And so in addition to the natural reluctance of the old-timers to make a change in type, there was the powerful vested interest of the Pensacola workmen. This fact, however, was never brought into the open. It appeared rather that the Consolidated NY had a nasty flying characteristic, probably inherited from its Army ancestry: it possessed an “abnormal spin” as compared with the N-9. If the “good old N-9” lost flying speed and stalled, it whipped suddenly into a spinning nose dive that would lead to a crash if the pilot did what came naturally and opened his throttle. If, however, he “cut the gun” and dived to regain flying speed, he could recover control. The object of much of the student’s early training was to get him to disobey that impulse and cut the gun in a spin. This, to our old-timers, was a “normal spin.”
The trouble with the Consolidated NY was that it was difficult to make it spin at all, and equally difficult to get it out of a true spin. The old-timers, passing over the obvious advantage of reluctance to spin at all, and the priceless benefit of a fuselage that could not splinter and poke holes in a pilot, now stressed the disadvantages of the new plane; how could you teach a pilot to get out of a spin if you couldn’t get him into one? To combat this argument and get the plane adopted so as to increase production of new Wright air-cooled engines was the task of the Engine Section. And the cockpit for the final contest was Admiral Moffett’s corner office and a meeting of what was called officially a “Bureau conference.” In the course of several contests here, I had begun to learn some of the ins and outs.
As the heads of divisions and chiefs of sections of BUAERO flocked into the admiral’s office that morning, each one took up his position more or less according to rank; that is, with captains and commanders on the admiral’s right. This suited me because I had come to learn that the discussion worked downward according to rank and that sometimes the last fellow to speak might turn the tide, especially if he could present some reasonable compromise. I knew, of course, that every man in the room had previously buttonholed the Old Man in an effort to sell his own bill of goods in advance, but that the admiral, who knew nothing about engineering and wanted to know even less, would now stimulate acrimonious discussion and draw his own conclusions from the discomfiture he saw on one man’s face or the triumph he observed on another.
And as the contest raged this particular morning, everyone knew the real issue, including the admiral, but no one mentioned it. Argument and discussion raged about every irrelevant aspect, but everyone ducked the matter of Pensacola’s vested interest. After a long while the admiral turned to me.
“Hasn’t the Engine Section anything to offer?” he asked, well knowing that of course it had.
“Well, sir,” I replied, “I’m afraid we’re too much an interested party to bear weight here. We think that the adoption of the Consolidated would lead to faster engine development and that this fact alone would justify a favorable decision.” The admiral didn’t bat an eye.
“If you’ve got a suggestion,” he said, “don’t be afraid to let us have it.”
“Well, sir,” I went on, “it seems to me that what this conference must decide is this: what do we really want to do—train pilots, or kill them?” There wasn’t a sound in the room. The admiral glanced from face to face and then stood up.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “if that’s your decision, it’s agreeable to me. But remember now,” he added, “I’ll expect every officer in the Bureau to pitch in and make this Consolidated airplane a success.”
As the conferees filed out through the door, I noticed the admiral watching me and detected the quick jerk of his head that signaled me to lag behind. He struck a match and took two puffs at his pipe.