Eglin Field, with nine auxiliary fields and dozens of bombing and gunnery ranges, is the largest military facility in the United States, covering some 724 square miles of slash pine, scrub oak, and palmetto. It is situated on the Gulf of Mexico about halfway between Panama City and Pensacola. The beaches along that stretch of the Gulf are among the most beautiful in the world, with snow-white sand, reed-covered dunes, and bright blue-green water. Much of the gunnery was done over the water ranges a few miles offshore.
After checking in at Command and Group headquarters, I was told to report to the commanding officer (C.O.) of Squadron 611B, the fighter test squadron. The C.O., Major Muldoon, greeted me with well-disguised enthusiasm, saying, "Not another damn P-forty pilot from China. Doesn't Ed Rector ever quit? Well, I guess I'm stuck with you. Report to the operations officer, Major Schoenfeldt." I thought that was a most unpromising beginning to my career as a test pilot, but as I got to know Major Muldoon I found that though he ran a taut squadron and demanded the best from everyone, he was very fair and had a great sense of humor. He was also in a class by himself as a needler. He had commanded a P-38 squadron in North Africa, and Major Schoenfeldt had served under him there.
Major Schoenfeldt was dark-haired and stocky with a perennial smile. He too was a needler, but not quite in Major Muldoon's class. He greeted me pleasantly and gave me pilot's handbooks for the various types of planes in the fighter squadron, saying that I would have to pass a written exam on each plane before I could be checked out in it. Since virtually all the planes were single seaters, the first flight would, of necessity, be solo.
As I went from Major Schoenfeldt's office into the operations room a familiar voice said, "Well, Lope, it's about time you were getting here." It was Dick Jones, one of my best friends, whom I had known since my first day of active duty and who was my roommate in China. We had both flown the Curtiss P-40 Warhawk and the North American P-51 Mustang in the 75th Fighter Squadron in the 14th Air Force. In fact, we had flown our first air combat on the same mission when we scrambled as part of a group of twelve P-40s to intercept Japanese bombers that were attacking our base at Hengyang. On that flight Dick had shot down two Lily bombers while I had knocked down an Oscar fighter by running into it on a head-on pass for the first of my five victories. Seeing Dick was a pleasant surprise, since I had no idea that he was at Eglin. He had left for the States about a month before I did. He said that Major Cruickshank, also from China, was in the squadron. I began to see what Major Muldoon had meant by his P-40 pilot remark.
The 23rd Fighter Group had been formed in China to replace the Flying Tigers of the AVG when it was disbanded on July 4, 1942. Both Tex Hill and Ed Rector, who commanded the 23rd, were aces with the AVG, and Tex was the commander when I reported as a green, nineteen-year-old second lieutenant.
That night, in the club, Dick introduced me to Maj. Barney Turner, one of the most experienced and best-liked pilots in the squadron. Barney was about six feet tall, handsome, quiet, and very pleasant. He had flown P-40s in North Africa with the 79th Fighter Group of the Desert Task Force and had been at Eglin for about a year. He said his roommate was on temporary duty away from Eglin and I could room with him until he returned. Fortunately his roommate's transfer became permanent, and we roomed together for several years. Barney, Dick, and I became a well-known bachelor threesome and remain good friends to this day.
Dick, with his usual enthusiasm, told me that we had found fighter pilot's heaven. We had P-51Ds and Hs, P-38s, P-47s, P-63s, P-61s, a P-59 (the first U.S. jet), and all the ammunition in the world. What more could a fighter pilot ask?
The next morning I hesitatingly told Major Schoenfeldt that he had given me the pilot's handbook for the Martin B-26 Marauder, a bomber, by mistake. He said it wasn't a mistake, that the squadron had a B-26 to tow targets, and all the pilots had to take a turn at flying it. I protested that I had never flown a bomber, but he replied that neither had any of the other pilots in the squadron until they checked out in the B-26. Early in the war the B-26 had a reputation as a very hot and dangerous airplane. It was a bit short of wing area and had almost no margin for error with one engine out. Built in Baltimore, it was nicknamed the Baltimore Whore because it had no visible means of support. I was particularly conscious of its reputation because there was a B-26 group based at MacDill Field in Tampa, my hometown, and its slogan was "One a day in Tampa Bay." The B-26 was later extensively modified, and it compiled a very good record in the war.
A few days later, after an orientation flight as copilot in a CQ-3 (a Beech C-45 rigged as a mother ship for drones), I saw that I was to fly the next morning as copilot with Major Muldoon in the B-26. I carefully reviewed the pilot's handbook and questionnaire, somewhat apprehensive about checking out in a bomber, and with no less than the commanding officer.
Early the next morning I attended the flight briefing and walked out to the B-26 with Major Muldoon. I climbed into the copilot's seat, and after we were strapped in I said, "What do you want me to do?" He said, "Nothing." That was well within my capabilities, so I put my hands in my lap and watched him closely. We took off and climbed toward the gunnery range over the Gulf. It was much quieter and smoother than the B-25 I'd ridden in while in China. He set it on course roughly paralleling the beach, and the tow-reel operator reeled out the target. He then told me to take the controls and hold it on course. When we got to the end of the range he took the controls, made a 180-degree turn, then gave it back to me. Barney Turner was firing on our target with a P-38, and before he went back to re-arm he flew formation with us for a few minutes. I had never been close to a P-38 in flight; it was a beautiful sight with its twin booms and two counter-rotating propellers, all shining in the bright Florida sun. We P-40 pilots liked to tell P-38 pilots that the P-38 was nothing more than two P-40s with a Link Trainer in between, but I chose not to mention that to Major Muldoon.
After about three rather boring hours we landed, and as we walked back toward operations Major Muldoon said, "Well, Lopez, now you're checked out." I asked him, "What do you do if one engine quits?" He said, "In this squadron, engines don't quit!" and he was right. We never had an engine failure in the squadron while he was C.O., although we had several in later years.
It doesn't make much sense, but pilots who were trained on single-engine aircraft worry more about losing an engine in a twin-engine plane than they do in a single-engine. In single-engine airplanes you have only three choices, a dead-stick landing, a belly landing, or a bailout. In twin-engines you often have to fly for long distances on one engine operating under the stress of higher power, and you have to make a proper approach the first time because you usually don't get a second chance. I had a fair amount of twin-engine time before I got over that feeling. Later in my career I lost an engine once in a Douglas A-26 and three times in B-25s but had no trouble landing safely all four times.