While Commander Funk was flying, we were on an observation balcony just below the tower with a group of Navy pilots. The Hellcat and the Corsair had arrived earlier, and the Avenger was expected momentarily. A few minutes later it came into view just over the trees on a long final approach. At that distance it seemed to be barely moving, although the engine sounded like it was at fairly high power. When it was about five feet above the end of the runway, the pilot cut the power, and the Avenger (or Turkey, as the pilots call it) seemed to stop in midair and drop straight down onto the runway, after which it rolled a surprisingly short distance and came to a stop. I thought the pilot made a terrible landing and hoped that he wouldn't be ahead of me in the landing pattern at Moisant. Since he didn't start to taxi to the ramp, I assumed that he had either blown both tires or broken the landing gear. The Navy pilots, though, were quite impressed and said that he must be an old pro because that was a great landing. Sure enough, when he taxied in we learned that he had been delayed by a radio problem, the landing gear were in perfect shape, and he was an experienced pilot with hundreds of hours in the Avenger.
If a P-51 or a P-40 had landed that hard, the impact would have driven the wheels up through the wing, but Navy aircraft have extremely rugged landing gear, designed to withstand the shock of carrier landings.
Speaking of carrier landings, even though it is de rigueur for Air Force pilots to belittle Navy pilots, and vice versa, I have the utmost respect for anyone who can put a fifteen-ton jet on the heaving deck of a carrier on a black night, or on a bright day for that matter. I would hate to know that after completing a tough night combat mission that the most dangerous part of the flight, landing on the carrier, still lay ahead.
During the Vietnam war my brother-in-law, Comdr. Doug Barron, flew several combat tours in Douglas A-4 Skyhawks on various carriers. He had one of the hairiest experiences I've ever heard of. After a night bombing mission over Vietnam, the A-4s were offshore returning to the USS Coral Sea when his wingman approached too fast and ran into him, knocking off a large section of the trailing edge of his wing. The wingman's plane went out of control, and the pilot was forced to eject, landing in the sea, where, miraculously, he was located and rescued. Doug retained control of his plane, but it was losing fuel rapidly through the ruptured tank and severed fuel lines. He knew he couldn't make it back to the ship but was able to rendezvous with a Douglas A-3 Skywarrior tanker on station for emergency refueling. After hooking up with the tanker he found that the inflowing fuel could barely keep ahead of the leaks, so he stayed hooked up until they were in the carrier landing pattern, then disengaged and landed safely on the first try despite the wing damage. One try was all that he had because his fuel was almost exhausted. It was, to say the least, a masterful piece of airmanship.
A few years ago I was privileged to be aboard the carrier America observing night landing operations, and it was frightening even to watch the planes hurtle out of the darkness at about 150 mph, hit the deck, and either catch the wire and stop or hurtle back into the darkness at full power to try again. In my book, and this is my book, carrier-qualified pilots are all pretty high on the ziggurat of the right stuff.
We spent that night in the visiting officer's quarters (VOQ) after getting acquainted with the Navy pilots over dinner in the club. The next morning Commander Funk flew a group of mechanics to Moisant Field in a Beechcraft SNB, a small utility transport known to the AAF, to general aviation, and to Naval aviators as the C-45, the Twin Beech, and the Bug Smasher, respectively. They were to act as the ground crew for the Navy detachment, which in this case included our three aircraft.
A few hours later we, along with the three Navy pilots, took off for the one-hour flight to New Orleans. As we had been told, the airport was far from ready for operations; the runways, ramp, and taxiways were complete, but the areas between had not been landscaped and were a sea of mud. The terminal and hangars were still under construction. The condition of the field and the cold, damp weather with low-hanging clouds did not bode well for the open house and airshow that were to begin the next morning and continue for two days. We parked in the section of the ramp assigned to the Navy, guided by the ground crews who had been flown in a few hours earlier. After tying down the planes and ensuring that they would be under guard when we were not present, we got into a Navy bus and were driven to NAS New Orleans, on the shore of Lake Pontchartrain, and moved into the VOQ. Since it was now raining we decided not to go into the city but spent a quiet afternoon and evening at the officer's club and the base theater.
The rain had stopped, but the low clouds were still in place as we left for Moisant early the next morning for the first day of the airshow. We were in our best uniforms, because while on the ground we would be standing in front of our planes to answer questions. We wore our forest-green blouses (in the Army, what would be a civilian suit coat is called a blouse), pink trousers, and khaki shirts and ties. Sadly, pinks and greens are now seen only in World War II movies. We took our flying clothing along in what turned out to be a vain hope of flying.
We did no flying at all because the bad weather persisted throughout the show. We became so cold standing in front of the airplanes that contrary to all regulations, we wore our leather A-2 flying jackets over our uniform blouses with the lower part of the blouses sticking out below the jackets. Few visitors came to the opening and even fewer ventured onto the windswept flight line to view the planes. While I commended their good sense, I wished more people would gather around to shield us from the blustery, cold wind, if nothing else. At long last, things took a decided turn for the better. A nice-looking stewardess walked up in her Chicago and Southern Airlines uniform (the airline is long since a part of Delta), stared at my odd outfit for a minute, and commented, "That's a nice peplum you're wearing."
I said, "Thank you. What's a peplum?"
"It's that little dark green skirt sticking out below your jacket," she replied.
I unzipped my jacket and showed her the rest of the blouse, explaining that I had to wear the jacket because of the cold wind and that it wouldn't fit under the blouse. She told me that her airline had a heated trailer farther down the flight line where we could get coffee and sandwiches. It was an offer I couldn't refuse — food, females, and Fahrenheit — and I must admit, for that brief period at least, Fahrenheit was paramount.
I assigned some of the Civil Air Patrol cadets on the flight line to take charge of the airplane and accompanied her to the trailer, picking up the well-chilled Dick Jones and Bill Greene on the way. There were several other hospitable stewardesses there, and we spent the rest of the day in their company, with occasional forays out to check on our planes. We asked Miss Peplum and two others if they would show us the town, and much to our delight, they agreed to pick us up at the Naval air station that evening. We had a great time — dinner at Arnaud's, dancing at the Court of Two Sisters, then to one of the New Orleans all-night coffee-and-doughnut bars. The evening was so enjoyable that we did essentially the same thing the next night.
But the next night I committed a major faux pas with Miss Peplum. We were talking about our flying experience, a constant subject of discussion among fighter pilots, and she asked me how many flying hours I had. When I estimated my time at about 900 hours, she said, rather haughtily, "That's not very much. I have more than fifteen hundred."
It is a taunt that fighter pilots are accustomed to hearing from bomber or transport pilots, and without thinking I blurted out the standard riposte, "But how much time do you have on your back?" I of course meant inverted flying, but she misunderstood, turned red, and stomped off. I caught up with her, and after I explained what I had meant, she rejoined the group at the table. When they had recovered from their fit of laughter, Jones and Greene confirmed that those words were standard in the fighter pilot's lexicon but could easily be misconstrued by nonpilots. She graciously accepted their explanation, and all went well for the rest of the evening.