrusted needles, rising, falling, leaning right and left.
At a thousand feet, my DH was out of control—skidding, and losing altitude.… Finally I got the DH headed straight and the wings leveled out. I thought I was getting my plane in hand. The altimeter went up to 1,500 feet. But then—she whipped! Loose controls—laboring engine—trembling wings—the final snap as the nose dropped. I shoved the stick forward, but it was too late. While I was concentrating on turn and bank, I’d let my airspeed get too low, and the wings stalled.
… By then I’d learned that above all else it was essential to keep the turn indicator centered and the airspeed needle high. But in recovering I pulled the stick back too far and held it back too long. The DH whipped again, this time at only 1,200 feet. But I made my recovery a little quicker. I’d decided to jump the moment the wings trembled in the stall, if my plane started to whip a third time. But I regained control after the second whip, and climbed slowly, and taught myself to fly by instruments that night.1
Slim was lucky. Thousands of aircraft accidents before and since have occurred because pilots either couldn’t fly by instruments or didn’t believe them. No human can fly for long without visual reference either to the ground or to instruments.
By the end of the 1920s, flying was still an unreliable means of transportation because of this human deficiency. Too many pilots had contempt for the weather and thought it was a blight on their reputations if they refused to make an attempt to reach their destination. Too often, pilots would fly into steadily worsening conditions and encounter situations where they couldn’t turn back and had only two choices left: bail out (if they wore a parachute) or try to luck it through. Those who didn’t bail out, more often than not, ended their careers in a pile of wreckage because their “seat of the pants” instincts were not good enough to overcome the fact that they could not possibly tell when they were in straight and level flight with no outside reference to guide them.
Some pilots said the problem could never be solved—that flying would depend on men with the skill of flying by instinct. Others said that planes were not meant to fly on schedule and that if people wanted to meet schedules, they should take a train. Besides, planes were getting to be so fast that they could almost always overcome the time differential by waiting out the weather and then racing the distance to the next stop when the weather cleared.
I thought these views were foolish. Progress was being made in the design of aircraft flight and navigation instruments and in radio communication. If these sciences could be merged, I thought flying in weather could be mastered.
In the early and middle 1920s, the Jones-Barany revolving chair test was given to all military pilots as part of their periodic physical examination for flying. Normally, this test was given with the pilot’s eyes open, and the flight surgeon looked for variations in the timing and amount of the rhythmic side-to-side movement of the eyes called nystagmus.
In early 1926, Captain (later Colonel) David A. Myers, an outstanding Army Air Corps flight surgeon, decided to augment the routine physical examination by giving an additional test consisting of several rotations of the chair with the pilot’s eyes closed. The testing produced some astonishing results. After the rate of rotation became steady, a normal pilot, with eyes closed, could not tell which way he was turning. If the rate of rotation was slowed down and stabilized at a somewhat lower speed, the pilot thought the rotation had been stopped. When the rotation actually was stopped, he thought he was turning in the opposite direction.
The explanation is that people normally maintain their equilibrium by sight, touch, hearing, muscle, and vestibular sense. Touch and hearing are not important in flight orientation. By using the three remaining senses a pilot can ascertain and maintain his position, accurately sense the rate and direction of his motion, and generally orient himself in relation to the earth.
Sight is by far the most reliable of these three senses, and when sight is lost we must get our sense of balance and motion from our muscles and from the fluid movement sensors in the vestibular canals. If an individual is merely displaced, the fluid motions return to zero very rapidly. But if one is rotated, it may take from 5 to 25 seconds for the fluid motions to stop. During this period an individual can experience the false sense of motion we call vertigo. This, of course, explains why early pilots became completely confused and occasionally spun in and crashed.
Captain (later Colonel) William C. Ocker, an early and extremely competent Air Corps pilot and flight researcher, had long been interested in instrument flying and, in 1918, had tested the then new turn-and-bank indicator. When he took Captain Myers’s new “blindfold test” in 1926, his first reaction was that the doctor had played a trick on him or, if not, that his senses had failed him. After further consideration, he decided that here was proof positive that no normal pilot could consistently fly “blind” without reference to instruments.
Ocker had considerable experience flying with the turn-and-bank indicator by that time. He frequently carried a quickly attachable unit complete with venturi in his flight baggage and believed this instrument could correct the pilots’ faulty senses. He designed a light-proof “black box” that contained a turn-and-bank indicator and a magnetic compass. This box was mounted on the front of the Jones-Barany chair. The pilot sealed his face against the opening in the box and observed the turn-and-bank indicator and compass. With this piece of equipment he could correctly identify the direction and rate of his rotation. After the rotation stopped and the compass settled down, he could then determine his heading.
Myers and Ocker continued their experiments, and the arrangement of the black box and revolving chair were patented and subsequently used in the training of pilots. Later, some pilots learned to fly by instruments alone before they learned to fly under normal visual conditions.
In the late 1920s and early 1930s, Captain Ocker and Lieutenant (later Colonel) Carl J. Crane collaborated in the study of instrument flying techniques and developed, among other things, a unitary arrangement of instruments that could give the pilot a maximum of useful flight information with a minimum of effort and fatigue. They called this a “flight integrator.”
The development of instrument flight owes much to Daniel Guggenheim, one of the great industrialists, philanthropists, and citizens of the twentieth century. He was interested in everything that could lead to a fuller life and a better world. One of his great contributions was the Daniel Guggenheim Fund for the Promotion of Aeronautics, which was established for the purpose of advancing the art, science, and business of aviation. It proved to be very effective in the accomplishment of that goal. The basic concept of the fund was “to maintain a simple, inexpensive directing organization depending on established outside agencies, whenever possible, to carry out the aims of the fund.” It was to be a primer—a spark plug—to stimulate and promote action.
The fund was established in January 1926 with a grant of $2.5 million. It was to be administered by a board of trustees composed of men of “eminence and competence” in cooperation with the federal government. Harry Guggenheim, gifted son of Daniel and a World War I naval aviator, was chosen the fund’s president.
Rear Admiral H. I. Cone, an outstanding naval officer, was the initial vice president of the fund; he was succeeded by Captain (later Vice Admiral) Emory S. “Jerry” Land of the Construction Corps of the Navy, who served until the fund’s work was completed. The strength of character, sound judgment, organizational ability, understanding, and capacity for cooperation of Harry Guggenheim and Jerry Land were, in large part, the cement that held the fund together.
The Guggenheims wanted to do several things. One was to have a competition for the development of a “safe” airplane. In those days, many people were killed after getting an airplane into a spin and not knowing how to get out. Harry Guggenheim offered a first prize of $100,000 for the development of an airplane that wouldn’t spin no matter what you did. Additional prizes of $10,000 each were awarded for the first five aircraft to meet the minimum flying requirements.
