CHAPTER EIGHT

Dwight Morrow Advances the Throttle

The Morrow Board policy, for all its wisdom, might have lapsed easily into innocuous desuetude save for the dynamic character of William A. Moffett. Whereas the Army Air Service proclaimed it a whitewash and a denial of their aspirations, the admiral recognized it for what it was, a golden opportunity. And as usual, when it came to capitalizing it, his timing was precise.

I was sitting behind my desk in the Engine Section one morning engaged in shoveling the avalanche of papers from “Incoming” to “Outgoing” and feeling much like a fireman on the floor plates of a coal-burning destroyer under forced draft shoveling coal into the insatiable maws of a pair of boilers, when the phone rang.

“This is Moffett,” came the admiral’s voice. “I want you to get hold of Du Bose right away. Grab a taxi and come up here to The Hill. You’ll find me in Congressman Butler’s office, Chairman of the Naval Affairs Committee. Bring that estimate on the cost of the Mustin plan. Got it?”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“Wait a minute. Change that!” came the staccato bark. “Tell Du Bose to bring the plan. You call up Marvin MacIntyre; tell him to come to the Bureau. Then you write up a news release for him—one like this: ‘The greatest forward step in the history of aviation was taken today when Congressman Butler, Chairman of the House Naval Affairs Committee, announced approval of the Moffett five-year Naval Aviation building program.’”

“Did he really approve it, Admiral?” I interposed.

“Of course not,” came the reply. “He hasn’t even seen it. But when he reads his name in the afternoon _Star_ and looks at the editorial Mac will get for us, he’ll think he invented it himself. Shake a leg now, and send Du Bose on the run.”

“How did you work it, sir?” I insisted.

“At the hearing this morning,” the admiral explained, “Butler was fit to be tied—said the public was clamoring for action on aviation and wanted to know what to do. I told him he ought to approve my five-year program. He wanted to know what it was. I told him the program I’d been trying to sell him for five years. When I’d ask Congress for money, they’d say ‘where are your men to man these planes?’ When I’d ask BUNAV for the men, they’d want to know where the planes were. Butler got all excited and sent me out of the hearing to get the plan.”

The Moffett five-year building program went through Congress with a whoop and a holler, and within a week the Army had one of its own. With this final consummation of the recommendations of most of the twenty-two inquiries that had investigated aviation, the throttle was opened at last. This was true in spite of the fact that in writing the Air Corps Act of 1926, Congress had crossed up the aircraft industry. The manufacturers, having been promised relaxation of the competitive-bidding requirement which had served to hamper research and development, had in turn agreed to a provision in the Act under which the Armed Forces could audit their accounts and thus control profits. This was a privilege heretofore never conceded by private industry, but Congress, lacking the nerve to go through with the agreement in committee, had so garbled the language of the Act and so complicated the procedure that no procurement officer could buy anything without violating some law. However, public support of the policy had been so evident that the more courageous procurement people, like our own Sidney Kraus, were willing to accept the risk.

And so it seemed that almost overnight, aviation, released of its tie-downs and wheel blocks, became airborne again. In BUAERO a significant event was the completion of the first Pratt and Whitney Wasp on December 24, 1926, just six months after its inception. George had sent me a photograph of the new engine as a Christmas card and it was a thing of beauty that was to become literally a joy forever. It came out at exactly the 650 pounds Chance Vought had specified but on block test turned up a nice 415 horsepower instead of the 350 he had asked for.

Meanwhile the Wright Simoon also passed its tests at 350 horsepower though it was already outmoded by the Wasp. In order to give the Simoon the full benefits of an airplane designed to utilize the engine’s qualities, Wright had put Hugh Chatfield to work on the design and construction of their own single-seat fighter called the “Apache.” On flight test the little craft had shown a performance far superior to the current liquid-cooled pursuit, even in the controversial characteristic of high speed at sea level where, according to the critics, the air-cooled would always be at a serious disadvantage because of its “large frontal area.”

Since that airplane would show to even greater advantage with the higher power of the Wasp, we now wangled a deal with Wright. We actually persuaded good-natured Charlie Lawrance to turn his pet airplane over to Chance Vought for the installation of a Pratt and Whitney Wasp with which Lt. C. C. Champion, who had now joined the Engine Section, was to take a shot at the world’s record for altitude. With the completion of Chance Vought’s own Corsair, we now had a brilliant two-seater that compared favorably in performance with the hottest fighters, and thus gave us a stable with which to make an assault on all the world’s records in their classes. The admiral, a highly competitive spirit with a keen appreciation of the value of world’s records and racing competition, now made

## participation in these events a major Bureau project.

The names “Wasp” and “Corsair” had been selected by the Engine Section, in response to requests from Pratt and Whitney and Chance Vought. Little did we know at the time what distinction they would one day attain. The Wright Apache focused attention of other manufacturers on the characteristics of the Wasp; and Boeing, after testing an engine in a converted FB-1 fighter, immediately put a new one in the works to be called the “F2B.” Curtiss made a conversion of one of its single-seater Hawks, replacing the D-12 with a Wasp. The first Wasp engine to be flight tested was flown in a Curtiss Hawk and thus became a sort of monument to the reluctance Curtiss had shown by their failure to develop their own R-1454 engine. It also nearly became a monument to the failure of the Pratt and Whitney Wasp.

