Finally, we could see the end of the Naval Aviation Cadet program. The Brass called it, “Final Squadron.” This was the last segment of training before being designated Naval Aviator, being commissioned, gaining the privilege of wearing the Navy Wings of Gold and being shipped off somewhere to make serious contributions to the war effort. Final Squadron was where we would specialize. Each of us was required to cast himself into one of five different kinds of pilots: Fighter, Dive Bomber, Torpedo Bomber, Multi-Engine or Scout Observation. We were offered a chance to voice a preference. The Brass said they would accommodate where possible. For a flimsy reason that I will not disclose I chose Scout Observation. This was not too bright. But because of some unpredictable and coincidental twist of fate it turned out quite well for a number of us.
Scout Observation pilots were stationed aboard cruisers and battleships. Their aircraft were launched by catapult when the ships were at sea. The catapult, a device about 60-feet long, was powered by an exploding artillery shell. The aircraft, designated an OS2U and named the Kingfisher, was a single-engine, under powered, two-place seaplane with a single main float and small floats under the wing tips. For a picture, Google OS2U. The pilot’s job was to scout hundreds of miles of ocean for enemy activity. And should a gun battle between ships happen, the scout was to fly near enough to the enemy ship and call the shots — too long, too short, too wide or whatever.
There were some real ups and downs to this job — pun intended. After by being catapulted by gun powder from the ship at a shocking acceleration, zero to 70 miles per hour in about two seconds, the pilot was to do three things: First, look for trouble. Second, if found, have his observer report it to the ship by radio, And third, hopefully find his way back to the ship which was moving and by now was usually a couple of hundred miles away and out of sight. The arduous training we got in dead-reckoning navigation took on new meaning. (The idea of having to put down in an open sea in a position unknown to the rest of the world wasn’t pretty.)
Then, when returning, if the pilot found the ship, the next task was called “recovery.” In preparation the ship would make a turn, leaving a slick in its wake. The slick reduced the chop but had no effect on the ground swells which sometimes were huge. The pilot would land the plane on the slick and taxi with full power through the roiling water up to and on to a makeshift sled attached to the stern of the ship. A small hook on the bottom plane’s main float was supposed to snag on the sled, hold the plane in place while the pilot, standing up in the cockpit, grabbed a hook lowered from a derrick on the ship to hook on the airplane. Pity the poor guy in the second seat. Precarious at best.
It didn’t take long to find out that flying seaplanes was very different from flying landplanes. For one thing we learned that one can’t rely on visual judgment when landing. The surface of the water is when the surface is calm is invisible to pilots, and they must take this in consideration. We were taught to “feel” for the surface by setting the plane up for a fixed rate of descent, say 250 feet per minute. Then when you could feel the float touch the water, you cut the power and waited as the plane splashed to a stop.
The winds, waves. chop and currents work with and against the hapless pilot. But — flying the OS2U actually turned out to be a lot of fun. It combined sail boating, motor boating, flying and occasional shower baths from errant plumes of water. Night flying in darkened Pensacola bay was a like flying in a giant ink bottle. The syllabus also included gunnery, formation flying, bombing and a pass at dive bombing. Then came the last thing — catapult training. Instead of doing this off a ship and into the wind we did it from a catapult mounted on a dock. The day when my group was scheduled there was no wind. The plane, with two people aboard and with its engine screaming at full power, would shoot down the catapult, be tossed in the air wallowing with barely enough speed to maintain flight. Each of us Cadets, with the help of instructors, when through this dangerous process several times. This daunting exercise was the final training in “Final Squadron.”
And then there was graduation. Here we were, maybe a hundred budding aviators, who had somehow survived the year of training, in formation in front of the Administration building. We were dressed our spanking new Ensign’s uniforms sporting our coveted Wings of Gold. One by one we received a congratulatory handshake and well wishes from Admiral Murray. After that a bunch of us headed for the Officers’ Club, until now off limits, where we could knock back a few before going off in different directions.
Now, as a much older person thinking back, I wonder what the Admiral, himself a Naval Aviator, felt knowing that he was dispatching some of us to the hereafter. He knew that most aviation fatalities were caused by pilot error and not the enemy. We, in our youthful enthusiasm, enhanced by immaturity and unconcerned about our inexperience, were hotshot pilots off to show the world. I didn’t know then that I really didn’t know much about flying. But the terrifying incidents to come would make the point many times over.
Little did I know that the Navy had just given up having airplanes on battleships and cruisers. Nor did I know that there was an urgent demand in New York for Navy pilots. They were needed to test and ferry the huge numbers of new fleet type, combat airplanes pouring out of the several, large east-coast aircraft plants — Grumman, Chance-Vought, Martin, Columbia and two General Motors units. Consequently a number of us got orders to report to the Naval Air Station New York. And there we really went to work.