The Guggenheim-sponsored International Safe Aircraft Competition was held in October 1929 at Mitchel Field, on Long Island, and was won by the Curtiss Tanager. The Handley-Page Company also had an airplane in that competition and claimed patent infringement. It had unique wing slats installed that helped prevent spins.
Harry Guggenheim also recommended to the trustees that the fund “encourage perfection of control in a fog” and “finance a study of and solution to fog flying.” From the first, it was understood that flight safety and reliability were important considerations and that one phase of the fund’s work would be to study means of assuring safe and reliable flight despite weather conditions. With this in mind, a special committee of experts was organized to define the problem. A directive was prepared that authorized a study to include the following: dissipation of fog; development of some means whereby flying fields might be located from the air regardless of fog; development of instruments to show accurately the height of airplanes above the ground, to replace barometric instruments, which show height above sea level; improvement and perfection of instruments allowing airplanes to fly properly in fog; and the penetration of fog by light rays.
To carry out the program, the Full Flight Laboratory was established in 1928 at Mitchel Field and furnished with all the necessary facilities and equipment. When Jerry Land was asked who was the best chap to run the blind flight laboratory, he endeared himself to the Army and earned the Navy’s enmity by naming me. He was roundly criticized by his Navy contemporaries for “going outside the circle” and choosing me instead of a Navy test pilot. When asked why, he said, “This chap has the advantage over any of our Navy people of not only a lifetime of flying, but a technical education that has given him a distinct advantage in the development of new equipment.” I didn’t know him before but came to know him very well. He was a wonderful man.
Although I had been offered a well-paying job as a test pilot by Curtiss, I felt that the potential benefits of the experiments to aviation made the flight laboratory job the chance of a lifetime. I turned the Curtiss job down and was officially borrowed from the Air Corps for a one-year period of “detached service” to head the laboratory. I was ably assisted by Professor William G. Brown of the Aeronautics Department of MIT; Lieutenant Benjamin S. Kelsey was assigned as my flight assistant and safety pilot. I asked for Corporal (later Sergeant) Jack Dalton to be assigned as our mechanic.
Joe, the boys, and I moved from McCook to Mitchel in the fall of 1928. We were assigned to a long-vacant, termite-ridden wooden building that had been built during World War I. We devoted part of it to an office. As usual, Joe found herself being hostess to all kinds of people, from scientists and professors to mechanics and radio and instrument specialists, coming and going day and night. Her beer-making skills made our new home an oasis for all and sundry. Almost every friend who cared to imbibe learned to fetch some hops so she could stay in production. It was here that Joe took some more flying lessons. I took her along on some short flights; she especially enjoyed seeing New York at night.
Young Jim was now eight and John six. My responsibilities to them were growing and I realized that now that they were of school age, uprooting them too frequently was probably not in their best interests. It was another reason to think seriously about whether or not I should stay in the service. But that decision could be delayed. I was committed to the job at hand.
This was a most interesting period in my life. The Good Book says, “No man can serve two masters for … he will hold to one and despise the other.” I had three: an Army boss, Lieutenant Colonel (later Major General) Conger Pratt, commanding officer at Mitchel Field; Captain Jerry Land, a naval officer; and Mr. Guggenheim, a civilian. They were such fine, understanding, and cooperative people that my existence, instead of being complex, was uncomplicated and extremely pleasant.
Our first activity was to study the work previously done on blind landing in fog. We conducted experiments with tethered balloons strung along a landing area and had very limited success, in still air and when the fog was not thick. We abandoned this concept because experience had indicated that a fog layer might be very thick, and still air could not be depended upon at all times when visibility was restricted, as, for example, in a blizzard.
In both England and France, the lead-in cable idea was tried out. In this system, an electrified cable circled the field and led the pilot into a landing. It required very sensitive sensing equipment in the airplane and it was necessary to make a precision turn into the field at low altitude. This turn was extremely difficult to make. Lieutenant LeRoy Wolf of the Army Air Corps also experimented with the electrified cable concept at Wright Field. The Navy had some limited success with an electromagnetic cable guide at Lakehurst Naval Air Station.
The low-frequency radio range had been developed by the Bureau of Standards and the Army and was in limited use for aerial navigation. An adaptation of this radio range in the form of a homing beacon seemed to offer the greatest promise for our use. It could also readily be tied in with the radio receiver and other conventional airborne equipment.
Actual blind landings had been attempted with dragging weights and with long tail skids in order to determine height above the ground before touchdown. These either gave an indication upon touching the ground or were rigged to actuate the aircraft controls. Neither idea was satisfactory.
The first important expenditures authorized for the Full Flight Laboratory were for two modern airplanes, at a total cost of $26,000. One, a Consolidated NY-2 Husky two-seat training plane (a Navy version of the Army’s PT-1 primary trainer) with a Wright Whirlwind J-5 engine, was to be used in the instrument landing experiments and to test instruments, equipment, or devices that might be helpful in overcoming fog flying problems. It had large wings and was used by the Navy for pontoon seaplane training. In place of the pontoons, we had a specially reinforced landing gear installed with long oleo strut action to absorb excessive shock. As a training plane, it had a very high factor of safety and was extremely rugged and inherently stable about all three axes. We made it into a blind-flying test vehicle by installing a special canvas hood that could isolate the pilot from any view outside the aircraft. I accepted the aircraft from the Consolidated factory near Buffalo, New York, on November 3, 1928. When I returned to Mitchel Field, my logbook shows I made 25 flights with passengers in it on November 18, 1928, including Joe, young Jim, and John.
The second plane was a two-seat Navy Vought Corsair O2U-1, which was accepted on November 21, 1928. Harry Guggenheim was its first passenger. It was to be used for crosscountry practice flying and was an excellent airplane for this purpose. It was a fast, good-flying airplane, but not as rugged as the NY-2. I also took up many passengers in this plane, including Mr. and Mrs. Igor Sikorsky and Jack Allard. I made many short trips in it testing the equipment with Joe as my navigator.
Though I liked both planes, the NY-2, at 98 miles per hour, was too slow. I wrote to Major Reuben Fleet, president of Consolidated, and asked him to consider installing an NACA cowling in order to give the aircraft more speed. I said: “In flying from Mitchel to College Park, Md., it took me four hours and ten minutes actual flying time, two stops being made for gasoline. On one occasion, while we were flying low over a road and into a head wind, a green automobile overtook and passed us. Hurt my pride no end.” I asked him about the possibility of installing larger wing tanks. Shortly after I brought the NY-2 to Mitchel, I flew it to Boonton, New Jersey, where a voice radio system was installed by the Radio Frequency Laboratory.
