As our ship nosed into the pier on the San Diego side, we could look back at North Island and the Naval Air Station where the experimental carrier Langley, alongside her dock, filled the immediate foreground, and the tower of the yellow stucco mission-type Administration Building pierced the blue heavens. Here, less then twenty years earlier, had stood the tent hangars of the pioneer Army and Navy aviation schools, the one operated under the supervision of the Wright Brothers, the other by Glenn Curtiss. Here too had been born the early rivalries that still dominated the aircraft establishment, a pattern of Army versus Navy, and of manufacturer versus manufacturer, that had put the spark in the development of a new art.

Back there, student pilots had taken off at the crack of dawn in their powered box kites to get in their flight time before the gentle southwesterlies could interfere with their training. And if, perchance, a student like my classmate “Spig” Herbster, of the Wright camp, were forced down on the harbor by a failure of the tricky engine of his seaplane, another student like Jack Towers, of the Curtiss camp, waiting for just such an opportunity, would literally fly to his rescue—for the benefit of thrilling headlines in that enterprising newspaper, The San Diego Union. To us salts of the Destroyer Flotilla, moored alongside the ferry slip or the “Spreckles Dock,” accustomed to night torpedo tactics on the high seas off Coronado Island, the whole thing had looked a bit silly. But to the aviators, news headlines had been the breath of life ever since that day at Kittyhawk when the wise money in the public press had refused to print the news of the first flight because it was too smart to fall for such a hoax.

Now that same Jack Towers was serving as captain of the first flattop, the Langley, a vessel named for the professor who had failed to fly, and I recalled the Langley when she had been commissioned as the collier Jupiter at the Mare Island Navy Yard, under command of Comdr. Joseph M. Reeves. The Langley had a revolutionary power plant, the electric drive, and had been equipped with a forest of masts and booms designed to fuel battleships at the rate of 500 tons of coal per hour. Today, fuel oil had replaced coal in all naval vessels and the Langley masts had been leveled to make room for a flat landing area for aircraft. And I, who had set out to become a gunnery officer but had been converted into a mechanical engineer, was now a naval aviator. Well, the new job seemed to have possibilities, but just how far-reaching they would prove to be, I didn’t even dream.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Salt’s Solution

When, next morning, I buckled on my dress sword and reported at the Naval Air Station, I found Admiral Reeves had gone to Denver to make a speech at the Navy Day celebration there. Then, since Captain Towers was senior officer present afloat, I walked down the Langley dock to pay my respects to him. The moment I stepped over the rail onto the steel-decked passageway leading aft under the landing platform, I recognized the unmistakable signs of a “smart ship.” Freshly scrubbed paint and gleaming brightwork told its own story. And before the winter had passed, I would learn just how smart the Langley really was. For Jack Towers, the naval aviator, was one of the best ship handlers in the whole service. He greeted me outside his cabin and promptly asked me to stay for lunch.

Jack Towers, one of the real pioneers of American aviation, was the acknowledged leader of the younger generation. He had served with distinction in World War I as a member of Admiral Sims’s staff in London, and though some of his contemporaries resented his tendency to adopt English mannerisms, his juniors swore by him. Now he invited some of his department heads, old friends of mine, like Pete Mitscher, Monty Montgomery, and Bobby Moulton, to join us for a bull fest. And hardly had we sat down around the mess table before I found myself in the middle of the big issue of the moment.

My personal situation was complicated by the fact that I was a newcomer to aviation and now, by seniority and assignment, in a position of authority over such old-timers as were gathered around the table. No doubt they thought my qualification as naval aviator had been donated by Admiral Moffett, and discounted my flying ability accordingly. With this in mind I had sought to tread softly through the lunch, but the issue now raised must be met head on.

It developed that Admiral Reeves held curious notions about carrier tactics. He was insisting that a 500-foot, 10,000-ton vessel like the Langley could earn her salt only by operating sufficient aircraft to make her an effective military instrument. He had mentioned thirty-six planes, or two full fighter squadrons, as the minimum complement. But Langley officers had crystallized the opinion that not more than a third as many, say twelve airplanes, could be flown off the Langley and received on board without hazard to the lives of pilots. That key factor of safety had been argued out in conferences but “Bull” Reeves had stood pat. The Langley officers, now concerned, put the clincher on me.

“It’s up to you,” someone said, while the Filipino mess attendants passed the coffee.

“How come?” I inquired in some surprise.