Chapter 1
From Norbert
Finally, we could see the end of the Naval Aviation Cadet program. The Brass called it, “Final Squadron.” This was the last segment of training before being designated Naval Aviator, being commissioned, gaining the privilege of wearing the Navy Wings of Gold and being shipped off somewhere to make serious contributions to the war effort. Final Squadron was where we would specialize. Each of us was required to cast himself into one of five different kinds of pilots: Fighter, Dive Bomber, Torpedo Bomber, Multi-Engine or Scout Observation. We were offered a chance to voice a preference. The Brass said they would accommodate where possible. For a flimsy reason that I will not disclose I chose Scout Observation. This was not too bright. But because of some unpredictable and coincidental twist of fate it turned out quite well for a number of us.
Scout Observation pilots were stationed aboard cruisers and battleships. Their aircraft were launched by catapult when the ships were at sea. The catapult, a device about 60-feet long, was powered by an exploding artillery shell. The aircraft, designated an OS2U and named the Kingfisher, was a single-engine, under powered, two-place seaplane with a single main float and small floats under the wing tips. For a picture, Google OS2U. The pilot’s job was to scout hundreds of miles of ocean for enemy activity. And should a gun battle between ships happen, the scout was to fly near enough to the enemy ship and call the shots — too long, too short, too wide or whatever.
There were some real ups and downs to this job — pun intended. After by being catapulted by gun powder from the ship at a shocking acceleration, zero to 70 miles per hour in about two seconds, the pilot was to do three things: First, look for trouble. Second, if found, have his observer report it to the ship by radio, And third, hopefully find his way back to the ship which was moving and by now was usually a couple of hundred miles away and out of sight. The arduous training we got in dead-reckoning navigation took on new meaning. (The idea of having to put down in an open sea in a position unknown to the rest of the world wasn’t pretty.)
Then, when returning, if the pilot found the ship, the next task was called “recovery.” In preparation the ship would make a turn, leaving a slick in its wake. The slick reduced the chop but had no effect on the ground swells which sometimes were huge. The pilot would land the plane on the slick and taxi with full power through the roiling water up to and on to a makeshift sled attached to the stern of the ship. A small hook on the bottom plane’s main float was supposed to snag on the sled, hold the plane in place while the pilot, standing up in the cockpit, grabbed a hook lowered from a derrick on the ship to hook on the airplane. Pity the poor guy in the second seat. Precarious at best.
It didn’t take long to find out that flying seaplanes was very different from flying landplanes. For one thing we learned that one can’t rely on visual judgment when landing. The surface of the water is when the surface is calm is invisible to pilots, and they must take this in consideration. We were taught to “feel” for the surface by setting the plane up for a fixed rate of descent, say 250 feet per minute. Then when you could feel the float touch the water, you cut the power and waited as the plane splashed to a stop.
The winds, waves. chop and currents work with and against the hapless pilot. But — flying the OS2U actually turned out to be a lot of fun. It combined sail boating, motor boating, flying and occasional shower baths from errant plumes of water. Night flying in darkened Pensacola bay was a like flying in a giant ink bottle. The syllabus also included gunnery, formation flying, bombing and a pass at dive bombing. Then came the last thing — catapult training. Instead of doing this off a ship and into the wind we did it from a catapult mounted on a dock. The day when my group was scheduled there was no wind. The plane, with two people aboard and with its engine screaming at full power, would shoot down the catapult, be tossed in the air wallowing with barely enough speed to maintain flight. Each of us Cadets, with the help of instructors, when through this dangerous process several times. This daunting exercise was the final training in “Final Squadron.”
And then there was graduation. Here we were, maybe a hundred budding aviators, who had somehow survived the year of training, in formation in front of the Administration building. We were dressed our spanking new Ensign’s uniforms sporting our coveted Wings of Gold. One by one we received a congratulatory handshake and well wishes from Admiral Murray. After that a bunch of us headed for the Officers’ Club, until now off limits, where we could knock back a few before going off in different directions.
Now, as a much older person thinking back, I wonder what the Admiral, himself a Naval Aviator, felt knowing that he was dispatching some of us to the hereafter. He knew that most aviation fatalities were caused by pilot error and not the enemy. We, in our youthful enthusiasm, enhanced by immaturity and unconcerned about our inexperience, were hotshot pilots off to show the world. I didn’t know then that I really didn’t know much about flying. But the terrifying incidents to come would make the point many times over.
Little did I know that the Navy had just given up having airplanes on battleships and cruisers. Nor did I know that there was an urgent demand in New York for Navy pilots. They were needed to test and ferry the huge numbers of new fleet type, combat airplanes pouring out of the several, large east-coast aircraft plants — Grumman, Chance-Vought, Martin, Columbia and two General Motors units. Consequently a number of us got orders to report to the Naval Air Station New York. And there we really went to work.