When flights under the hood were made, it was essential, for safety reasons, to have Lieutenant Ben Kelsey in the airplane to look out for other planes and also to make sure that I didn’t get into trouble due to instrument or equipment failure. Ben’s piloting help, criticism of tests carried out, sound technical counsel, and ever-pleasant personality contributed greatly to the results achieved. And I couldn’t praise Corporal Jack Dalton enough for his competence and devotion in keeping the two planes in flying condition.
As the preliminary practice flights progressed, it soon became apparent that even with the very stable and sturdy NY-2, the available instruments were not adequate. For determining heading when maneuvering and when landing, the compass, because of the northerly turning error, was entirely unsatisfactory. The turn-and-bank indicator, though excellent for its purpose, was more a qualitative than a quantitative measuring instrument. It told the pilot that he was making a turn or was skidding. Also, at the moment of touchdown in a blind landing, it was imperative that the wings be level with the ground. This was not easy to assure with the turn-and-bank indicator, particularly when the wind was gusty. What was needed was an accurate, reliable, and easy-to-read instrument showing the exact direction of heading and precise attitude of the aircraft, particularly for the initial and final stages of blind landings.
Two German artificial-horizon instruments—the Anschutz and the Gyrorector—were studied but were deemed not entirely satisfactory. They were too large and had a tendency to “tumble” and become inoperative. I sketched a rough picture of the dial for an instrument that I thought would do the job and showed it to Elmer A. Sperry, Sr., a great engineer and inventor who headed the Sperry Gyroscope Company. It had the face of a directional gyro superimposed on an artificial horizon.
Sperry advised that a single gyroscopic instrument could be built, but recommended, for simplicity of construction, two separate instruments. I agreed, so Sperry assigned his ingenious son, Elmer, Jr., to work with us and be responsible for their design and fabrication. Elmer soon became a member of the team and spent as much time at the hangar and at the evening discussion sessions in our quarters at Mitchel Field as the rest of us. These evening sessions were frequent and long. The wives joined their husbands and helped in the work. Out of this effort came the Sperry artificial horizon and the directional gyroscope from which today’s improved, space age, electronic instruments have descended.
The artificial horizon (also called the attitude indicator) is the instrument that serves as a direct substitute for the natural horizon and shows a pilot whether the aircraft is flying straight and level, diving, or banking. It exactly duplicates the orientation of the natural horizon seen through the windshield.
The directional gyro is a heading reference instrument. It is not magnetic but is aligned to the heading of the magnetic compass or any other directional reference. It depends upon the gyroscopic property of rigidity in space.
I made a number of test flights with Elmer, Jr., to test the directional gyro. I would pick out a section of railroad track near Mitchel Field, check the compass heading, and set the directional gyro. I would then fly around over the countryside for a few minutes and return to that same section of track to see if the gyro setting remained the same. At first, it drifted off course because of bearing friction, but we kept refining the mechanism until the gyro would remain set for a fairly long period of time.
As time progressed, I made literally hundreds of blind and simulated blind landings. To make a landing, the plane was put into a glide at 60 miles per hour, with some power on, and flown directly into the ground. Although this was about 15 miles per hour above stalling speed, the NY-2’s landing gear absorbed the shock of landing, and if the angle of glide was just right, the airplane didn’t even bounce. Actually, after a while, it was possible to make consistently perfect landings by this method. To assure just the right amount of engine power in the glide, a mark was placed at the proper place on the throttle quadrant.
We received excellent cooperation from the companies and people we worked with during this period. Among them were the Pioneer Instrument Company, the Taylor Instrument Company, Radio Corporation of America, and the Radio Frequency Laboratory at Boonton, New Jersey. Bell Telephone Laboratories installed the radio transmitter and provided miniature earphones with molded plugs.
Very valuable help was also received from the U.S. Bureau of Standards, which designed and installed most of the ground and airborne radio navigation equipment. The low-frequency radio range was in limited use by the Army at that time for air navigation; an adaptation of this radio range in the form of a homing beacon seemed to offer the greatest promise for our use. Bureau personnel, working with the Airways and Radio Division of the Department of Commerce, designed a semiportable two-leg radio range and a fan-type marker beacon. This system could be readily tied in with the radio receiver and other conventional airplane equipment of that period.
The homing range was installed on the west side of Mitchel Field. The marker beacon sat along the leg of the homing range and was located on the east side of the field.
It was during the radio phase of our tests that we concluded that while aural signals were satisfactory for rough aerial navigation, it would be much better if we had a visual indicator in the cockpit for the precise directional control needed during the final phase of blind landings. We installed a visual indicator in the NY-2 consisting of a pair of vibrating reeds that were connected to the radio set. If the pilot was to the right of the radio beam, the left reed vibrated more vigorously. If the pilot was on course, both reeds vibrated through the same arc. As the plane approached the radio station, the amplitude of vibration increased. A single reed started to vibrate as the fan marker beacon was approached. It reached maximum amplitude, then quickly dropped to zero when the plane was directly over the station, rapidly built up to maximum again, and then tapered down as the plane pulled away. The homing range indicator also had a distinct null (period of silence) in the headset when the plane was directly over the range station.
As the tests progressed, the instrumentation and equipment were continually improved. Toward the end of 1929, during the final stages of the flight tests, we had 11 instruments installed in addition to the normal engine instruments. These were a magnetic compass, an earth inductor compass, a turn-and-bank indicator, a directional gyro, an artificial horizon, an airspeed indicator, an altimeter, a rate-of-climb indicator, an outside air thermometer, a vibrating reed homing range indicator, and a vibrating reed marker beacon indicator.
We gave considerable thought to the location and arrangement of the instruments in order to facilitate reading and reduce pilot fatigue. Fatigue led to errors, and pilot errors could not be tolerated in instrument landings. The airplane, in addition to its flight instruments, carried a Radio Frequency Laboratory radio receiver, a Bell Telephone Laboratories radio transmitter, two six-inch Pyle-National landing lights, and a parachute flare.
Small instruments were preferred over the conventional larger ones because, even though they were somewhat harder to read individually, the small instruments permitted a more compact and logical arrangement and were easier to read and interpret en masse. It was soon determined that small instruments could be made easier to read by use of broader hands with white or radium paint applied to the outer half of their length. We found that over a long period the instruments could be read more quickly and with less fatigue if the arrangement of the instruments and the position and direction of motion of the indicating hands were “natural.” For example, the hands of all directional indicators formed a straight vertical line when flying straight and level. The hands of all indicators affected by fore-and-aft inclination formed a horizontal line when in normal fore-and-aft attitude. Any abnormality or improper indication could be detected automatically by a quick glance at the instrument panel. This did not solve all the problems of instrument flight, but it did simplify it for the pilot.
