In United Aircraft, we lived in mortal terror of a sudden cessation of hostilities which, like that following the Armistice, would lead to disorderly reconversion, and the extinction of the private aircraft-manufacturing industry. For by now we were blown up so far beyond any size warranted by our own resources or possible for postwar production that we could not possibly survive the deflation. As a hedge against this debacle, we decided our only recourse was to build new engines as the basis for new and more economical commercial aircraft which would replace the war-surplus DC-4’s and put the airlines in position to make money under peacetime conditions. In face of the feeling of certainty among our engineers that they just could not undertake any further developments with their current war load, management took responsibility for the decision and we set up the project.
With a view to strengthening our research division we made a number of changes. Frank Caldwell moved over from Hamilton-Standard. My old friend Dr. Lucke, now retired from active teaching but very much alive to new developments, joined John Lee on a consulting basis. To utilize the experience and facilities of scientific institutions, we farmed out numerous research projects pertaining to jet propulsion. As a final accomplishment, we enlisted the help of Charles A. Lindbergh.
After President Roosevelt had refused Lindbergh’s offer to serve in the Army, rugged old Henry Ford had taken him on as research assistant in Detroit. Here Lindbergh, now fortyish, carried out some very high altitude research under conditions that would have tried the skill of the ablest young pilot. I wanted him in United as a personal aide to help resolve some of the conflicts in the latest revolution in aviation, jet propulsion. Aside from his unexcelled knowledge of aviation and his proved pilot’s skill, Lindbergh had the clear incisive mind which we needed so badly in appraising some of the implications of jet power.
For jet propulsion was not quite so simple as the art of building piston engines; such problems as air-cooled versus liquid-cooled or in-line engines versus radials belonged in the kindergarten compared with the complexities of turbo-jet versus turbo-prop. And whereas our air-cooled radials had promised improvement in every factor pertaining to aircraft propulsion, these jets suffered the serious handicap of profligate fuel consumption at the moment when maximum range was a fundamental requirement for air tactics and commercial air transport.
While Lindbergh’s sound judgment proved valuable in this role, it was back in his natural character as the Lone Eagle that he went to town for me. On a trip to the Pacific, made at my suggestion with a view to helping the Vought Corsair play its lawful part in carrier operations, Lindbergh flew with a squadron of Army Lightnings on a long-range over-water mission. During this period of island hopping, advances were restricted to the operating radii of escorting fighters. Charles Lindbergh, utilizing some of the savvy that had shown the way from New York to Paris, was able to stretch his own range some five hundred miles. Following his quiet example, the remaining squadrons were soon able to go and do likewise.
He dropped in unobtrusively one day on some marine fighter squadrons left behind to harass by-passed Jap installations on adjacent islands. The marines were accustomed to strafing Jap positions with the guns and light bombs of their Corsairs. Lindbergh quietly constructed a bomb rack for heavy bombs and progressively increased his load from 1000 to 2000 pounds and finally to 3000-pound bombs. When the marines discovered that the Corsair was truly a heavy dive bomber, they demanded a chance to participate in carrier-based close-support operations for amphibious forces. On receipt of this news, the Navy “discovered” the Corsair—so much so in fact that Adm. J. S. McCain, who had earlier confirmed current opinion that Corsairs were too big for carriers, now charged me with losing the war because Vought deliveries were inadequate to his needs over the Japanese island of Honshu.
At home a new threat appeared. A rumor ran like wildfire through the shop that Senator Truman’s War Investigating Committee had discovered evidence of fraud in the inspection department of the Wright Aeronautical plant at Cincinnati, and was on the way to investigate. Almost immediately, the news headlines confirmed the story and the fat was in the fire. The reaction on Wright was practically to halt production; at Pratt and Whitney it threatened serious reductions in output, just at the time when demand was at its highest.
The matter of the inspection on a production line is one of its most delicate factors. No specifications or instructions can be written without leaving an element of judgment to an inspection department. All that is needed to freeze up the whole process is the threat of Congressional inquiry, especially when accompanied, as was this case, by jail threats for the guilty parties.
The investigation ran its customary course in the newspapers. The Committee had its innings. No crime was discovered that had warranted such a complete shutdown on deliveries of vital war materials. And after it was over, the manufacturers all over the country picked themselves up out of the gutter and went on with their production.
In light of the production miracles performed by private industry in spite of a militantly unfriendly administration, it is interesting, even though futile, to speculate what might have been done under an inspired leadership that had faith in the cooperative process, understood the technique of the voluntary method, and was determined to give it a friendly opportunity to perform. From the point of view of costs alone, results would have been startling. The impact on the human spirit would have been far-reaching. Too many of us functioned under little more inspiration than that associated with pride in craftsmanship. I had witnessed the magic that can be worked by inspiring leadership while under Admiral Beatty’s command in the Grand Fleet. As World War I dragged to a close, two facts had become clear. Despite all the bloody trench warfare along the Western Front, victory would again rest with the nation which held command of the sea. In the existing stalemate, with the Hun unwilling to risk action, ultimate victory would crown the head of the fleet commander who displayed the best leadership; it was all a matter of morale.