For on the one-hour endurance test over Long Island, Temple Joyce, then test pilot for Curtiss and one of the best-known figures in aviation, grew tired of the monotony of cruising back and forth and decided to vary the routine with some acrobatics. But when he pulled back the stick and booted the rudder to do a nice snap roll, something snapped in the Wasp and Temp had to make a forced landing on the Curtiss field. The competitive Wasp in a competitor’s airplane had gone sour on its test flight! Consternation reigned in the Engine Section—matter of fact, it really poured.

Examination disclosed that the crankshaft counterweight had sailed out through the crankcase. Now the cheek had been designed with ample margins for the stresses of centrifugal force, and the failure remained a mystery until I recalled a lesson learned as a student in the Sperry Gyro Compass School several years earlier. No one had anticipated the effect of gyroscopic forces like those set up in a snap roll. Now George Mead took these in hand and strengthened the shaft to withstand them. With this change, the Pratt and Whitney Wasp came to stay.

One day George and I, feeling happy about this, decided to take a walk through the Smithsonian Institution museum. And there we saw something that cut us back to size. It was the Manly engine, one designed by Charles M. Manly, the pilot and engineer of the Langley airplane, the craft Professor Langley had tried to fly off a catapult years earlier. And marvel of marvels, it was a five-cylinder, single-row, air-cooled radial that antedated the original Wright engine and all the other liquid-cooled in-line engines that had followed it. Charles Manly, having no prior art to befuddle him, had reasoned out the rational form for an aircraft engine and created one forthwith. As we stood looking at the museum piece that included the fundamentals we had used to obsolete years of automotive practice, George grinned sheepishly and remarked, “It all goes to show that every time you think you have discovered America, you find that Columbus was here back in 1492.”

With the completion of many flight tests, the Wasp was now ready for production. But Rentschler found himself in a quandary as to what price he should ask for the engines in quantity. He had no experienced costs, for no engine had yet been built in production. We had asked for six engines on the first experimental order and Kraus had paid Pratt and Whitney the $90,000 he had set aside for them. It was estimated that this amount covered about half of the experimental costs, and Kraus was willing to add the remainder to the first production order so as to write off this expense. But no one knew nor had any way of guessing what the unit price should be for the order of some two hundred engines now required for Vought Corsairs and Boeing and Curtiss fighters. And so the price was fixed by that which Kraus had previously paid for a similar number of Packard 1500’s—a liquid-cooled engine we had earlier prescribed to replace the Curtiss D-12’s in the Boeing FB-5’s. For while we had promoted the air-cooled vigorously we had likewise developed the 500-hp Packard as a successor to the 400-hp Curtiss D-12.

Rentschler was not too happy about having the price for his air-cooled engines fixed by that of another contractor for liquid-cooled; he insisted there was no relationship between the two. But in government business, price may be fixed by anything else but merit. The ever-present threat of a Congressional investigation made it impossible to write into the Pratt and Whitney contract any figure higher than the Packard price even though the circumstances might be entirely different. This was but one of the things that made it hard to interest private manufacturers in risking either their equities or their engineering talent in a government speculation; none of the business fundamentals with which they were accustomed to measure their risks applied here.

However, as it turned out, an unexpected event exercised such an influence that Pratt and Whitney not only did not lose money on the first contract but even made an embarrassingly high profit. It all started the morning William E. Boeing, of Seattle—not “Addison Sims”—arrived in the Engine Section.

Bill Boeing, founder of the Boeing Airplane Company, and a successful operator in lumber and real estate, had drawn his airplane-company staff from versatile young graduates of the aeronautical-engineering course of the University of Washington and had picked some good ones. Foremost among these were Claire Egtvedt, his chief engineer, and Phil Johnson, his factory manager. Bill, a pilot himself, had opened an air line between Seattle and Victoria, using a couple of Boeing-built flying boats under the management of Eddie Hubbard. Eddie had persuaded Bill, against the advice of Phil Johnson, to enter a bid for the new Chicago-San Francisco contract air-mail route, and Bill had won the competition with a bid considered absurdly low by his competitors.