A larger than customary Leece-Neville generator was installed on the engine to assure an adequate and continuous electrical supply. The mast-type receiving antenna, which was used to minimize directional effect, required considerable development before a tendency to vibrate under certain flight conditions could be corrected. A trailing wire antenna was used for transmission in normal flight. This was reeled in and a fixed wire antenna was used for transmitting when landing.
The specialized ground equipment consisted of a radio receiver and transmitter that provided voice communications with the aircraft and a Kollsman sensitive altimeter with which the altimeter in the airplane was synchronized by radio. In addition, there was the visual homing range and the visual fan-type marker beacon previously mentioned. The standard Mitchel Field Army-type aural beacon was available to lead an aircraft to the general vicinity of the airfield.
Other problems very much on the minds of the fund directors during this period were collisions of aircraft in the air and the formation of ice on the wings, structure, and propeller, and in the carburetor of aircraft when atmospheric conditions were conducive to icing. W. C. Greer and Merrit Scott at Cornell University carried out work, under fund sponsorship, on the underlying causes of ice formation on aircraft. The fund also sponsored the work done by John P. Kilgore, of New Haven, Connecticut, on an electrically heated wing blanket for deicing on the ground. The Full Flight Laboratory did no development work on deicing equipment, but many test flights were made under icing conditions to determine effects and limitations.
The NY-2 was frequently out of commission during the installation of new instruments or equipment. These were convenient periods for cross-country flying practice under unfavorable weather conditions in the O2U-1. This airplane had all the necessary flight instruments but no blind landing equipment.
During this period, while flying the O2U-1, I experienced an extreme example of a cross-country bad weather flight. I took off from Buffalo, New York, on March 15, 1929, and headed for Mitchel Field. It was night and the weather was fair and improving at Buffalo, but marginal to the south and west. This was to be a difficult flight but possible—just the sort of thing required to establish flight “limitations.” In a pinch, I thought I could return to Buffalo at any time up to the point where nearly half of the gas supply was used up.
It is a truism that the most important thing in flying is to learn your limitations and stay within them. I knew the wisdom of this from a previous night flight while flying “contact” from Cleveland to New York. On that occasion the weather was gummy and I had been checking each revolving beacon as I passed it. When I came to the hills west of Elizabeth, New Jersey, a beacon failed to show up. As a consequence I almost ran into the low hills. I threw out a landing flare and landed. A farmer came out and asked why I’d landed. I explained that I’d been unable to check on the beacon. He advised that it had been out for about six weeks—and that the mail plane had just passed over. This was the first time I’d ever been “flown over.” The tendency to take off and push on was strong. I reasoned that the mail pilot knew the beacon was out and knew the terrain better than I. He was flying within his limitations when he flew on. I’d be flying beyond mine if I followed.
I stayed on the ground until morning and thereafter was a better pilot. I had realized that the pilot who flew within his limitations would probably live to a ripe old age, whereas the pilot who flew beyond them would not. I also knew that different pilots had different limitations. This had been pointed up a few years before at McCook when we had few facilities and little ground equipment to do environmental testing on new airborne devices. It was therefore necessary to test them out in flight, and the test pilots spent many hours flying around the airfield to see how a new device held up under the accelerations, vibrations, and changes in temperature and pressure experienced in flight. Lieutenant Alex Pearson always spent these hours practicing precision flying; for instance, holding constant speed and altitude. As a result, he became extremely proficient and could fly a better speed course and do a smoother sawtooth climb than any of the rest of us.
I spent the hours flying low in the vicinity of McCook Field and on the main air routes in and out, memorizing the terrain. I knew every high building, tree, silo, windmill, radio tower, and high tension line in the area. I could therefore fly in—or under—adverse weather safely when other equally experienced pilots did not fly. This was not because I was a better or more daring pilot than my colleagues; constant practice had simply expanded my limitations. The trick was to learn your limitations, gradually expand them, but never go beyond them.
These thoughts went through my mind as I proceeded toward Mitchel while the weather deteriorated. I had planned to fly “contact” all the way and avoid any weather. In order to avoid the mountains I took the route from Buffalo by way of Rochester, Syracuse, Utica, Schenectady, and Albany and then down the Hudson River. There was no problem getting to Albany, but from there on the ceiling and visibility became marginal. I soon passed the point of no return and no longer had enough gas to return to Buffalo.
At one point as I flew lower and lower, I found it expedient to slow down and hover with the left wing of the plane over a brightly lit, southbound passenger train traveling along the east side of the Hudson. Presently it went through a cut and wiped me off. This procedure was too hazardous, so I left the train behind and followed the riverbank. I thought about landing on the parade ground at West Point, but adandoned the idea because the weather remained flyable—barely.
When I reached the area of New York City, the ceiling and visibility improved slightly. I flew south to the Battery, hoping to reach Mitchel Field from there, but the East River and the area to the south were socked in, so I could not go on. I tried to get to Governor’s Island and land on the drill field, but it, too, was completely covered by fog.
I then turned back up the Hudson, intending to land on the Yonkers golf course, which I knew well, but the fog was below the riverbank. Turning back, I then thought of crash landing in Battery Park. Just as I was about to set the plane down, a chap ran out into the middle of the park and waved me off. He apparently thought I mistook it for a flying field.
It is interesting to note that the George Washington Bridge across the Hudson was under construction at that time. There were as yet no suspension cables or other horizontal structures. Only the great vertical piers on each side of the river had been completed. I had passed the east pier three times without seeing it.
About this time it appeared that a crash landing in the river might be necessary, so I removed my parachute in order to be able to swim ashore. The water, on closer inspection, looked uninviting, so I decided on a final try—this time for Newark Airport—and headed across the Hudson. As soon as I crossed and the lights of Jersey City appeared, I knew this last chance wasn’t practical.
I pulled up into the fog and climbed through it. It was only about a thousand feet thick and crystal clear above. My new plan was to fly west until past the populated part of the metropolitan area and then jump. I didn’t know how much time was left, but the gas gauge had been fluttering around zero for some time. I noted about this time that my parachute harness was off and promptly put it on. It would have been a terminal embarrassment to jump without it.
Somewhere near Kenilworth, New Jersey, I saw a revolving beacon through a hole in the fog and a flat-looking area adjacent to it with no lights. Hoping it might be an emergency field or at least an open area, although realizing that it might be a woods or a lake, I turned the landing lights on and dove through the hole to scout the area. The bottom of the fog was still very low and I tore the left lower wing badly on a treetop. The airplane still flew, although almost completely out of gasoline, so I returned to the most likely spot and crash-landed.
