The test of the radio compass was added to the test program, and it would help in navigation on the long flight to Alaska. The only other radio navigation aid in the P-80 was a Detrola low-frequency receiver that could be used to receive the radio beams. It was of little use because it was located on the floor in an awkward position, was unreliable, and because a P-80 usually would not have enough fuel to go through the procedures required to determine the transmitter's location and then make a range approach.
On Thursday afternoon, August 26, we were advised by Lockheed that the P-80 was ready for pickup. An Eglin B-25 was leaving for Los Angeles early the next morning, and I was to be on it. The squadron adjutant sent me to base headquarters with a request for orders to be cut for the trip before the end of the day. (Mimeograph stencils had to be cut to print orders in those primitive days.) By great good fortune the young lady assigned to cut my orders was Glindel Barron, the blonde I had met at the beach and been impressed with earlier in the summer, so I had the opportunity to regale her with an inventory of the many sterling attributes of fighter pilots as opposed to mortals.
The next day, Friday, after a boring, noisy flight, I was dropped off at Van Nuys by the B-25 crew. When I checked with the Army Air Force duty officer, he told me that the airplane would not be ready until Wednesday or Thursday and that a room had been reserved for me at the Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles. After I checked into the hotel, I stopped at the ticket agency in the lobby and asked what was going on that weekend in the way of sports. I bought tickets to a college football game on Saturday, UCLA versus Oregon, and a professional game on Sunday, Rams versus Eagles. Both games were in the Coliseum, about a two-mile walk from the hotel. The tickets were ridiculously cheap compared with today's prices, less than $5 each. The agent said there were thousands of tickets available for the pro game. That was before television created pro-football mania. Now I have as much chance of obtaining a ticket to a Redskins game as I have of playing for the Redskins.
The weather was pleasant, and I enjoyed both games, especially the Eagles-Rams game. The Eagles were one of the best teams in the league at the time, with such stars as Steve van Buren, Tommy Thomas, Pete Pihos, and Bucko Kilroy. The Eagles won handily, although the game was the much-heralded first professional appearance of Tom Harmon, the great Michigan halfback. He was of special interest to me. I had last seen him in Hengyang, China, dressed in coolie clothes. He had just been shot down in a P-38, had parachuted behind Japanese lines, and been brought out by Chinese guerrillas. He looked better in the Coliseum than he did in China, but the Eagles were harder on him than the Japs would have been, constantly smearing him for big losses.
That evening I was in the hotel restaurant seated right next to the main aisle. As I was polishing off a gigantic banana split, an older gentleman stopped and said, "I wish I could eat one of those." I didn't understand his problem, since he looked as though he could afford it, but now that I have reached his age, I do understand his problem.
On Wednesday I got the welcome news that the P-80 would be ready to go the next morning. It came none too soon, as I was almost out of patience, money, and clean clothes. The next morning, when I went to sign for the plane after inspecting it, I asked that tip tanks be installed so I wouldn't have to land so often. I was told that not only were there no tip tanks available but also the pump in one of the leading-edge tanks was inoperative instead of the 755 gallons I was expecting, I would have only 381. If I chose to wait for a new pump to be installed it would take three or four days. Since the airplane was to undergo a complete inspection at the Eglin maintenance subdepot, I opted to take the airplane and leave immediately.
I changed into my flying suit, stuffed my toilet kit and dirty clothes in the ammunition boxes in the nose, and carefully folded my last uniform under the seat. I climbed in and began yo-yoing my way across the country. With so little fuel my range was limited to about 350 statute miles. I would take off, climb on course to about 35,000 feet, and almost immediately begin a slow descent to the next stop. At that time all aircraft being ferried were prohibited from flying at night or in instrument weather, so after landing at March Field in Riverside, California, Luke Field in Phoenix, Arizona, and Biggs Field in El Paso, Texas, I was overtaken by darkness and had to spend the night at Midland, Texas. Jets were still something of a rarity in the country, so refueling took much longer than it should have because of all the interest in the airplane and its cockpit. I had planned to spend the night at Carswell Field in Fort Worth but, because of the delays, couldn't make it before dark. Midland was not a regular base, and although it had some spartan quarters available, there was no place to eat that late. Retrieving my uniform, I went to the latrine to change and found to my horror that my new Parker 51 fountain pen, guaranteed not to leak in flight, had been completely incontinent, leaving me with a six- to eight-inch black spot on my shirt just below my wings. I debated skipping dinner but was starving, so I went to town on a shuttle bus and found a small restaurant. It seemed that every person I passed on the street and all the diners in the restaurant told me that my pen was leaking. I'm still trying to come up with a clever retort.
The next morning I took off bright and early, and after landings at Carswell, Barksdale Field in Shreveport, Louisiana, and Brookley Field in Mobile, Alabama, I arrived back at Eglin. The entire flight had taken only five hours and thirty minutes of flying time, with eight landings. The same flight, in a Mustang a year earlier, had taken eight and a half hours with two landings.
Besides the sense of accomplishment and the enjoyment of my first cross-country flight by jet, the five and a half hours increased my total jet flying time by 25 percent, to twenty-five hours. The eight landings had allowed me to make many more yards of face than the three landings with tip tanks would have, because so many more nonjet pilots got the chance to see a real jet pilot. I was looking forward eagerly to my next cross-country, which would be from Florida to Alaska, but I hoped to have a full fuel load, including tip tanks, for that 3,500-mile trip.
8
Snow-Bound
The P-80 I flew in from California went immediately to the Eglin subdepot for its acceptance inspection, and then it and the P-80 Barney was to fly were winterized for their upcoming cold-weather tests. Many of the fuel, oil, and hydraulic line seals were replaced with low-temperature seals, and lighter lubricants and hydraulic fluid replaced the standard fluids. The outer sections of the wings and tail assembly were painted bright red to make the aircraft more visible if they were forced to land, or crashed, on the snow-covered terrain.
Barney and I test-hopped the P-80s after the winterization was completed, and they both seemed as eager as we were to get the show on the road. The ammunition cans were removed from the noses, they were shipped up separately, and their spaces were packed with emergency gear, including sleeping bags, snowshoes, and flare pistols. Since the weather wouldn't be too cold until we arrived at our jumping-off point to Alaska — Great Falls, Montana — we stored our heavy parkas, fur-lined trousers, and mukluk boots in there as well. We would also be required to carry Colt .45 automatic pistols while flying over Canada and Alaska, but they would be issued to us in Great Falls.
In late morning on Saturday, October 19, we taxied away from the fighter squadron ramp, waving good-bye to the pilots who came to see us off, and took off for Barksdale Field, Shreveport, Louisiana, the first stop on our 3,500-mile journey. Since I had the radio compass in my plane, I was leading the flight. As we climbed on course for Barksdale, I tuned the radio compass to the Mobile, Alabama, range station to check it out. I could hear the range signal clearly in my headset, but the indicator needle just spun slowly in circles. It did the same when I tuned in other nearby stations. I turned it off, and it turned me off. I told Barney it wasn't working and continued on course, navigating by time and distance and pilotage (visual reference to landmarks on the ground). We flew through a small rain squall en route, which removed most of the paint on the leading edges of the wings. I knew this would irritate the crew chiefs, who would join us in Alaska, but since flying back through the rain wouldn't put the paint back on, there was nothing to be done.