As Bill took a chair by my desk that morning, he promptly launched into the background of his low bid. It seems that Claire Egtvedt, who had designed the single-seat fighter F2B around the Wasp, had also made a study of that engine in a completely new mail plane, to be called the “40-B.” By doing away with the heavy cooling system of the Liberty in the new design, and availing himself of the other features of the Wasp, he had turned out a mail plane capable of carrying double the pay load on the same horsepower. By converting several hundred pounds of dead load into as many pounds of paying load, he had demonstrated the fact that no operator could afford to use war-surplus airplanes—even as a gift—in face of that kind of competition. Furthermore, Boeing could build the new planes dirt cheap with the same overhead needed for the military business. He thought the Wasp would revolutionize air transport. His problem was how to get hold of about twenty-five new Pratt and Whitneys right away with the entire production booked for the Navy.

This was a matter on which the admiral had already set Bureau policy. Having in mind the fact that if government and commercial business could be lumped, the increased volume could bring reduced costs for both, he had issued instructions to cooperate with commercial operators wherever practicable. All Bill needed was a letter of introduction to F. B. Rentschler.

Out of this episode grew the Boeing Air Transport Company’s profitable operation, the ultimate consolidation of Boeing and Pratt and Whitney, to form the nucleus for the United Aircraft and Transport Corporation, and such a profit for Pratt and Whitney on the first order that Rentschler finally came to the Engine Section for advice as to what should be done with the profit. Not the least important factor in this achievement was the breathtaking daring which Rentschler showed in tooling up his shop before the engine had passed its tests and before he had received the contract. This intelligent risk paid such dividends that Rentschler later agreed with Kraus to return what might have been called “excess profits,” and in so doing thus established a principle of voluntary profit control that finally became the established policy of the company. The original suggestion for this came from the Engine Section.

The development of the new engines and the creation of new aircraft around them came just in time to ease a serious situation in connection with the outfitting of the new carriers _Saratoga_ and _Lexington_. The ships were scheduled for completion in about two years and their squadrons were even then being assembled at the Fleet Air Stations at Hampton Roads, Virginia, and San Diego, California. And while the Wasp put us on easier schedules for the fighters, we were still up against it for the big torpedo-bomber scouts. Our SC’s, designed originally around the Wright T-3, had proved cumbersome and heavy and, while operable on twin floats, had lacked the performance desired for carrier use. The large engine had introduced a propeller problem, too—one that for a while had given us a lot of concern.

One of the SC’s, equipped with a standard propeller made of laminated woods glued together and finished to form, had let go on take-off at Hampton Roads and the engine had nearly jumped out of the plane. In response to an excited call from Norfolk, I had flown down in company with Charles J. McCarthy, then our stress expert, to see what could be done. Fortunately, about this time the Army Engineering Division at McCook Field had brought along an experimental development, under the supervision of Frank Caldwell, in which a new aluminum alloy called “duralumin” had been introduced as a substitute for wood. So far it had not been fully proved in service but we were in such a right spot that I now authorized the procurement of the first production order for 100 of them.

Now to round out the carrier program we must needs do something about those torpedo bombers. The engine situation began to assume a certain stable pattern that could be used to foster development: Wright had a nice bit of business and without serious competition in the 200-hp air-cooled Whirlwind class; Pratt and Whitney had a similar nest egg in their domination of the 400-hp Wasp category; both companies had undertaken new developments in a larger 500-hp type. At Wright it was the Cyclone; at Pratt and Whitney, the Hornet. But neither of these engines looked big enough for the torpedo-bomber class and every engineer in the industry had solemnly assured me in writing that to build a 600-hp air-cooled radial was completely impossible. In light of this dictum we had installed a Packard 2500, 800-hp liquid-cooled engine in one of the SC’s which we had called the “SC-6” but which the mechanics had promptly dubbed the “_Sea Cow_.” Now the time had arrived to give the old girl an endurance test.

The personnel of the Engine Section had undergone some change since my taking over. After Ricco Botta had gone to sea I brought in Lt. L. D. Webb, a naval aviator and experienced engineer. Lee had started his naval career as an enlisted man and had served as an electrician in a submarine. In World War I he had qualified as a pilot and been commissioned in the Reserve. Later he had taken the examinations and transferred to the regular service. He was a burly fellow with a broad back, the kind you like to ride behind in an airplane. With Lee in the cockpit, me in the rear seat, and Capt. Lionel M. Woolson, the Packard experimental engineer, lying on a mattress back in the tail, the _Sea Caw_ started her take-off at dawn from the bosom of the Potomac River abreast of the spot where the Presidential Yacht _Mayflower_ lay. We were so heavily laden with fuel that we missed the first run after roaring past the _Mayflower_ wide open with our eight hundred horses straining. On the second run past, I noticed a figure in a nightgown waving encouragement to us, but a second look revealed it as President Coolidge himself and his clenched fist waved no encouragement.