I took the impact by wrapping the left wing around a tree trunk near the ground. The O2U-1 was completely washed out, but I was not even scratched or bruised.
The moral of the story is that if I had been flying the NY-2 with its blind flying equipment and if the laboratory radio station had been alerted at Mitchel, it would have been a routine crosscountry flight.
The flight pointed up to me the importance of constant radio communications between an aircraft and the ground and the need for frequent and accurate weather reports by radio during flight. It also showed the desirability of marking emergency fields for night landings. Later, green lights were used on the opposite side of the flashing beacons to indicate a landing field.
This flight also brought home the fact that weather flying was a function of airplane characteristics, ground facilities, airborne equipment and instruments, procedures, the pilot’s skill, and his knowledge of the local aids to air navigation, the terrain, and the weather conditions to be expected in a landing area.
At this stage of aviation development, it was important that a better altimeter be developed so a pilot would have a precise measure of altitude when approaching for a landing. The conventional barometric altimeters of the day measured, at best, to the nearest fifty or one hundred feet. They also lagged and often gave a misleading indication of height. We considered them undependable for altitudes less than 100 feet. It would be handy if an altimeter were available that, near the ground, would measure to ten or even five feet.
Paul Kollsman, a scientist formerly with the Pioneer Instrument Company, had formed the Kollsman Instrument Company and developed such an instrument. A perfectionist, he had contacted Swiss watchmakers who made extremely precise gears to provide a mechanism for the needles. He developed a much-improved diaphragm for the altimeter that had very little lag in its spring. The combination was exactly what was needed.
I was very pleased on August 30, 1929, to take Kollsman and his new instrument up on its first test flight in the second Q2U, an improved version that was purchased after the crash of the first. Kollsman held the sensitive altimeter in his lap during the flight and it performed perfectly. It responded immediately to any changes in air pressure without lagging. We promptly installed it in the NY-2.
What made this instrument so valuable then was that it had two hands and a multiplication factor of twenty between them. The fast-moving hand made one complete revolution for each 1,000-foot change in altitude, which meant a movement of about 5/32 of an inch for each 20 feet of altitude. This was an order of magnitude more accurate than earlier altimeters.
Although the Kollsman altimeter provided a very considerable advance in instrumentation, it still measured the barometric altitude, or height above sea level. An instrument that could measure the height above the ground regardless of changes in barometric pressure would be of even greater value.
With this in mind, several companies were encouraged to work on a sonic altimeter. One built by Sperry was tested in the NY-2. A note on a frequency of about 950 cycles was directed at the ground from a megaphone on the bottom of the airplane; the elapsed time interval was measured, as in a marine fathometer, and the altitude above the ground thus determined.
The concept was theoretically sound, but in its initial form the equipment caused considerable drag on the outside of the aircraft. It was unduly large, heavy, difficult to install, and complicated. It appeared that a radio altimeter measuring the phase difference of radio waves reflected back from the ground offered more promise. Several radio altimeters were under development with fund encouragement. The sonic altimeter experiments were abandoned.
Although the Full Flight Laboratory gave major emphasis to flight tests designed to permit flying safely and reliably despite fog, the fund and the laboratory were also interested in experiments on the penetration of fog by light rays and on the dispersal of fog.
Studies of fog penetration were made by S. Herbert Anderson of the University of Washington and James Barnes of Bryn Mawr College under fund sponsorship, and by Julius A. Stratton of MIT. The visual, infrared, and ultraviolet portions of the spectrum were carefully explored.
It was concluded that though there was some difference in penetration depending on wavelength, there was little likelihood of finding any visible light that would penetrate thick, dense fog. Stratton’s further investigations gave some promise that at very short wavelengths—below one centimeter—there was a possibility that fog might be penetrated by dispersing it. In addition to the scientific studies carried out, various inventors presented ideas for seeing through fog, all of which received careful consideration.
Four basic methods of fog dispersal were originally considered:
1. Dispersal by mechanical means. Here the concept was to have a large propeller or series of propellers churn up the fog and literally blow it away.
2. Dispersal by chemical means. Experiments carried out by Harry G. Houghton, Jr., of MIT, using hygroscopic materials, showed some promise both in the laboratory and in full-scale tests that were conducted in South Dartmouth, Massachusetts.
3. Dispersal by electrical means. From the early 1920s, a Dr. Warren of Hartford, Connecticut, in collaboration with the Army Air Service, had been experimenting with cloud and fog dispersal by dropping electrified sand particles from an aircraft. He was occasionally successful in dispersing small clouds. A man named Flowers experimented with fog dispersal through the use of electrified water particles and achieved some interesting results.
4. Dispersal by heat. Experimentation on, and the actual accomplishment of, fog dispersal by heat was carried on from the 1920s until the 1950s. Called FIDO (for “fog, intense dispersal of”), it was effectively used during World War II on 3 of the long emergency fields and 10 main landing fields in England. It consisted of powerful heat sources at intervals along the runways that heated the air to a temperature above the dew point, thereby dispersing the nearby fog. Approximately 2,500 bombers and fighters returning from missions and finding their home bases (and much of England) covered in pea-soup fog were directed to the cleared “tunnels” in the fog over these FIDO fields and were able to land safely.
The Full Flight Laboratory’s first experience with FIDO occurred in 1929. Harry Reader, of Cleveland, who operated a gravel pit and used a large blowtorch type of heater to dry the gravel and sand, observed that if there was an intense fog when he turned the heater on, the fog in the immediate area dispersed. Learning of the Guggenheim fog-flying experiments, he wrote to tell us of his experience and said he was interested in helping solve the fog problem. We invited him to install his equipment at Mitchel to await a foggy day.
For several months thereafter we waited in vain for a dense fog. Finally, on the morning of September 24, 1929, the conditions seemed perfect for such a trial. I was awakened about six A.M. by Jack Dalton, our mechanic, and our gang was quickly called together. We immediately notified Reader, who arrived shortly thereafter. Harry Guggenheim was also notified, but he had to come from Port Washington and didn’t arrive until later. Captain Land and the rest of our associates were hurriedly called to witness the demonstration. My wife, Joe, realizing the significance of what we were trying to do, came by to watch.
Reader fired up his equipment, but the fog did not disperse except in the immediate vicinity of the blowtorch. The experiment was a disappointing failure. In retrospect it appears that FIDO is a successful way to cope with dense fog only when the air is comparatively still. When there is any considerable movement of the air and fog—the cleared air mass moves on and new fog comes in faster than it can be dispersed.
