On a chill winter’s night in December 1947, I was riding an overloaded CP as the boat salvage officer for a landing exercise off San Clemente Island. The surf was running high and more boats were broaching than were getting on and off the beach free. We had been bouncing at the surf line all night towing cripples and the cold spray had thoroughly soaked the boat, all lines, our clothes, and our rations.
About six o’clock, when the world was most miserable, the wind its coldest, and a few gold streaks had begun to run through a pale sky, I heard aircraft engines high and far away. Daylight was breaking fast and when looked up, I saw the first of the fighters roll in for close support runs. It was a beautiful sight: charcoal blue Corsairs, reflecting the red of a rising sun, diving smoothly through a clear sky just starting to turn blue.
As soon as I got back to the ship, I put in for flight training.
Thinking back, I realize now that those Corsairs were seen through the eyes of an ensign who believed that aviators designed their own uniforms; drove sports cars; lived luxuriously in fame or went down in flame; and worked only about two hours a day.
It was a pretty big shock to get my wings and find out that about half the aviators I had seen that morning over San Clemente were colder and more miserable than I had been, because the heaters in their planes weren’t working; they hadn’t had a good night’s sleep, because they had been up since midnight preparing for the flight; that it was problematical whether they had eaten or not; and how dry they were depended on how much they were sweating. Even worse, I discovered I wasn’t going to get rich.
One of the initial realities that must be accepted if one is to understand and cope with naval aviators is that, not counting the old and the bold, there are two distinct breeds of pilots in naval aviation. This separation is almost religious in nature and it is as difficult for the non-pilot to recognize and understand as it would be for him to make a sex determination between two snails. Yet, among pilots, as among snails, the difference is very clear, readily recognized, and rigidly adhered to.
The non-pilot, interested in unraveling this mystery, must go back to 1911, when the Navy’s first three pilots took some mechanics and three airplanes down to Greenbury Point, Maryland, and set up camp near Annapolis. They had told everybody this was the best place to go, because they were planning to develop ways of using the new machines in patrol and reconnaissance work with the Fleet. There had been some opposition to the move in Washington, because none of the Fleet was sailing on rivers. However, since no one knew enough about airplanes to argue with them, the intrepid trio had just packed up and gone.
This was probably as good a way as any to get naval aviation started, except for the fact that the public relations aspect of the move was apparently never considered. As a result, a very bad image problem developed that aviators are still living with today.
When they got down to Annapolis and set up camp, they found out that the planes didn’t work too well and the mechanics were still learning to fix them. This meant that they couldn’t do much flying and they had a lot of spare time on their hands. Well, it was a beautiful summer that year and the fishing was good and large groups of visitors kept coming to see the new flying machines. So, every time an inspection team arrived to see how the development work was coming along, they found a big party going on and most of the men were out on the river fishing.
It was too bad that things worked out that way, because it didn’t take long for rumors to get completely out of hand and word to spread through the Fleet that the new aviation branch had established a palatial summer camp near Annapolis. “Those rich aviators don’t do nothing but fish and party,” became well accepted in the Fleet; and, the root mistrust of the character and work habits of aviators was born.
Not recognizing the enmity that was building in the surface Navy, this pioneer group of visionaries flew and fished for several more years along the river before they recognized a basic flaw in their original plan.
Through careful record-keeping and constant discussion of what had happened during each day, they eventually realized that Greenbury Point might be great in the spring and summer. In the fall and winter, not only was flying difficult, but also the tents were cold and drafty and the visitors quit coming down from Washington. To have a real operational air station, they decided the weather had to be good all year around.
As a result, the Naval Aeronautical Station at Pensacola, Florida, was opened in 1914.
Although the shift to Florida was a major step forward for naval aviation, it only seemed to intensify the mistrust of the Fleet for the aviators themselves. “They probably fished out the Chesapeake Bay,” was the most common evaluation made of the move. And, although the pilots were very sorry to hear about the reputation they were getting, they were actually too busy—doing things like flying across the Atlantic before anybody else—to do much about it.
Just for the heck of it, pilots began to alter their uniforms by wearing leather puttees, and some of them even started flying around with their caps on backwards. A few officers on ships tried this, but they got put on report. This just made feelings run higher and matters much worse. Still, the aviators were in “fat city” with no plans to leave. The one thing they forgot, however, was that this is the real world and nothing perfect can last forever. So, sure enough, Washington blew the whole bit in 1922, by commissioning an aircraft carrier.