And as hour after hour we droned up and down Chesapeake Bay, trying to burn out the fuel to determine our real endurance, I began thinking of a scheme that might solve our problem. Certainly the big liquid-cooled Packard didn’t make sense; but a 600-hp air-cooled might do the job. Our _Sea Cow_ grossed some 12,000 pounds of dead weight with her full load of fuel and was correspondingly big and unwieldy. If someone could build a 600-hp radial he would automatically save nearly a ton right off the bat; and if some smart designer could find a way to build a lighter airplane structure, we might get the whole thing down to something of the order of 7,500 pounds. This would give us a smaller, handier airplane that would still carry the bomb, torpedo, and fuel load we wanted, and thus complete the outfit for our new carriers with an all-air-cooled complement. The problem was how to get the job done—and Old Man Competition was the obvious answer.

The chance of a lifetime came one day with a visit from the dean of our aircraft manufacturers, Glenn L. Martin. Glenn’s black mood quite overshadowed his natty dress. He was about to finish his contract for torpedoplanes and had no new business in sight. First thing BUAERO knew he’d have to fire his whole organization and, once they got scattered, their know-how and teamwork would be lost forever. It was up to the Bureau to do something to save Glenn Martin.

“Have you tried creating a new model, Glenn?” I asked innocently enough. Glenn protested that his SC was the last word and that nothing much better could be produced.

“I’ve had an idea checked out by the drafting room,” I said, “and they agree that if some smart airplane manufacturer were to design a new torpedo carrier around, say a new six hundred-horsepower air-cooled engine, he could get it down to about seventy-five hundred pounds gross, provided he could develop some new structural features along the lines that Charles Ward Hall has proposed.”

Glenn was skeptical; and besides, he and the others had little confidence in those tricky aluminum structures that Charles Ward Hall proposed; they held out for welded steel. And besides, where could you get a 600-hp air-cooled radial?

“Both the Cyclone and Hornet do five hundred twenty-five horsepower now,” I said, “and if a smart airplane designer made a deal with one or the other for a 600-hp type, say a year from now, the direct competition in that class might persuade one or both of them to push the development for you in time to give you the power you need, and by that time you can have your revolutionary model.”

Glenn’s puckered brow suggested thought. “Do you think the Bureau would finance such a development,” he asked, “with an experimental contract?”

“Oh, yes,” I agreed, “up at the Naval Aircraft Factory at Philadelphia.” Glenn was shocked by the suggestion.

“Have you mentioned this to anyone else?” he inquired.

“Everyone who would listen,” I replied. “And Frank Russell, of Curtiss, is coming in this afternoon. I thought that since you had taken his SC design away from him by underbidding him on the production order, he might find a certain satisfaction in doing likewise by you.”

By the time I had finished the sentence, Glenn had disappeared through the door.

With the carrier program pretty well rounded up, I began to think of going back to sea duty and general service. If I wasted much more time in the side shows, some future Selection Board would gladly skip me over. No use to ask the admiral’s permission; he’d say the job was but half done and he couldn’t spare me. A personal visit to the Bureau of Navigation and a request to command another destroyer would do the trick.

But when, shortly afterward, Admiral Moffett called me into his office, I found the atmosphere distinctly chilly. On his desk lay the notice from BUNAV advising him of the intention to detach me and requesting that he nominate a suitable relief.

“What will it take to keep you here?” the admiral asked.

“A nonflying officer has no place in this game,” I replied, “and I’m supposed to be too old to learn to fly.”

“The pilot course,” replied the admiral, “takes nine months and I can’t spare you that long.” I had not intended to ask for flight training but the admiral assumed that I was putting pressure on him.

“I could send you to Pensacola for two months for training as Naval Observer,” he went on, “and that might take the curse off shore duty by making you a part of the aeronautic organization.”

My next remark surprised me; certainly it came from my mouth rather than my head, though my heart may have been in it. “If I could wangle a way to complete the pilot’s course in two months,” I inquired, “would that be acceptable to you?”

The admiral grinned as he held out his hand. “When you arrive at Pensacola,” he advised, “drop in on Brooks Upham, the Commandant. He’s a personal friend of mine and might be able to do something for you.”

Thus quite without prior intent on my part I had talked my way even deeper into aviation. But at home that evening I did not reveal the whole scheme to my wife. Having received word of her mother’s serious illness she had left the day before for an indefinite visit at her home.