Ray Evans and I played a dirty trick on one of the flight engineers assigned to the base flight squadron. That squadron had a few C-45s, B-25s, B-26s, and C-47s to be flown mostly by pilots on the base who were not in flying jobs but still had to fly a certain number of hours per year to meet the minimum USAF requirements. Most were good pilots, but a few were a bit rusty. All of these aircraft had enlisted flight engineers who accompanied the planes on cross-country flights. One of them was a staff sergeant who was afraid of flying, but he needed the flight pay to help support his six children. His natural apprehension had been enhanced by some bad experiences with a few of the rusty pilots.
About three years earlier Barney Turner, Dick Jones, and I took one of the Base Flight B-25s on a weekend cross-country accompanied by that sergeant. Dick and I were flying the first leg, and as we climbed into the cockpit the sergeant said, "Major Turner, I hope you will do most of the flying, because Captain Jones and Captain Lopez are fighter pilots." When Barney noted that he too was a fighter pilot, the sergeant whipped out his wallet and showed us pictures of his children and implored us to please be particularly careful. We assured him that we were every bit as interested as he was in having a safe flight. Since the weather was excellent the flight was smooth and uneventful.
The dirty trick started innocently enough when the base operations officer asked me to find a copilot and fly a C-47 to Brookley Air Force Base in Mobile, Alabama, about 100 miles west of Eglin, to pick up some cargo. Ray Evans agreed to accompany me, and we went to Base Flight, filed the clearance, and went out to the airplane. Who should be waiting there but the nervous father of six; he became more nervous when he learned that fighter pilots would be flying his C-47.
All went well on the short flight to Brookley. While the cargo was being loaded, Ray and I grabbed a bite at the snack bar, and the sergeant went to visit some friends on the base. After filing a clearance for the return flight, I went into the cargo office and signed the manifest and the weight-and-balance form. We were loaded with some 2,000 pounds of lighting equipment for the softball fields, consisting mostly of large floodlights and some aluminum mounting fixtures, well below the C-47's load limit of more than 5,000 pounds. But when we arrived at the airplane it looked as though we had 10,000 pounds aboard. The cabin was jammed with large cardboard boxes, and there was barely room to squeeze through to the cockpit. Just about then, the sergeant returned, and when he looked into the cabin he almost fainted. He protested that we couldn't possibly get off the ground with that kind of a load. I told him that I was pretty sure we could, because the runway was fairly long. He did not seem at all reassured but climbed in and followed us forward to the cockpit anyway.
After we had checked the engines and were ready to take off, I told him to go to the back of the cockpit area and keep his eye on the cargo during the takeoff run, because we would be in real trouble if it shifted. After he went back I told Ray to lean toward the center of the cockpit so the sergeant couldn't see the engine instruments. I advanced the throttles slowly to about 80 percent of the normal takeoff setting. The acceleration was barely noticeable, and we used well over three fourths of the runway before lifting off. By the time he came forward, white as a sheet, I was using the standard climbing power setting, and he remained convinced that the long takeoff roll was due to the excess weight. He looked so worried that we were sorry to have added to his normal ration of terror. It wasn't quite enough to cause him to quit flying, but he did quit flying with fighter pilots.
I was doing a lot of flying on the F-86A suitability and armament tests, and whenever possible I sneaked in a sonic boom or two. The Sabre was a joy to fly, and the testing went smoothly with a minimum of problems. During the armament tests we encountered a design problem that was easily solved. The Sabre was armed with six .50-caliber machine guns, three on each side of the nose. To reduce drag as much as possible the gun ports had retractable metal covers that were flush with the fuselage skin, except when the guns were firing. When the pilot pulled the trigger, the aft ends of the covers retracted inward, leaving a clear path for the bullets. When the trigger was released, the covers returned to their original flush position. There were actually two related problems with this system. The gun-port covers cut off the airflow to the guns after firing, preventing them from cooling properly. In addition to reducing the life of the gun barrels, the overheating increased the number of rounds that fired spontaneously (cooked off). Normally, the round that cooks off doesn't hit anything and is not a problem. In this case, however, it shot off part or all of the metal cover. The solution was obvious: remove the doors and accept the small drag penalty, which was done.
One of the pilots on the F-86 tests was Flight Lieutenant Williams, a Royal Air Force exchange officer assigned to the squadron. Flight lieutenant is the equivalent in rank to captain in the USAF. During the accuracy phase of the armament test he was firing at a ground target in a 30- or 40-degree dive when he failed to pull out, flew into the target, and was killed. The accident was attributed to target fixation (waiting too long to start the pullout), which happens occasionally in strafing attacks and ground gunnery. During the next few years there were several similar accidents, also attributed to target fixation. A near accident in an F-86 brought to light a problem that may have been the cause of several or maybe even all of these crashes.
A pilot firing at a ground target in a Sabre had just begun his pullout when the stick grip broke off in his hand. He was high enough, and quick enough, to grab the stick below the handle and recover safely from the dive. Upon inspection it was discovered that extensive corrosion had weakened the connection. The corrosion was caused by electrolytic action due to slight leaks in the wiring that was routed through the stick to the controls in the stick grip (gun trigger, bomb release button, trim controls, and nosewheel steering button). Heavier insulation on the wires eliminated the electrical leaks, and to my knowledge the problem never recurred.
There was one test program that seemed pointless at first. Called Rockets for Interceptors, it involved the firing of rockets from F-84s and F-86s at high altitudes. It seemed pointless because there were no targets to shoot at with our five-inch HVARs. We were just to fire them and observe whether they ran straight. Shortly afterward the reason for the tests became clear when the first Lockheed F-80C arrived for suitability testing. It was essentially a T-33 modified for use as an all-weather interceptor, with radar in the nose and the radar operator's position in the rear cockpit. The armament was twenty-four 2.75-inch folding-fin aircraft rockets (FFARs) mounted around the circumference of the nose. It was the first use of the lead-collision sight, which aimed the rockets at a point ahead of the target, where the rockets and the target would arrive simultaneously. Before the system was tested for accuracy, a functional test of the rockets themselves had to be completed. A major discrepancy emerged in these tests. When the rockets were fired in salvo, all twenty-four at once, which was the standard procedure, the engine flamed out. The first occurrence was thought to be a coincidence, but it happened every time the rockets were fired. This did not inspire much confidence in the crew, since they were essentially shooting themselves down. No airplanes were lost, but in combat in bad weather, the potential was there.