The Naval Air Station at Pensacola, Florida, during WWII was the Mecca of Naval Aviation and may still be. For Aviation Cadets it was to be the last lap where we would finish the year-long, arduous training and, if not washed out, get our coveted Navy Wings of Gold. The Florida weather in the spring of 1943 saved our group from more bitter cold, agonizing, open-cockpit flying we had been doing in northern Virginia. Our quarters were much more comfortable. And for me I left the pesky cadet-officer assignment back at Anacostia. Or at least I thought so.
Just as we got settled in at the main base they transferred us in a body to an outlying base to fly heavier aircraft. Any new, different and bigger was intimidating. After all we had only about 50 hours total flying time so far. We were naive but self impressed. Instructors viewed us differently. To them we were rightly regarded as unpredictable and dangerous.
This phase was called Basic Training. The aircraft were officially designated as SNVs but renamed Vultee Vibrators. They were all-metal, low-wing, two-placed, fixed-landing-gear planes with 450 horsepower radial, air cooled engines. That amounted to double the power, size and weight of the flimsy two-winged primary trainers we had left behind. The cockpits were covered with protective sliding canopies which blocked out some of the engine noise and all of the wind — small compensation for our repressed trepidations.
The training began with a checkout flights with instructors. A couple of flying hours with a bunch of landings and takeoffs and most of were freed to solo within an area of about a 75-mile radius of the field. A couple of guys washed out early on. We seldom learned the specific reasons for washouts. The booted Cadets simply disappeared. But by now the Navy was making the risky assumption that we were developing common sense. Therefore instead of a long lists of petty rules, there was only one. It said that if, while flying, we were to see another Cadet make a forced landing, we were to report it by radio. Under no circumstances were we to land to give aid — not even if personal injury seemed to be involved. Rescues and repairs would be handled promptly by specially trained personnel. Period! That seemed clear enough to everyone, or so we thought.
Then it happened. A Cadet, flying solo, had an engine failure. He made a successful landing in a farmer’s field without tearing down a fence, destroying crops or damaging the aircraft. A neat, successful job. That’s the good news. Unfortunately the incident was observed by another Cadet who was circling the site at low altitude. The Cadet on the ground waved his arms. His intention was to signal that all was well. But, like so many communications, he was misunderstood. The circling Cadet was sure that the first Cadet was asking for help, and he started his approach to a landing. The grounded Cadet waved even more frantically to no avail. The second Cadet cleared a fence and made an excellent landing except for one thing. He was unable to brake his plane to a stop before it crashed into the first plane. The spinning propeller functioned as a giant power saw as it hacked the first plane to pieces. Fortunately there was no fire.
A third Cadet, seeing the accident, became absolutely certain that regardless of the rule, the situation justified his personal attention. He made an approach and landed. But like the second Cadet, he was unable to stop his plane before its spinning propeller chewed into the second plane. He jumped clear of the wreckage just as fire broke out. The three Cadets vaulted the nearest fence and ran for cover as a gas tank exploded. Pieces of all three planes soared in a scattered pattern over the area, and a major conflagration followed. Thus the super-emphasized rule was super emphasized. The incident was discussed in depth by all of the Cadets. Most of us concluded that the adage applied: “There but for the grace of God go I.” I imagine that whomever was in command of that operation was hard put to explain the reasons-why to his Brass and so to his and to his and finally to Admiral Murray. It was anyone’s guess what happened to the three Cadets. And as for Common Sense — well who knows. Maybe a little seeped in somewhere. Yeah! Yeah! At least no one got killed that day.
After a fair amount of flying — formation and night flying and more ground school, we were transferred back to the main base where we were introduced to two new phases of aviation that we would face forever more. One was called Instrument Flying or flying blind. The other was called Retractable Landing Gears. An appropriate nickname for that would be “Better Down than Up When Landing.”
Chapter 1
From Norbert, 26 June 2008:
The Naval Air Station at Pensacola, Florida, during WWII was the Mecca of Naval Aviation and may still be. For Aviation Cadets it was to be the last lap where we would finish the year-long, arduous training and, if not washed out, get our coveted Navy Wings of Gold. The Florida weather in the spring of 1943 saved our group from more bitter cold, agonizing, open-cockpit flying we had been doing in northern Virginia. Our quarters were much more comfortable. And for me I left the pesky cadet-officer assignment back at Anacostia. Or at least I thought so.
Just as we got settled in at the main base they transferred us in a body to an outlying base to fly heavier aircraft. Any new, different and bigger was intimidating. After all we had only about 50 hours total flying time so far. We were naive but self impressed. Instructors viewed us differently. To them we were rightly regarded as unpredictable and dangerous.
This phase was called Basic Training. The aircraft were officially designated as SNVs but renamed Vultee Vibrators. They were all-metal, low-wing, two-placed, fixed-landing-gear planes with 450 horsepower radial, air cooled engines. That amounted to double the power, size and weight of the flimsy two-winged primary trainers we had left behind. The cockpits were covered with protective sliding canopies which blocked out some of the engine noise and all of the wind — small compensation for our repressed trepidations.
The training began with a checkout flights with instructors. A couple of flying hours with a bunch of landings and takeoffs and most of were freed to solo within an area of about a 75-mile radius of the field. A couple of guys washed out early on. We seldom learned the specific reasons for washouts. The booted Cadets simply disappeared. But by now the Navy was making the risky assumption that we were developing common sense. Therefore instead of a long lists of petty rules, there was only one. It said that if, while flying, we were to see another Cadet make a forced landing, we were to report it by radio. Under no circumstances were we to land to give aid — not even if personal injury seemed to be involved. Rescues and repairs would be handled promptly by specially trained personnel. Period! That seemed clear enough to everyone, or so we thought.
Then it happened. A Cadet, flying solo, had an engine failure. He made a successful landing in a farmer’s field without tearing down a fence, destroying crops or damaging the aircraft. A neat, successful job. That’s the good news. Unfortunately the incident was observed by another Cadet who was circling the site at low altitude. The Cadet on the ground waved his arms. His intention was to signal that all was well. But, like so many communications, he was misunderstood. The circling Cadet was sure that the first Cadet was asking for help, and he started his approach to a landing. The grounded Cadet waved even more frantically to no avail. The second Cadet cleared a fence and made an excellent landing except for one thing. He was unable to brake his plane to a stop before it crashed into the first plane. The spinning propeller functioned as a giant power saw as it hacked the first plane to pieces. Fortunately there was no fire.
A third Cadet, seeing the accident, became absolutely certain that regardless of the rule, the situation justified his personal attention. He made an approach and landed. But like the second Cadet, he was unable to stop his plane before its spinning propeller chewed into the second plane. He jumped clear of the wreckage just as fire broke out. The three Cadets vaulted the nearest fence and ran for cover as a gas tank exploded. Pieces of all three planes soared in a scattered pattern over the area, and a major conflagration followed. Thus the super-emphasized rule was super emphasized. The incident was discussed in depth by all of the Cadets. Most of us concluded that the adage applied: “There but for the grace of God go I.” I imagine that whomever was in command of that operation was hard put to explain the reasons-why to his Brass and so to his and to his and finally to Admiral Murray. It was anyone’s guess what happened to the three Cadets. And as for Common Sense — well who knows. Maybe a little seeped in somewhere. Yeah! Yeah! At least no one got killed that day.
After a fair amount of flying — formation and night flying and more ground school, we were transferred back to the main base where we were introduced to two new phases of aviation that we would face forever more. One was called Instrument Flying or flying blind. The other was called Retractable Landing Gears. An appropriate nickname for that would be “Better Down than Up When Landing.”
Part Three will follow.