It was mid-morning, mid-May 1953, in mid-nowhere—the blistering Arizona desert. The relentless sun was beating down on the two-year-old blue Ford station wagon I was driving. Stopped on the highway shoulder, I kept the engine running not only to cool the interior with the circulating air, but to prevent stalling and being marooned on this stark expanse of hot sand.
At the time, I was not thinking much about any of this. I had riveted my attention to the top sheet of a yellow legal pad, where I had crudely fashioned a five-line musical staff. I concluded later that inspiration had laid its irresistible hand on my mind and heart. But at that moment, for no accountable reason, I looked up from my work, squinting against the sunlight. As I focused on the left side of the car, my stomach constricted and a cold sweat prickled my skin.
Sidling stealthily along the hood, only inches from the side mirror, was a ragged, unkempt, unshaved individual whose evil expression left no doubt that his intentions were far from benevolent. I saw clearly a dirty hand creeping inside his tattered coat, obviously reaching for whatever weapon was there. Abruptly, I slammed the gearshift into low and shoved the gas pedal to the floor. I had forgotten to release the brake, and the linings screeched in protest. When I found the release lever, the car leaped ahead, leaving the intended robber, or hijacker, or perhaps killer—or all three—spinning in a cloud of drifted sand.
The music and words I was setting down were those of Navy Wings of Gold, which I was hoping would become naval aviation's anthem. Its completion would have to wait until after I arrived in San Diego and reported to my new unit, Photo Reconnaissance Squadron VJ-61 at Miramar Naval Air Station. Before getting there, I was in for even more unexpected adventures than I really needed.
The station wagon had come to me via a newspaper ad placed by a Philadelphia used car dealer, offering the car for the transcontinental trip if the driver would buy the gas and deliver the vehicle to a dealer in San Diego, where it would bring a higher price. A modest stipend for the driver sweetened the deal. It sounded almost too good to be true. It was, as I discovered.
I drove to Miramar, checked in, got a room in the bachelor officers' quarters and unloaded. I returned to the city, found my used car lot destination, drove ten blocks past it, and parked on a side street. Then I walked back to the lot. The owner was short, fat, and bald and chewing on a dead cigar. I said, "I drove your Ford wagon here from Philadelphia. You owe me 50 bucks."
At the end of a string of expletives, he added, "I ain't payin' you no 50 bucks!"
"Okay," I said at the door. "Here are the keys. Find the car." For good measure, I had parked in a tow-away zone.
Squadron duties gave me little time for music. But I played the family piano the way the proverbial Spanish cow speaks French. I managed to pick out the melody, however, and put Navy Wings of Gold together well enough to get a copyright. I never intended to make a penny from it; I dedicated and donated it to the Navy.
My squadron tour completed, orders to Washington brought the chance to pursue my composition. With high ambition but little hope for success, I took my single sheet of music—just the melody and words—to Commander Charlie Brendler, then leader of the U.S. Navy Band at the Washington Navy Yard.
Commander Brendler, affable and polite, looked over the paper and said, "Well, I don't know if it's any good, but I'll give it to Ernie Forte, our arranger, we'll play it, and we'll see."
Shortly thereafter, I sat alone in the Sail Loft auditorium to hear the first rendition of my marching song. My first carrier catapult shot had not produced such exciting anticipation.
The performance was perfect. Lieutenant Johann Fultz, the band's assistant leader on the podium, introduced me to the band. Their standing applause brought a lump to my throat. Lieutenant Fultz said, "It's a great number. How did you come to write it?"
I said, "I got tired of hearing the Army's 'Caissons Go Rolling,' the Marine Corps Hymn, and the Air Force's 'Wild Blue Yonder.' And even 'Anchors Aweigh,' a great Navy song, leaves us naval aviators out. I thought we needed some music of our own!"
He smiled and said, "You're right. And now you've got it!"
The U.S. Navy Band recorded Navy Wings of Gold in 1958, with Admiral Arleigh Burke's Sea Chanters on vocal, for the album, Our Navy's Music. That same year the Bureau of Personnel made the new naval aviation theme march number ten in the Official Navy Song Book (NAVPERS 15074-A). It is now a standard in the band's repertoire.
In a sad footnote, assistant leader Fultz, arranger Chief Musician Forte, and half the band that made that first recording perished in an airliner crash near Rio de Janeiro on a good will tour of South America.
In 1967 the first women won their Wings of Gold, rendering obsolete the song's words, declaring they "belong to Navy men who dare to fly." It seems hard to believe, and the tale is too tedious to tell here, but it has taken 32 years to bring about a new recording with words that fit the age. Commander Ralph M. Gambone, present leader of the U. S. Navy Band, and his arranger, Chief Musician Scott Ragsdale, have produced a new, up-to-date compact disc, featuring a fine male/female vocal that includes the verse and chorus with my new words—"Those Navy Wings of Gold are won and worn, for we were born to fly!" So now all hands are on board. And naval aviation has its very own anthem for all of us.
Commander Cornelius is a long-time contributor to both the Naval Institute Proceedings and Naval History magazines.