“Racing,” as the saying goes, “improves the breed.”  And during the Roaring 20’s, the rage of the nation (and the world at large) was airplane racing.  While the sport would reach its ultimate form in the 1930’s with the likes of the Thompson Trophy races, one of the earliest trophy races was the Schneider Trophy, first put up in 1911 and competed for in 1913.  The Schneider Trophy was  a prize competition for seaplanes and sponsored by Jacques Schneider, a financier, balloonist and aircraft enthusiast, who offered a prize of roughly £1,000. The race was held eleven times between 1913 and 1931 and was meant to encourage technical advances in civil aviation.  However, as raceers are wont to do, it became a contest for pure speed with laps over a triangular course (initially 280 km, later 350 km).

Through the race in 1924, seaplanes participating in the race were pretty staid — certainly advancing, incrementally, for their time, but a bit stodgy.  Typical was the winning British entry at the 1922 event hosted at Naples, Ital (the Italians had won the previous race and as such, were hosts).  A waterborne hull, high mounted engine (to keep out of sea spray) and of course, biplane configuration made up the Supermarine Sea Lion II – which was not altogether indistinguishable from the 1921 winning Italian entry, the Macchi M.7:

Supermarine Sea Lion II (1922)

Macchi M.7 (1921)

The Americans entered the fray in 1923 with the Curtis CR-3 racer — and blew the competition into the weeds with a blazing record speed of 177.38 mph (remember the time).

Curtiss CR-3

The CR3 was the second of a pair of racers built by Curtiss in 1921, as the Navy’s entry for the land-based Pulitzer Trophy race which that year, was held in conjunction with the National Air Races in Omaha, Nebraska.  With a fuselage of laminated wood/wood veneer, mated to a CD-12 in-line (vice the more common radial) engine developing over 400hp, the CR-3 looked fast just sitting on the deck:

CR-1 (later re-designated CR-2)Pulitzer Tropy entrant (1921)

(cooling for the CD-12 was liquid and the radiators are the pineapple-shaped pods nestled in the “V” of the undercarriage)

As is evident from the above photo – this was a very clean aircraft for the time, dragwise.  There also weren’t any floats — more later.  By the time the aircraft were ready for the race in September (BTW – the order had been placed in June, of 1921, roughly three months from bid to competitive debut) for reasons unclear, the Services (Army and Navy) withdrew form official participation in the race.  Instead, the two aircraft were “loaned” out for competition purposes back to Glen Curtiss.  In turn, rather than collect dust and moths, the aircraft were put in to hard service by Curtiss who used them to break international records, such as when factory test pilot, Bert Acosta took the CR-3 to a world record speed of 197.8 mph over the company’s field on Long Island, NY.

Curtiss CR-2, CR-3, CR-4 (A6081) (C-4 represented ca. 1925)

With the new year (1922) the racers were entered for competition again.  Building off lessons learned, new wings were installed along with a new cooling system – embedded in the wings using surface radiators.  At the Pulitzer races in Detroit, the Navy entries placed 3rd (LT Brow in the CR-2 @ 193 mph) and 4th (Lt Williams, USMC in the CR-1 @187 mph).  Army pilots took first and second in Curtiss R-6s built that year and incorporating the new wings and cooling system of the CR-2.  In 1923, the Navy converted both the CR-1 and CR-2 to seaplanes and packed them off to the gobsmacking administered at the Schneider competition hosted by Britain at Cowes,  Isle of Wight.  Lt. David Rittenhouse (USMC) took the honors with a closed circuit speed of 177.38 mph (that’s him making the pylon turn in the painting above).  LT Rutledge (USN) was second in the former CR-1 at 173.46.  Such a beating was administered such that when 1924 came rolling around and it was  America’s turn to host (at Baltimore, MD), all the European competitors withdrew in a snit and the host cancelled the competition rather than win by default.