Though we were all disappointed, we were there and the fog was there, so I decided to make a real fog flight. The NY-2 was pushed out of the hangar and warmed up. The ground radios were manned and the radio beacons turned on. I taxied out, took off, came through the fog at about 500 feet, and made a wide swing coming around into landing position. By the time I landed ten minutes after takeoff the fog had started to lift.
About this time, Guggenheim arrived along with several other people, so we decided to do an “official” under-the-hood flight. Since I had just made a real flight in the fog, I wanted to go alone, but Guggenheim insisted that Ben Kelsey go along as safety pilot. The fog had lifted considerably by this time and he was afraid there might be other aircraft in the vicinity.
We both got into the plane, and the hood over my cockpit was tightly closed. I taxied out and took off toward the west in a gradual climb. At about 1,000 feet, I leveled off and made a 180-degree turn to the left, flew several miles, then made another left turn. The airplane was now properly lined up on the west leg of the Mitchel range, so I started a gradual descent. I leveled off at 200 feet and flew level until I passed the fan marker on the east side of the field. From this point, I flew the plane down to the ground using the instrument landing procedure we had developed. However, despite all my previous practice, the approach and landing were sloppy.
All during the flight, Ben Kelsey rested his hands on the upper wing of the aircraft or held them aloft so everyone could plainly see that he was not manipulating the controls.
The whole flight lasted only 15 minutes. So far as I know, this was the first time an airplane had been taken off, flown over a set course, and landed by instruments alone. This was just 10 months and 3 weeks after the original test flight of the NY-2.
The night of September 24, 1929, was a special one for all of us associated with the blind flying work. We had quite a party and it was here that Joe inaugurated a Doolittle family custom. All who worked on the blind-flying project autographed Joe’s large white damask tablecloth; Jerry Land was the first to sign it. Afterward, Joe embroidered the signatures in black thread to preserve them. Over the years, everyone who broke bread at our table was asked to do the same. In time, Joe painstakingly stitched over 500 signatures on the tablecloth during trips with me or at home when she felt the urge. When she ran out of space on the tablecloth, she started getting signatures on a dozen napkins, then on portable screens. We had an interesting collection of signatures of people from all walks of life. Of course, many pilot friends, their wives, and their offspring autographed their names or nicknames, but we also had movie stars, singers, comedians, neighbors, scientists, politicians, and everyone else who visited. Only one signed who had not actually been our dinner guest: Orville Wright. John Macready took the tablecloth to Dayton to get Wright’s signature for us.
Joe was very proud of this hobby, as she had a right to be. The tablecloth was one of her most prized possessions. When we moved from Santa Monica to Carmel, California, many years later, we donated the tablecloth to the National Air and Space Museum in Washington.
After our flight, The New York Times ran an optimistic story under the headline: “Blind Plane Flies 15 Miles and Lands; Fog Peril Overcome.”
Harry Guggenheim was so enthusiastic that he dashed off a note to Orville Wright, saying: “It is significant that the achievement is realized through the aid of only three instruments which are not already the standard equipment of an airplane.”
Although I had been able to make this flight successfully, more experimentation was needed. Much work remained for commercial and military organizations to prepare facilities, manufacture radio equipment and instruments, and train pilots before the Times’s headline “Fog Peril Overcome” would be realized. The tests indicated at the time, among other things, that before all-weather flying would be practical, there was a need for several improvements: better coordination between the long-range aural beam and the short-range visual landing beam; accurate measurement of distance along the landing beam; and a slant glide beam at right angles to the vertical landing beam that might be curved to become tangent to the earth rather than intersecting it in a straight line. An automatic volume control would be helpful, as would an automatic pilot to assist the pilot and prevent fatigue. This could be, and later was, tied in with the instrument landing systems. In addition, much more work was needed on ignition system shielding, not only to reduce noise but to permit flight in heavy rain.
Although more work was needed, we had made an initial contribution to instrument flight, so at the end of 1929 the Guggenheim Fund trustees felt that further development could be carried out better by other organizations and disbanded the fund. The equipment was moved to Wright Field for further use in instrument landing experimentation, and the Full Flight Laboratory went out of existence.
The NY-2 was flown back to the Consolidated plant in Buffalo for minor modifications and inspection. On October 3, 1929, a Buffalo streetcar collided with the flatbed truck on which the NY-2 was being transported from the airfield to the factory. Only the cockpit and the plane’s outer wing panels survived. The rest of the plane had to be rebuilt. After the lawsuits that developed had been settled, the plane was eventually sold to the Air Corps for one dollar and ferried to Wright Field where it was later operated by the Ohio National Guard.
Lieutenant Albert F. Hegenberger and the Materiel Division’s Fog Flying Unit took up where the fund left off. Al made the first official solo blind flight on May 9, 1932 (my first flight alone was unofficial), and received the Collier Trophy in 1934 for his work. Over a period of years he and his colleagues greatly improved the equipment previously used and developed additional equipment. He devised blind-landing procedures that became standard military practice for many years. This system was put into actual use in 1934.
The Bureau of Standards and the Bureau of Air Commerce of the Department of Commerce also continued their work, and on March 20, 1933, James L. Kinney, with William La Violette as mechanic and Harry Diamond as passenger, flew a Bellanca airplane by instruments from College Park, Maryland, to Newark Airport, a distance of about 200 miles. He landed blind, using the recently developed bent landing beam.
Flying by instruments soon outgrew the early experimental phase. It became a practical reality, and aviation entered a new era. I was grateful for the opportunity to participate in the initial experiments. This work was, I believe, my most significant contribution to aviation.
During 1929, the Full Flight Laboratory experiments did not take up all my time. I had applied for permission to take a Curtiss P-1C Hawk to South America, again for demonstration purposes, using up my accrued leave. I intended to visit eight countries: Cuba, Panama, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Chile, Bolivia, and Argentina. Harry Guggenheim approved the request and it was approved all the way to the top of the Army. However, Assistant Secretary of War F. Trubee Davison wrote me a letter saying I did not have enough accrued leave to make the trip and disapproved it.
However, all this became moot. I wrecked the P-1, and the Curtiss people decided to postpone the flight until January 1930. At that time I intended to go back to South America after I had completed my work with the Full Flight Laboratory. Curtiss was going to replace the P-1’s D12 engine with a V1570, which would have given the Hawk much more speed.
During the Cleveland Air Races in late August 1929, a Mr. Logan of the National Air Races committee asked me if I would come to the races on September 1, 1929, and put on a stunting exhibition. He said a new Curtiss Hawk would be available for me and that Lieutenant Al Williams, my old racing competitor, would be exhibiting his wares. I refused, pleading that I had too much work to do at Mitchel and that I couldn’t leave without Harry Guggenheim’s permission. I don’t know what political power or persuasive argument Logan used, but Guggenheim gave his reluctant permission and Major General James E. Fechet, then the chief of the Air Corps, issued the necessary travel orders.
