When a civilian, aspiring to go to Pensacola to get his “Navy Wings,” considers this matter for the first time his mind projects into the future. He visualizes and dreams. He imagines himself in the guise of a naval flyer and sees himself performing the exciting routine of a military pilot. His mental efforts, regardless of realism, fall well short of their mark. Either he actually lives that picture in real life or he goes on about his business having mentally created for himself a most satisfactory navy flyer, yet completely unaware of the highly adventurous and singular mode of existence. I know, for I have done both. I pictured to myself the life before I took the train to Pensacola. And now, having graduated from there into the fleet, I know the thrill of vibrating to the call of a highly gratifying employment, one with a purpose; a life I never could have created in fantasy.
Today, in the uniform of a naval aviator, I look with feeling upon those aspiring to naval aviation, yet who are forced to continue what I consider the mediocre trudgings of civilian existence. Many of my contemporaries wanted to take this same path. Only a small number are now with the fleet.
Let us go a little further into the subject. What does the aviator-to-be expect from the Navy and what does he get? Assume it is springtime on an average college campus. Assume a senior selected at random; to be more specific, assume that senior to be myself. I had realized for some time the necessity of obtaining as early as practicable a means of livelihood that should prove pleasant, if possible, as well as profitable. Four years of college work should logically be spent with a goal of some kind in mind. In the few months preceding graduation, besides thinking about the future, one has to do something about it. I balanced the potential jobs against one another. Vacancies and occupations, though only remotely possible, received due consideration. The aviation program of the U.S. Navy was especially attractive. Among other things, it promised flying—and flying has its particular appeal.
I little realized that one year later I would be pacing the flight deck of one of Uncle Sam’s largest carriers on the Pacific, as Security Watch Officer. I little realized I would watch a mass flight of navy patrol planes high over head at sunset, half way to Panama. In that short time I have come to feel myself a part of the Navy’s great organization. Quickly I have taken on the responsibilities, felt the Navy was my Navy, and found I am prepared to guard jealously its interests.
This day as I watched the mass flight of navy patrol planes from the flight deck of the carrier to which I was attached, I felt proud to be part of an organization of such importance to the United States, with such ideals, discipline, and efficiency. The drone of motors—two to each of the huge seaplanes—was scarcely audible from the ship due to the altitude selected by the planes to take advantage of the wind. The planes were about one third of the way from San Diego to Panama, and now at sunset faced about 20 more hours of flying before setting down on the protected bay at Coco Solo.
Aboard each plane was at least one aviation cadet; many among them my friends and close acquaintances, some of them classmates at Pensacola. As I watched those units of the latest and newest of Uncle Sam’s long range air armadas, I thought of the sudden change in life careers that had taken place in the group that started with me at the Pensacola Air Station such a short year previous. High above, aviation cadets were peering at me occasionally, that is, peering at the flight deck of the carrier on which I stood as Security Watch Officer, and probably thinking with assurance that if trouble came to them, speedy help would arrive before long from the carrier.
One short year since starting at Pensacola; full and complete. And there are more years to look forward to. The little band that started with me in hope and wonderment is now seasoning. I feel confident that most, like myself, are proud to be part of a body with such close harmony, loyalty, and patriotism.
One year of arduous training is required to develop a green navy groundling into a pilot with about 300 hours of flying. The next 3 years are for seasoning and experience. I have already received my share of peeled noses, burned cheeks, and cracked lips, from many flights in tropical latitudes off the deck of an aircraft carrier, and I expect many more before my total of 4 years has expired.
I was not long in the Navy before I realized that brass buttons mean more than one hears and reads about in the stories. There is a prestige that goes with a navy title that is real and tangible. An aviator seldom encounters social barriers for lack of sufficient “credentials”; in fact, almost anywhere one of these navy gentlemen decides to hang his hat, he usually will find a hook or two. An aviator not only appeals to little children but also to girls, the latter congregation being of more concern to naval cadets than the former. There are practically no barriers to the company of lady folk. I do not have time in this writing to go into my own problems on this subject.
“Elegant” is probably the proper single descriptive word most appropriate and accurate for describing the quarters and environment of the aviation cadets stationed at the Fleet Air Detachment on North Island, California. The surroundings are beautiful, the rooms ample in size, and the station popular. There are swimming pools and tennis courts.
Soon after the cadet has taken up his new station in the Navy, he asks himself if he got what he came after. He must truthfully answer in the affirmative. The Navy gave him military training, prestige, and, most important of all, friends. The flying classmates at the Naval Flying School at Pensacola are genuinely sincere and willing to aid one in distress. And these cadets will remain lifelong friends, the most valuable possession one can have.
Today I flew No. 2 position on the leader of the squadron to which I am attached, an 18-plane scouting squadron. From over 2 miles high, in echelon, we peeled off, one at a time, and then dove sharply for the targets on the surface of the Pacific, miles at sea. It was due west of Point Loma. Before I pulled the bomb release handle I glanced over my shoulder at the steep column of roaring planes trailing out in a single straight line behind. You can hear stories, read them, and watch flying itself but you cannot pipe dream yourself into what the flyer actually experiences. The picture is entirely changed when you are in a flight jacket, a parachute on your back, and the safety belt fastened in front. There is no comparable experience, that of being a part of a small but highly powerful mechanism, one which you control with such slight pressures on the controlling devices. I can live again with ease the events of the day. Up ahead the captain in the leading plane is rocking his wings violently—the signal for another power attack. This time it will be “record” and at a much higher altitude. It will be above 15,000 feet so we start our oxygen going. The “zero hour” arrives and the objective is sighted, a tiny speck on the sea below. The signal is taken up by the second plane, the third plane, and so on down the tight column of dive bombers. “Attack!” Things happen rapidly now. For a moment the leader poises then plummets earthwards, flying wires screaming. Close behind pour the others, in clocklike precision. I watch my airspeed meter. It passes the 200-knot mark, 220, 240, 260. . . . stabilizer tabs are readjusted, engine carburetor de-icer checked, and the bomb safety opened. With a last tug on the safety belt, I slide back the hood and a swish of frozen air bursts over my face. With 18 planes stacked up behind him like streamlined bricks, the leader heads straight for the target. All planes pick up more and more speed. The attack steepens. Suddenly the leader drops his load and begins the great sweeping movement required to flatten out a plane diving at such high speed. Numbers 2 and 3 are pulling out now, followed by No. 4. In a few seconds all have finished, the bombing practice has been concluded, and another routine flight goes into the books.
After the flight, as usual, a certain amount of “hangar flying” takes place, couched in the proper aeronautical jargon. Over half of the pilots of this and most flights are aviation cadets. One year ago we were discussing the first take-off or the first flipper turn at Pensacola.
The life of an aviation cadet is active. It is full; it prepares one for a future, be it commercial or be it laying down one’s life in the defense of one’s country.