The Navy, however, wasn’t going to let the snub lay unchallenged and set out on a massive record breaking tear with an updated CR-3 (now the CR-4 – model # A6081) which posted a new closed-course record of 188.078 mph on 25 October.  A talley of all the records during this period include:

• Lieutenant G. T. Cuddihy, in a CR-3 powered with a Curtiss D-12 engine, broke a maximum world speed record of almost two years standing with 188.078 m.p.h.
• Lieutenant R. A. Ofstie, in a CR-3 with a Curtiss D-12 engine, broke world speed records for 100, 200 and 500 kilometers with marks of 178.25 m.p.h. for the 100 and 200 and 161.14 for the 500.
• Lieutenant G. R. Henderson, in a PN-7 flying boat equipped with two Wright T-2 engines, set four records for speed over 100 and 200 kilometers with loads of 250 and 500 kilograms, all at 78.507 m.p.h; and four records with a useful load of 1,000 kilograms with a speed of 78.507 m.p.h. for 100 and 200 kilometers, a distance record of 248.55 miles and a duration record of 5 hours, 28 minutes, 43 seconds.
• Lieutenant O. B. Hardison, also in a PN-7, set world records for speed over 100 kilometers, and for distance with a useful load of 1,500 kilograms at 68.4 m.p.h. and 62.137 miles, and three more with a useful load of 2,000 kilograms in speed for 100 kilometers of 68.4 m.p.h., distance 62.137 miles, and duration 1 hour, 49 minutes, 11.9 seconds.

Curtiss R3C-2 (ca. 1925)

In 1925, Curtiss rolled out a new, radical racer – the Curtiss R3C-1.  The subject of a joint Army/avy order (Army – 1, Navy – 2) the R3C-1 was leading edge state of the art.  A 610-hp, 1400 cuin D-12 engine was mated to a monocoque fuselage made of two layers of laminated spruce with a fabric coat doped on top for added strength.  The wings employed a thinner airfoil and mounted the now famous radiators (corrugated brass running chord-wise) in a single strut arrangement.  The upper wings were mated to the upper fuselage, improving visibility in the turn.  The rudder was slightly enlarged to account for the more powerful engine and at the Pulitzer races that October, Lt. Cyrus Bettis (USA) flew against the clock and recorded a course speed of 248.99 mph for four laps around the 50km triangle course.

Curtiss R3C-2 being prepped for 1925 Schneider Trophy race at Baltimore

The Schneider competition followed close on the heels of the Pulitzer races (this year at 1924’s site, Baltimore) and all three were converted to float planes.  Flying for the Army was Lt James Doolittle – and he swpet to victory with a record speed of 232.57 mph.  The two Navy entries were running competitively until being forced out near the end with engine troubles.

Army Lt James Doolittle and 1925 Schneder Trophy winning R3C-2

The following year, the Europeans were back at full throttle, having clearly taken notes while getting their clocks cleaned by the Americans.  While a modified (larger engine, different floats) variant of last year’s winner, the R3C-4 was entered by the US, on the Italian side a slick monoplane made the scene and with an engine producing a noteworthy 880hp, a winning speed of 281.66 mph ensured the Schneider was going back to Europe (no doubt to the relief of designer Mario Castodi, who reputedly was told by Benito Moussolini to produce a winner…).  The next year, at Venice, the British reasserted themselves with the Supermarine S.5, again raising the bar with a winning speed of 328.65 mph.

1926 Schneider Trophy winning Macchi M.39

1931 and Final Shneider Trophy Winning Supermarine S.6B

By 1931, in the face of a deepening world recession and spectre of hostile forces on the far horizon, the last Schneider Trophy was won by a Supermarine S.6B with a winning speed of 340.09 mph.  Through it all, the boundaries of aerodynamics, engine performance, materials and control had been pushed a little further.  And for those that doubted the efficacy of racing as a means of improving the breed, in less than a decade after the last prop was stilled at a Calshot Spit, UK, the descendants of these racers would be found in combat around the world:

Curtiss P-40 Warhawk

Macchi C.202-1

Supermarine Spitfire

And the R3C-2 that won in 1925?  You can still see it today hanging in the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum.  

©2010 Steeljaw Scribe. All Rights Reserved.

23 October: The U.S. ended all tactical air sorties into NVN above the 20th parallel and brought to a close Linebacker I operations. This gesture of good will in terminating the bombing in NVN above the 20th parallel was designed to help promote the peace negotiations being held in Paris. During May through October the Navy flew a total of 23,652 tactical air attack sorties into NVN. U.S. tactical air sorties during Linebacker I operations helped to stem the flow of supplies into NVN, thereby, limiting the operating capabilities of North Vietnam’s invading army. The carriers involved in Linebacker I operations were Enterprise, Constellation, Coral Sea, Hancock, Kitty Hawk, Midway, Saratoga, Oriskany and America.

