The success of the first missions led us into the next phase, the inclusion of doglegs. This type of approach was designed to mislead the enemy as to the intended target. I learned that some precision was lost if the change in heading was much more than 30 degrees, since the plane covered a fair amount of distance in the turn itself. Also, it reduced the range, or fuel reserve, if I went too far in the wrong direction on the way to the target. A lesser, but irritating problem was the size of the map a dogleg made the strip map too wide to handle easily. When we chose an easily identified feature as the turning point, the dogleg missions went quite well.
Next we tried missions with formations of three and four planes. Some preliminary flights confirmed what we instinctively knew, that tight formations were not the way to go. There was no advantage in flying a tight formation that close to the ground. Besides being pretty hairy for the wingmen, the flight would have to climb to more than 100 feet before turning to ensure ground clearance for the plane on the inside of the turn. We found that a loose echelon formation inclined to the side opposite the intended dogleg turn was the safest and easiest to fly. The leader navigated, and the wingmen were responsible for avoiding obstacles in their flight paths.
One of the last missions in this project didn't turn out exactly as planned. Barney Turner was visiting from the University of Florida for a few days to get in some flying, so he and Rode went along as wingmen. The weather wasn't too good at Eglin but was better to the north. After the briefing, we took off and headed out on the course indicated on my strip map. We hit the early checkpoints right on time but were a little off on the last two. Even so, when I pulled up I expected to see the target, a dam on the Chattahoochee River, in front of us, but there was no damn dam in sight anywhere. In fact, to quote one of my former commanding officers, ''Didn't nothing on the ground look like nothing on the map." I immediately tuned my radio compass to the range station for Columbus, Georgia, which I thought would be the closest military airfield with good weather. The signal was strong, and we reached the base in less than fifteen minutes. The tower notified Eglin that we had landed, and after refueling we flew back at normal altitudes. The project officer met us on the ramp and sheepishly informed us why we had missed the target area so badly. He had put the wrong heading on the strip map, and none of us had noticed it, as we would have on a full map. That is what testing is all about, to discover potential problems and eliminate them. The need to check the headings carefully by comparing them with a full map before the mission was added to the final report.
At that time pilots were permitted to take their wives up in an Air Force plane for a thirty-minute flight once a year. Since all the fighters in my squadron were single seaters, I arranged to take Glyn up in an A-26 from the medium and light bomber squadron, whose ramp adjoined the fighter ramp. She donned one of my flying suits and a Mae West and then climbed up onto the wing, where I helped her into a parachute and carefully explained how to operate it. Despite the baggy flying suit and the bulky equipment, she still managed to look great. She climbed down into the copilot seat (this was a dual-control model), and after strapping her in, I began briefing her on emergency procedures. I explained that if we had to bail out, I would jettison the canopy, and she should release her seat belt, turn around, and dive headfirst onto the wing, slide off the trailing edge, count to three, and pull the ripcord. She said, "Forget it! There is no way I am going to dive off that wing. If anything goes wrong, I'll just stay in the airplane. I'm not about to make my first flight and first parachute jump on the same day." Luckily, nothing went wrong, and we had a most enjoyable flight, sharing the thrill of seeing familiar landmarks from a different perspective. But I resolved never to take her up in a military airplane again. Lacking the formal training, she would probably not get out if something went wrong. Evidently the Air Force came to the same conclusion and dropped the practice the next year.
One of the pilots on the base really milked the program dry. He was the only pilot in the photo test detachment, although I sometimes helped him out. He was running a whole series of tests on a new camera mounted in a B-25, and most of the flights were flown along the Gulf shoreline at less that 100 feet altitude. He took his wife along on one flight, and she enjoyed riding in the nose so much, basking in the sun and watching the remarkable blues and greens of the water, that he took her along on almost all his flights. He filled out a permission form for each flight but never turned it in. I think she must have logged about twenty hours by the time he finished the tests.
While Barney was at the University of Florida in Gainesville, one or more of his friends from Eglin would fly down to visit and let him get some flying time. Because Barney was a close friend and since both of my brothers were at the university at that time, I was invariably one of the pilots. We flew P-51s, B-25s, or A-26s, usually leaving Eglin in the late afternoon, arriving at Gainesville in about an hour, and returning late that night. Air Force pilots are required to log a certain number of hours of night flying time each year, and we met a good portion of our required hours on those flights.
The airport at Gainesville, Alison Field, is named after Maj. Gen. John Alison, a graduate of the University of Florida, a World War II fighter ace, and a distinguished leader. He had commanded the squadron I served with in China, the 75th Fighter Squadron, before I arrived in China and was practically a legend for his exploits while in China. I didn't know him at the time, but since then I have been fortunate enough to get to know him quite well, and he still retains his legendary status with me.
Most of the university visits were routine, but one flight turned out to be eventful. Rode and I were flying A-26s in loose formation with Rode leading on the trip down. Both airplanes were single-pilot models without copilot seat or dual controls. The flight engineer flew in the jump seat to the right and aft of the pilot. We had taken off a bit later than usual, and it was almost dark as we approached Gainesville. My engineer had asked if he could ride in the glass nose compartment to have a better view of the ground, and I had agreed. Without warning, about ten minutes from Alison Field, there was a loud explosion from the left engine, and it began streaming flames and heavy smoke. I shut down the engine and feathered the prop instantly. To my great relief the flame disappeared, and the smoke began to dissipate. The engineer must have set a world's record for the kneeling broad jump; he was strapped back in the jump seat before I had completed feathering the propeller. Rode called immediately, asking what had happened and if everything was under control. I told him that the left engine must have thrown a rod, the fire seemed to be extinguished, and there were no other apparent problems. It was the first time I had ever lost an engine in a twin-engine aircraft, but the A-26 is easy to handle on one engine. I landed without difficulty and was able to turn off onto the taxiway, letting the airplane roll as far from the runway as possible before shutting it down. I wasn't able to taxi to the ramp because the A-26 does not have nosewheel steering, and it cannot be taxied in a straight line on one engine without burning out the brakes.