I flew the O2U to Cleveland and upon arriving was embarrassed by immediately being taken to the grandstand and introduced to the race crowd. I was informed that the Prestone-cooled P-1 that I was to use was at the National Guard hangar on the other side of the field. I looked at the Hawk and found the radiator cowling was cracked and the radiator leaking. I had a plate riveted on the cracked cowling and flight-tested the plane. The engine overheated, so I landed and inquired of the mechanic if he was sure there was sufficient Prestone in the radiator. He put in another half gallon to be sure. The mechanic stated the radiator was too small for this plane and always ran hot. I took off again and flew to a spot about seven miles from the field in order to practice a few stunts without being observed and where I would not interfere with the flying around the field. Since I had been flying the slow-flying NY-2 mostly during the previous months, I wanted to get the feel of the P-1 and practice my act at a safe altitude.
Remembering that General Patrick had ordained that we were not to perform outside loops, I decided that I would do the first half of one at the show. I climbed to 4,000 feet and, with the throttle set about three-quarters advanced, slowly pushed over into a dive. When I was about 30 degrees past vertical at about 2,000 feet, there was a sharp pop and the wings broke but did not separate completely from the fuselage. The airplane slowed down and began to tumble. I throttled back, unbuckled my safety belt and was literally thrown out of the cockpit.
I have no definite recollection of what happened except for hearing that pop, which sounded like the snapping of a wire. When I was clear of the plane, I pulled the parachute rip cord but the ’chute did not open immediately. That gave me something to think about. I jerked the rip cord again and the ’chute came open at about 1,000 feet.
I came down in a field about 20 feet off a road near Olmsted Falls, west of Cleveland. I gathered up the parachute and was soon picked up and driven back to the field. When I arrived at the Air Corps headquarters, a friend of mine looked up, startled, saw my parachute, and asked what happened. I said, “The airplane broke up.”
He said, “Did you get out all right?”
It wasn’t an intelligent question, but I assured him I had and asked for another Hawk. I took it up for more practice (and to see if the wings would stay on this one). Last on the program, I flew my routine, which included the half outside loop. Meanwhile, Al Williams had put on an excellent exhibition in a specially equipped Curtiss pursuit plane with a Pratt & Whitney Wasp engine. The fuel and oil system had been so altered that the engine ran equally well erect or inverted and could fly indefinitely in the inverted position. Al’s most spectacular stunt was to fly around the traffic pattern and glide into the field on his back, turn over, side slip, and land.
A newspaper, under the headline “Two Old Air Dogs Thrill Race Fans,” reported that Al also did a stunt I wish I had thought of. The article stated:
Those who follow aviation had read that Williams flew upside down and had even turned around pylons in this position, but they gasped in amazement this afternoon when they saw him roll his ship smoothly and easily onto its back following his usual repertoire of tricks and fly it accurately all the way around a triangular course such as the regular right-side-up flyers follow in the closed course races.
The only thing I didn’t like about the article, which didn’t play up my near demise, was its referring to Al and me as “old dogs.” However, since we were survivors and many of our contemporaries in the stunting business had passed on at early ages, perhaps that reporter was right.
Slim Lindbergh took off after our demonstrations, leading two Navy flyers, and the three of them put on a beautiful exhibition of formation flying and aerobatics in formation. By comparison I had put on a lousy exhibition. I was very angry about the whole episode and promptly returned to Mitchel.
Since the Irvin Parachute Company had come up with the idea of the Caterpillar Club, I thought it appropriate to drop the company a brief note of thanks, saying: “Airplane failed. Parachute worked.” I didn’t think I had to say anything more.
A few days after the event, the War Department put out a much-overblown press release that typifies how the Doolittle image was developing in the public mind and how much the Air Corps was trying to stay in the news:
Lieutenant Doolittle, who joined the Caterpillar Club September 1 by reason of the fact that he was forced to make a parachute jump when his plane disintegrated in the air while practicing aerobatics for an exhibition before a crowd of 150,000 people at the National Air Races at Cleveland, is the 150th airman in this country to join this mythical organization.…
Army officials at the Air Races had been anxiously waiting his return in order to service his plane for the exhibition flight when he walked into Army headquarters with his parachute under his arm and said, “Gentlemen, I guess I’ll have to borrow another plane.” This was the first intimation received of his jump.
Within the prescribed thirty minutes Lieutenant Doolittle taxied his borrowed plane to the starting line, took off at the wave of the flag, and staged as beautiful a demonstration of aerobatic flying as had ever been witnessed.… In submitting an official report on an emergency jump, the person making the jump is required to answer in detail eleven questions covering place, date, and time of the jump; the type of aircraft used; whether the plane was under control; description of the method of leaving the aircraft; complete and accurate account of the feelings and reactions during and immediately after the jump; weather conditions at the time; and what ill effects or injury was sustained.
Lieutenant Doolittle used just thirty-eight words in his report. Under the question, “Cause for the emergency jump,” he states: “Wings broke.” No answer was given under the question, “Feeling and reaction of the jump.” Describing his method of leaving the aircraft, he just states: “Thrown out.”
Although I tried to put on a happy face, the incident was not humorous to me. The Army news release didn’t tell the full story of what went on from my viewpoint, but I was not about to tell the press what I really thought. As soon as I returned to Mitchel, Major W. O. Ryan, then the field’s commanding officer, requested that I write a complete report on the loss of the Hawk. I was convinced that getting me to Cleveland was purely an advertising scheme, to get me to exhibit with Williams and Lindbergh and thus get larger crowds on the final two days of the races.
I recommended that if the Army were to participate in competitive exhibitions the airplanes should be specially prepared for that purpose. I said that when flying is to be done before an audience as large and important as the one in Cleveland, Army pilots should have the best possible equipment and training, not only to permit the Army pilots to show to better advantage, but for greater safety.
I also wrote a note to Captain St. Clair Streett, head of the Materiel Division at Wright Field, the organization that had furnished the airplane. I explained what had happened and that I had performed the half outside loop previously without any problems. “The point I am bringing out,” I wrote, “not in apology nor as an alibi, but in the interest of science, is that at this particular time, although I may have been punishing the ship too much, it was in no way near the extent that I have punished them in the past.” Without saying it, I was implying poor maintenance on the aircraft. I never received a reply.