It began over six months ago, on a late-April morning with Operation Pocket Money – launching from the flightdeck of USS Coral Sea (CVA-43), three A-6A Intruders of VMA-224 and six A-7Es (VA-22 and VA-94) headed for Haiphong harbor with a load of Mk 52-2 mines.  In response to what the west was calling the “Easter Offensive” by the North Vietnamese army, a concentrated air offensive against the north – the first since 1968, began with the seeding of mines in the critical ports and harbors of North Vietnam.  Overland, the USAF Seventh Air Force and the Navy’s Task Force 77 would send thousands of sorties feet dry in the quest of achieving the four objectives of LINEBACKER:

• Isolate North Vietnam from its outside sources of supply by destroying railroad bridges and rolling stock in and around Hanoi and northeastward toward the Chinese frontier;
• Target primary storage areas and marshalling yards;
• Destroy storage and transshipment points; and finally,
• Eliminate (or at least damage) the north’s air defense system

For the Navy, this meant that no less than nine of its carriers with their embarked airwings would be committed to the fight.  Beginning on 10 May, LINEBACKER demonstrated a new level of commitment of air power — 120 sorties by the USAF and 224 by the Navy on the first day.  It was also the day that saw the heaviest air-to-air engagements of the war, finishing with 11 MiGs shot down to the loss of 2 USAF F-4s in aerial engagements and 2 Navy aircraft to the heavy AAA and SAM action inland (over 100 SAMs fired alone that day).  The offensive marked the first engagements since the Navy began intense post-graduate type dogfight training at its new fighter weapons school (‘TOPGUN’), and the effect was immediate.  Navy fighters quickly built a 6:1 kill:loss ratio over the North Vietnamese MiGs (before it had hovered around 1:1) and Randy Cunningham and Willie Driscoll became the war’s first US aces when they downed three MiGs that day before being hit by an SA-2 and bailing out over water.  In the meantime, the USAF, lacking similar training, remained close to the 1:1 ratio (in fact, during one 12-day period in late May/early June, the USAF lost 7 aircraft to MiGs without shooting any down).  By August, however, with improved AEW and increased aircrew training and experience, the ratio climbed to an eventual 4:1.  The new air offensive also saw the employment of TV- and laser -guided bombs for the first time.  From April to the end of June, the number of sorties flown throughout the SEA theater climbed to 27,745 and included everything from A-7s to B-52s.  The impact was soon felt by the North Vietnamese army which, in its official history, noted that almost 70% of supplies bound for forward deployed units were destroyed enroute.

By fall, it was apparent to the North Vietnamese leadership that the campaign was deeply affecting not only the offensive in the South, but even at home with critical imports down by 30-50% and daily bombing of transportation and other critical infrastructure. Returning to negotiations with the US, the diplomatic impasse, and offensive broken, President Nixon ordered the suspension of bombing above the 20th parallel to commence 23 October 1972, bringing the first LINEBACKER to a close.  The US had lost 134 aircraft to combat or operational losses over the course of 39,420 sorties.  Navy losses numbered 43 (1 MiG, 2 induced, 13 SAM, 27 AAA) while Air Force’s totaled 51 (22 to MiGs, 5 induced losse s, 20 to AAA, 4 to SAMs).

Air Force General Robert N. Ginsburgh, in tallying the effect of LINEBACKER compared to earlier efforts, noted that LINEBACKER had “a greater impact in its first four months of operation than ROLLING THUNDER had in three and one-half years.”

©2010 Steeljaw Scribe. All Rights Reserved.

Checking in from the SJS-family’s TAD site this weekend (and yes, we still are in the pre-internet age back at the homeport, still awaiting the service visit by the provider…), where the lead Scriblet is tying the matrimonial knot (and once again, the weather-guessers appear to be winning as we contemplate low ceilings and fits of precipitation for the beach-side event).

