When our party returned to the Engine Section, we gathered once more around my desk. Rentschler asked what size engine we thought he should build and I gave him the background of the Wright R-1200 Simoon, especially the basis on which Chance Vought had written the prescription. However, I intimated, Wright had been working on that nearly a year and might have a prohibitive head start.
Rentschler wasn’t so sure; Wright had a heavy load with two new engines and the task of developing the third, the Whirlwind. A good engineering outfit, with no production problems and only one project, ought go places; starting off with a clean sheet of paper and no commitments as to old tools or techniques, they might even have the advantage. But they must be sure of their basic design principles. The Wright R-1200, a scaled-down P-2, would suffer certain handicaps inherent in the process; the new engine might generate the 350 horsepower on less weight.
It looked to me as though they should try the other way around. Keeping the 650-pound weight Chance had specified, they might put their advantage into greater power. Any airplane man would snap at this advantage and thus become an ally. Furthermore, it seemed to me, if by clever design the new company could build more cylinder capacity into the engine and still keep the specified weight, and if by cylinder refinement they could take out more power for each cubic inch of displacement, they might gain an outstanding advantage. This, in turn, might compensate for some of the time advantage Wright had already gained.
This idea seemed to enlist just a tinge of enthusiasm from Rentschler, who was most serious and calculating. Doing a job seemed a fetish with him and he lacked humor where business was concerned. He moved now to the question of an experimental contract. Since we had given one to Wright Aero for the R-1200 Simoon, he presumed, of course, we would do as much for him.
This was a matter on which I had to throw cold water. Wright, I informed Rentschler, was a going concern complete with management, production facilities, engineering, and experience. His new company was still but a figment of his own imagination and I could not recommend to Kraus that he risk public funds in support of anything so ephemeral. Admiral Moffett had earlier obtained an appropriation of $90,000 from Congress for an experimental engine. The best I could do for Rentschler was to earmark the fund and hold it in reserve for his project. If he built an engine that fulfilled our requirements, the fund would be available to help compensate him; after that the engine would stand on the same basis as the Wright—the best job would take the business.
After this statement, Rentschler sat a long while in thought. I could see he was greatly disappointed.
“Well,” he said finally, “if that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is, but I think you’re pretty tough with me.”
I didn’t agree with him. The moment a contractor accepted a contract with the government he was obliged to grant his customer some control over the project. Such a division of authority was bound to slow a development and might even compromise its integrity. But as long as the contractor risked only his own money, then he had full authority over how he spent it, and no one could interfere. Furthermore, in this case, time was of the essence even more than usual, and when a contractor is wasting his own money and time, he is less complacent about it than if it belongs to Uncle Sam. The medicine might look bitter to Rentschler, but in the long run it must prove more effective. And more important than all, the moment he began risking his own funds for our advantage we inherited a moral responsibility to give him every reasonable assistance—and this we did.
From that date forward, Rentschler made it a point to visit the Bureau from week to week to keep us advised of progress. His first surprise was the news that he had collected a small group of men, mostly drawn from Wright Aero, as the nucleus of his organization; and he had shown rare judgment in picking the ablest of them. There was Don Brown from the shop, Andy Willgoos and George Mead from engineering, Jack Borrup and Charles Marks on the tooling side, and so on, to include upwards of a dozen really competent men. The impact on Wright Aero would prove severe and replacements would be hard to find.
George Mead arrived in Washington early in June on a day when my wife and I had planned to run over to Annapolis for the June Week exercises—we had first met there and loved the little town. Going back and forth in the car, George and I first discussed the design principles for the new engine. Of course the enclosed valve gear and rotary induction of the R-1454 were musts, but we rejected that engine’s arrangement of accessories on the front end; we would tuck ours on the rear out of the salt spray. We would split the crankshaft in two pieces, as George had done on an earlier engine, and would divide the crankcase similarly. As we talked, George sketched the ideas on the back of an envelope and captioned them in his precise printed letters. Later, we found some of our principles had already been used in the British Bristol Jupiter, but for the moment we glowed with the enthusiasm of creators of a new art.