While working on this, I proceeded on another project close to my heart, a recommendation from FLEET AIR for a long-term development and procurement program that would conform to the one I knew to be under way in BUAERO. If we could eliminate some of the local partisanship that frequently obscured the fundamentals of such problems, we might facilitate engineering progress.
When I submitted my schedule to the admiral he approved all of it save one critical item, the construction of an experimental two-seat fighter. The idea had originated in World War I on the Western Front, where the classic form of attack had been a dive out of the sun onto the enemy’s tail, to shoot him down when he wasn’t looking. Perhaps a tail gunner might guard a pilot from such surprise, but Admiral Reeves would have none of the idea. He thought an alert fighter pilot could do the job by twisting his neck. If he had to lug an extra gun and tail gunner, he would impair the combat performance of his airplane. Besides, during maneuvers, no rear gunner could serve a gun. This was no snap judgment on his part; he had had Wagner try it out during tactical exercises, using Voughts to simulate two-seat fighters. In his judgment there could be no such thing as a two-seat “fighter.”
Against such logic I could but argue that many officers in the Bureau favored the project, among them Bruce Leighton, who, having finished his tour at sea, was now head of the powerful Plans Division. Failure to include his pet project in our recommendations would stir up such a controversy as to hazard the entire program. The admiral smiled at me.
“You’ve been with Moffett so long,” he chuckled, “that you’ve begun to think like a politician yourself.” It being hopeless to argue further with this forthright old sea dog, I modified the letter, knowing full well that Bruce Leighton, who had fostered the air-cooled engine against bitter opposition, would not readily abandon his pet two-seat fighter. And so it proved. BUAERO and FLEET AIR split wide open on this single controversial item with the result that the rest of the program fell apart. Before long we were engaged in acrimonious correspondence on almost every subject. Even engineering needs politics for lubrication.
When the Langley returned from her overhaul, she brought more trouble in her wake. The alterations for additional crew space had not been approved. When the admiral learned this from Frank Wagner his beard bristled and his eyes flashed.
“Instruct Fighting One and Fighting Six to assemble all aircraft on the Langley dock,” he ordered. “Collect a dozen Vought Corsairs and advise Captain Towers we will call on him after lunch. We’ll soon see,” he added ominously, “just how many planes the Langley can be made to operate.”
When, after lunch, the admiral with his staff bore down under all plain sail upon the Langley dock, Captain Towers and his officers met us at the gangway. The admiral, taking personal charge, soon had Wagner and me helping the deck crews to spot planes closer and closer together. When he had finished, he wrung from the Langley officers their reluctant admission that forty-two airplanes might be operated, but they expressed their firm conviction that it would be dangerous. As the admiral swept off the flight deck in triumph, he pointed up the moral in a strong, resonant voice.
“Most standards,” he said, “are limited by opinion or prejudice. They break down under pressure. The function of a leader,” he added, “is to generate the pressure.” Turning to me he continued, “Please collect all the artificers in FLEET AIR, every carpenter’s mate, shipfitter, and helper. Go in person aboard the Langley and construct quarters for the plane crews.”
“Without authority from Construction and Repair?” I queried.
“Upon the authority of COMAIRONS,” he replied, “and,” he added, “on my responsibility.”