The term “skeletons in the closet” is most often used in a figurative sense, with a negative connotation. In the case of the Smithsonian Institution’s National Air and Space Museum, the story is different. In a warehouse at the museum’s storage and repair facility in Silver Hill, Maryland, are some fascinating skeletons—literal ones. Among the most appealing is that of a French Nieuport 28, an example of the first fighter plane flown by U.S. squadrons in Europe in World War I. With the fabric “skin” of the aircraft removed, it really is a skeleton, showing the brown-stained wooden framework that French manufacturers crafted more than three-quarters of a century ago. Stacked on a high shelf are the wings that were removed from the old biplane to save floor space. The fuselage is wedged in between two other vintage aircraft.
My interest in this particular plane stemmed from the fact that it used to belong to the U.S. Navy. In 1919 the Navy began flying Nieuports and other postwar hand-me- downs from the tops of battleship turrets so the pilots could make spotting corrections for their gunfire. This, of course, was even before the advent of the Langley (CV-1), the Navy’s first aircraft carrier. The Nieuport was attractive in that role, because it was so light—1,172 pounds empty. The battleships of the Atlantic Fleet launched the planes from turret tops, and they were able to provide a considerable height advantage over the tethered kite balloons used previously for spotting. The dozen Nieuports the Navy acquired were better as spotters than as fighters. American ace Eddie Ricken- backer said the Nieuport could outclimb and outmaneuver the redoubtable Spad he used later, but the French plane had the distinct disadvantage that the fabric sometimes ripped away from the upper wing when the plane went into a dive. That was not a problem during the straight and level flying needed for gunfire spotting.
Several years ago I interviewed the late Admiral Mel Pride, who was in the crew of the battleship Arizona (BB-39) in early 1920, when she first used one of the former French planes. The turret-top platforms were makeshift at best, with the 50-foot “runway” extending over the 14-inch guns. When the airplane was ready to make its takeoff run, the ship trained the turret around so the relative wind was directly down the axis of the barrels. Then the 160-horsepower Gnome rotary engine was revved to full power, and, as Admiral Pride said, “You wished you had more.” The plane got under way when a restraining hook at the rear was released; there was no catapult to provide a boost. Once airborne, Pride had to push a button on top of the control stick every few minutes. That cut out the ignition briefly to let the engine cool. Otherwise, the tops of the cylinders would have burned out.
Despite the tactical advantage conferred by the planes, the blackshoe battleship officers were lukewarm, because the planes got oil on their teakwood decks. The aviators flew only infrequently, particularly with the requirement to come down ashore; the planes had wheels rather than pontoons. Once on land, Pride had to scrounge around for a local person with a horse or mule to tow the plane to a dock so it could be loaded into a tugboat or other vessel for the trip back out to the Arizona. While in the air, he radioed back the gunfire corrections in Morse code—at the same time he was trying to fly the plane. On 17 March 1920, the engine quit, and Pride had to ditch. Flotation gear kept the aircraft afloat, but it was damaged badly and was surveyed from Navy use. It may or may not be the one now at the Smithsonian.
The Air and Space Museum plans to restore and display the Nieuport now in the closet, because it is apparently the example in this country that has the highest proportion of original components. Still, various owners made changes to keep the plane flying until the early 1970s. It belonged to Hollywood studios for a while and was used in such film classics about World War I as Dawn Patrol. Later, collector Cole Palen got it from another collector and flew it. One of the modifications included the installation of aluminum side panels in the area reaching from the engine cowling back to the rear of the cramped cockpit. Originally, wood panels formed the sides of the fuselage in that area—not much protection for a fighter pilot.
My interview with Admiral Pride was the day before Christmas Eve in 1988. As I listened recently to the tape of our conversation that day, I was struck by the number of times he chuckled with pleasure in his voice. It was a happy experience for him to reminisce about some of the earliest experiments in the U.S. Navy’s use of shipboard aviation. I was so captivated by his tales that I went off and left my tape recorder at his house. The following day I retrieved it and thanked him again for sharing his recollections. A few hours later he lay down for a nap and died in his sleep. The final interview was just in the nick of time.