Despite my unhappiness with the incident at Cleveland, all was not so serious in other aspects of my flying life. On November 15, 1929, my old pal Jack Allard, some other convivial souls, and I were on our way to a New York pier for the purpose of putting Leigh Wade on a midnight boat and wishing him bon voyage on his way to South America. Leigh, one of the 1924 around-the-world pilots, had dropped out of the Army and was going to South America on behalf of an aviation manufacturing company.
As was (and is) customary in aviation circles, we managed to dilly-dally considerably on the way to the boat, and when we were halfway there. I suddenly remembered I had to catch a train for Buffalo where I was to pick up a plane the next morning and fly it back to New York.
I tried to break away, making apologies to Leigh, but before I could tear loose, Jack Allard had a countersuggestion: If I’d stick around until Leigh’s boat sailed, he would be the pilot to Buffalo that night in a plane we had available. That way, I’d be there before I could make it by train and he would fly the other plane back to New York. It sounded like a good idea. I called my faithful mechanic Jack Dalton and asked him to have the plane ready at Mitchel.
It was well into November 16 and I had forgotten to tell Dalton that a passenger was going along with me. When we got to Mitchel, Dalton had my winter flying suit ready, but nothing for Jack Allard to wear. It was a beautifully clear night, but bitterly cold. Jack was a big man and my flying clothes wouldn’t fit him, so we tried all the clothes lockers to find something that would fit, but all were locked. We hunted and scraped and finally located an oversize pair of canvas coveralls and an extra helmet and goggles for Jack.
The coveralls did more harm than good, I’m afraid, because I’m sure they cut off the circulation in several vital spots. But there we were, more or less set to go, so we climbed into the ship with its two open cockpits and took off. I climbed up until we were across the Hudson River and then pointed in the direction of Buffalo. Jack was acutely miserable with the cold by that time, and I felt that if he flew the ship it would at least keep his mind occupied and might even keep him a little warmer through the slight exercise required in flying.
Jack had no maps, no compass, nothing. All he had to go by was the direction in which I’d pointed the ship when I handed it over to him.
Very shortly after I’d relinquished the controls to Jack, I settled down into my nice, warm winter flying suit and dropped off to sleep. That’s not hard to do when you’re warm and comfortable, with the air smooth and the engine droning out a steady, rhythmic sound.
It must have been three hours later when I was rudely awakened by Jack shaking the stick to get my attention. In the cold, gray dawn of a brand-new morning I saw a large body of water off to our left. Jack throttled back and asked the customary question: “Where are we?”
I had no idea and neither did he. He not only had no maps, compass, or instruments in his cockpit, he had never flown to Buffalo before. I sat up, looked around, and pointing directly downward, shouted, “Go ahead and land.” We were exactly over Reuben Fleet’s Consolidated Company airport! I don’t mean one mile one side of it or one mile the other side of it. We were exactly over the center of it.
Jack was not exactly frozen or even frost nipped, although he was so cold all the way through that it required some hours before he regained possession of all his physical faculties. Afterward, I always told him he was the world’s greatest navigator, who needed nothing more than to have someone point in a general direction and he would arrive precisely at the destination. I never told him I had slept the whole way.
During this period, I received a letter from the Army’s adjutant general informing me that I had been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross twice, in recognition of my 1922 cross-country flight and “in recognition of the acceleration tests made by you during March 1924 at McCook Field.” The DFC had been authorized by a 1926 act of Congress. I received the awards at Governor’s Island from the commanding general of the II Corps Area.
In August 1929, I was notified by the chief of the Air Corps that I had received the Mackay Trophy for the year 1925 for having won the Schneider Cup race that year. Clarence H. Mackay had established the trophy in 1912 for competitions by military aviators. If there was no annual contest, the trophy could be awarded by the War Department to the officer or officers who made the most meritorious flight of the year.
I was grateful but never did find out why those who decide such things waited until 1929 to tell the Army I had won it. It’s one of the mysteries of my life.
The question of whether or not to stay in uniform was still eating away at me as the Guggenheim Fund’s equipment was being crated at Mitchel. The test pilot job at Curtiss had been filled, so I contacted people at the Shell Petroleum Company in St. Louis to see if they might be interested in my services in some capacity as a pilot and engineer. They were. I was invited to St. Louis to discuss the establishment of an aeronautical branch for Shell. But since I still wasn’t sure I really wanted to resign my regular commission and didn’t want to burn any bridges if I decided not to resign, I applied to the chief of the Air Corps on December 20, 1929, for permission to take 29 days of accrued leave that was due me and go to St. Louis to start an aeronautical branch for Shell. In my letter I said: “In case the work is satisfactory and the Shell people are satisfied with me, I intend to resign from the Service at the expiration of said leave. If I do not resign, I hope to be ordered to Dayton where I may be permitted to carry on fog flying experiments started by the Guggenheim Fund.”
While I waited for a reply, I received orders on December 21 to make a cross-country flight to the West Coast starting the day after Christmas, “to familiarize yourself by first-hand observation as to the present regulation, control and development of airports in California and at other points en route.” A report was required after the flight was completed.
I picked up a four-passenger Cessna monoplane at Columbus, Ohio, and visited 21 airports in 12 states before returning to Columbus on January 7. I also made a stop at Aguascalientes, Mexico. I reported that I had had no difficulties with engine, airplane, or weather, and all the fields I visited were generally in excellent condition, prompt and courteous service was obtained, and excellent mechanics were found on hand.
I added a couple of paragraphs that reflected my recent experience with the blind flying experiments and my erroneous thinking then in regard to airport runway operations. Obviously, I did not envision the precise instrument landing systems in worldwide use today. In hindsight, it shows how far aviation has come since those days:
The one outstanding and unfortunate feature was the strong tendency towards “runway” fields. Even at the present time runway fields are not entirely satisfactory, especially where there is a large amount of air traffic. In the future this defect will become increasingly noticeable. A runway field cannot be used in connection with blind landings, and it is inevitable that in the future air transportation will be carried on regardless of weather conditions and landings made by instruments alone.
The only condition under which runway fields should be tolerated is where the rest of the field is level and even with the runways and is usable at all times except after extremely heavy rains or when melting snow has made the use of the runway imperative.
I sent the report to the adjutant general of the Army, who had it placed in my personnel file. I don’t know what value this trip was to the Army. It might have been assigned just to keep me busy. The experience, however, would come in handy later when I would head a presidential commission to study airport problems in the 1950s.
When I returned to Mitchel Field, there was good news awaiting me. I had been selected to receive the Harmon Trophy, Ligue des Aviateurs for my instrument work with the Guggenheim Fund. I also found that Shell’s offer of salary to head their aviation department would be three times my military pay. With Joe, the boys, and both our mothers to support, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
1. Lindbergh, Charles A., The Spirit of St. Louis. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1953, pp. 325–326.