Historically, commissioning of the Langley was a landmark in the development of naval aviation, but the implications of this act for the aviators themselves have been largely ignored. This is most unfortunate, for it not only disrupted the normal pattern of the aviator’s life, it also resulted in the traumatic disruption of their cultural society and created a schism within the pilot community.
Extensive research into the personal papers of naval pilots reveals that this schism was to become as dramatic and intense as the dispute among the Muslims over the successor to Mohammed, which eventually resulted in the Sunni and Shia sects of Islam. And, just as you cannot understand Islam without knowledge of this religious dichotomy, neither can you understand naval aviators without full knowledge of their cultural diffusion.
In retrospect, we can easily identify the two factors that would eventually result in the new tribal groupings because of the Langley:
Carrier aviators assigned to carriers experienced a large measure of cultural absorption by the Fleet, with attendant alterations of their social identities.
Patrol aviators continued with little change the cultural patterns that had begun in 1911.
The results of these factors were easily predictable; for, as can be found in any social structure experiencing acculturation, the two groups began to create distinctive subcultures. This was most noticeably evidenced by their immediate need for “sect identification.”
Inasmuch as only single-engine aircraft were assigned to carrier duty and only multi-engine aircraft were used in reconnaissance work, the pilots soon began calling themselves either “single-engine” pilots or “multi-engine” pilots. Further, single-engine pilots began to alter their social attitudes to conform more closely to that of ships’ officers. For example, they were sometimes heard to make such statements as, “Those patrol pilots don’t do anything but stay on the beach and party.”
As could be expected with the advent of these two subcultures, a method of visual identity was the next step. This came into being prior to World War II and was evidenced by the single-engine pilots adopting a headgear of cloth helmet and goggles, whereas, the multi-engine pilots wore baseball caps. Some researchers claim that the low-top brown flight boot was characteristic of the single engine sect, but a study of old photographs reveals that this article of clothing was interchangeable and not a true method of identification.
The first major identity breakthrough for either group occurred in the late 1940s and early 1950s. In this period, single-engine pilots made a dramatic shift to the “hard-hat.” This large, distinctive type of head-gear, closely resembling an oversized football helmet, was not only dashing, but was the most positive method yet found for visually identifying a member of either group. Patrol aviators were so jealous of this innovation that they would not accept the new equipment, but only lengthened the bills of their ball caps.
By the late 1950s, the hard-hat method of identifying pilots was so well accepted in the Fleet that patrol aviators were seriously in danger of not even being considered pilots. This held true regardless of whether they wore low-top boots and flight suits or not. In desperation, patrol aviators finally gave up their ball caps and began wearing hard-hats.
The single-engine pilots countered this adoption of their distinctive symbol with “G” suits. This was a real stroke of genius, because patrol planes came apart if stressed over three “Gs.” And, by no stretch of the imagination could a patrol plane pilot logically walk around with a G-suit hose dangling from his hip. At this stage, without question, the single-engine pilot definitely held the “identity” advantage.
In the late 1950s, however, the perfection of jet aircraft created a major upheaval in the pilot community. With the introduction of jets, the terms “single-engine” and “multi-engine” that had served so well for years, became meaningless.
As aircraft grew larger, faster, and more costly, it became common practice, by the early 1960s, to stick at least two engines on all aircraft, even fighters. The fighter pilots tried desperately to keep this fact hidden from the patrol pilots, but soon it was an open scandal that all pilots were flying multi-engine aircraft. In addition, the S-2 multi-engine, ASW aircraft was introduced to the carrier fleet and the whole hierarchical system developed on the basis of single-engine and multi-engine aircraft began to break down. Further, helicopters were being introduced to the Fleet and nobody knew what to do then or now about this group.
The confusion that was caused within the pilot subcultures by these drastic alterations of long-held traditions was noticeable throughout the ranks of naval aviators. There was a half-hearted attempt made to maintain the bipolar organization when the fighter pilots lived up to their name by adding a .38-caliber pistol to their flight gear, and the patrol group lived up to theirs by wearing bright red survival suits. This could have worked, except that the survival suits turned out to be air-tight and entire patrol squadrons were grounded because of dehydrated pilots. Furthermore, the helo pilots took up the pistol bit, which negated that move.
This, coupled with the profusion of engines on all types of aircraft hopelessly muddied the cultural waters of the aviation society. Regardless of the identity factor, the patrol plane pilot continued to envy the fighter type his free, fast life of clear skies, little bad weather and short hops, whereas, the fighter pilot still resented the coffee and steaks being consumed on the leisurely flights of his multi-engine counterpart. Also, the fact that patrol plane pilots get to prop their feet up on the instrument panel and relax was a major irritant. “Those luxury cruises shouldn’t even count for flight pay,” fighter pilots groused. (Flight pay is an emotional subject that is too sensitive for any rational writer, let alone me, to discuss.)
The one group that really had it made in everyone’s mind, and may yet break off to be disliked and envied by both groups, were the S-2, carrier-based, multi-engine, ASW drivers. This small band of special men has all the advantages of a carrier pilot, but still get coffee and are able to put their feet up on the instrument panel.
Our brief history divulges a continual battle for identity and acceptance within a hostile environment. Once this is recognized, it becomes obvious that the psychological impact on the individuals involved would result in personality characteristics well known to medical researchers who study people facing these problems: aggressiveness, flamboyance, a tendency to exaggeration, clannishness, and extreme self-confidence. Such psychological traits account for the stories that are circulated about aviators throughout the Fleet. All of these “facts” about aviators have some basis in truth. In all cases, however, truth has been distorted. For example, all junior aviators do drive sports cars, but, only the junior officers. As an aviator assumes more rank and responsibility, the quality of his car deteriorates. Check the parking lot of any aviation squadron. In the spaces reserved for the junior officers there will only be MGs or Corvettes. In the spots reserved for the senior officers there will be mostly 1960 Plymouth sedans.
This same situation holds true for such things as golf scores, bank accounts, apartments, and other things.
It would seem, then, that many of the legends and misconceptions regarding naval aviators result from the activities of ensigns, jay-gees, and lieutenants. A return to normalcy begins sometime in the grade of lieutenant commander.
But, that’s not all that happens when a pilot reaches lieutenant commander rank. A well documented driving force affects them. As they obtain more seniority, they are seized by an uncontrollable desire for duty on auxiliary and amphibious ships. This lemming-like phenomenon occurs about the time an aviator becomes a senior lieutenant commander. It increases in intensity among commanders and is the goal of captains.
Whereas junior officers talk longingly of shifting to faster and hotter aircraft, commanders and captains speculate endlessly on whether they should try to get an oiler or ammunition ship. This unusual reversal of “life role” puzzles the surface officer and terrifies the service force type commanders.
There is some evidence that this urge is a primitive one, suggesting that buried deep in the heart of every naval aviator is the soul of an unrestricted surface line officer. Apparently, as aviators age, attaining supersonic speed in an empty sky becomes dull compared to the thrill of rocking in a slow ship on a rolling sea.
There are, then, few differences between naval aviators and other naval officers that are not eventually resolved by time. A naval aviator is merely a man looking for acceptance, and, if treated with patience and understanding, he eventually becomes a useful member of the naval Service.
This, then, is the secret to working with and understanding naval aviators: Believe nothing you hear, about half of what you see, and wait for them to grow less bold and more old.
Mea Culpa
On Christmas Eve 1903, Midshipman George C. Pegram found himself officer of the deck in Bancroft Hall, when to his amazement. Rear Admiral Robley D. Evans, then Superintendent of the Naval Academy, appeared with several Congressmen in tow. The young OD fell in line behind the official party as it moved along the corridor.
Suddenly, the Admiral stopped, asked his guests if they would like to see a midshipman’s room, and turned the knob of the nearest door. It opened on a vista of tinselled Christmas tree on a table surrounded by scattered playing cards, champagne bottle, and glasses. A jolly group was singing with abandon.
Anyone who knows the rules of the Academy in those years will appreciate the dismay of the young OD at being caught permitting such violations. The Admiral quickly closed the door and proceeded with his guests to the nearest exit. What he said to them will never be known.
Pegram, however, spent Christmas day in silent apprehension. The next day, the expected summons brought him to the Superintendent’s office. Discharge from the Navy was, thought Pegram, inevitable. As he stood at attention before Admiral Evans, there was a pause.
“You know and I know, young man, that what I saw last night was contrary to rule.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I trust you regret it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Our United States Naval Academy, yours and mine, teaches us to be officers and gentlemen, does it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Midshipman Pegram, no gentleman opens the door of another’s room without knocking.”
“No, sir.”
“The subject is closed,” said the Admiral. “Return to your quarters.”
—Contributed by Lieutenant (j.g.) George D. Olds, U. S. Navy (T) (Retired)
(The Naval Institute will pay $10.00 for each anecdote published in the Proceedings.)