Today’s contribution is from LCDR George J. Walsh, USN-Ret., an SB2C Helldiver pilot with significant time and experience in the Pacific campaign post-Midway.  George has been on a campaign to place the proper emphasis on the part of the sentence that runs “the dive bombers at Midway were successful, but only because…” and we are in full agreement.  The whole concept of dive-bombing and the attendant success the US Navy enjoyed at Midway and elsewhere in the Pacific has tended to be glossed over or assumed away as the fortunate happenstance of other external factors.  Nothing could be further from the truth  .  To underscore this view, the following perspective is provided by LCDR Walsh. – SJS

Many reasons have been offered to explain the success of the dive bomber squadrons in destroying all four of the Japanese aircraft carriers at the Battle of Midway on June 4th, 1942.

Some mythic reasons date from the Navy’s Communiqué #97 of July 14, 1942, the 1948 Bate’s Report issued by the Naval War College, the official history of Samuel Morison, and every historian since that time. Here are some of the reasons suggested:

1. The torpedo bombers drew all the Zeros down to sea level. It would take a Zero 7 minutes to climb from sea level to 15,000 feet.

2. The Japanese fleet had lost its cohesion as a result of the early attacks. The carriers were widely separated from one another and the ships of the screen, weakening anti-aircraft protection.

3. The Zero fighters ran out of ammunition downing the torpedo bombers. They carried only 60 rounds for their cannon and thirty seconds of ammunition for their machine guns.

4. Exposed torpedoes, bombs and fuel lines were left unprotected on the decks because of the confusion created by the attacks from Midway.

5. The Japanese carriers were not well constructed for defense with little armor and compartmenting. They had poor damage control making them easy prey for the dive bombers.

6. Japanese tacticians were more afraid of torpedoes than bombs and deployed their fighters accordingly.

7. The Japanese lookouts that should have spotted the high level dive bombers were distracted by the action at sea level fighting off the torpedo bombers.

8. The smoke created to foil the torpedo bombers’ attacks led the dive bombers to the Japanese carriers. Without the smoke from the torpedo defense the dive bombers would not have located the Japanese fleet.

While every historian has parroted one or more of these reasons, some of which are debatable, none has ever considered the features of dive bombing as a weapon system that would explain the decisive success of the dive bombers in snatching victory from defeat at the Battle of Midway. There has been more concern about finding some justification for the appalling losses of the Midway based airmen and the torpedo bombing crews in the uncoordinated attacks of that morning.

That afternoon, of all the planes with which our Navy had started the day, only 25 dive bombers were available for the final attack on Hiryu, the fourth Japanese carrier. Unescorted by fighters the dive bombers of the Enterprise finished off the Hiryu with the loss of only three planes despite being intercepted at high altitude and harassed by the Japanese Zeros’ combat air patrol before and during their dives. This victory negates the theory that the dive bombers succeeded in the morning only as a result of the diversion caused by the torpedo planes, a theory dismissed in Shattered Sword as a myth.

The dive bomber prevailed in the battle of Midway because it was the superior weapon. Post war historians not only failed to examine the superior qualities of dive bombing as a weapon, they even displayed an ignorance of the technique. Their emphasis was on what happened, ignoring details of how and why the dive bombers succeeded. This attitude is reflected throughout the war even though the dive bomber was our Navy’s most potent weapon after the submarine. During the war 175 Japanese warships were sunk by aircraft, primarily dive bombers. Submarines sank 143 warships and 39 were destroyed by the surface navy. (1)

Here are some facts about dive bombing I would like to make part of this record.

The dive bomber was the predecessor of today’s guided missile. They were programmed in the ready room aboard the carrier. They were launched from the deck and directed over sea and land to targets. Once over the target they tipped over from 10,000 feet and visually locked in on the target. In a plane diving at 300 knots the two-mile dive took 30 seconds with the image of the target growing ever larger in the pilot’s windscreen. Early in the war at Midway pilots followed pre-war doctrine and released their bombs at 2,000 feet or more. As the war progressed bombs were released at 1,000 feet (2) before pulling out. At 506 feet per second this was only two seconds before impact.

In other words the only difference between the WW II dive bomber and the Tomahawk missile was these two seconds. The only difference between our Navy’s dive bombers and the Japanese Kamikaze was these two seconds. Dive bombers were the first “Smart Bombs”, and the Japanese were the first to employ aircraft as suicide weapons

At the Battle of Midway the Japanese had no radar and maintained radio silence. Their fighters were vectored to intercept targets by bursts of anti aircraft fire. By the time dive bombers were in range of anti-aircraft fire they were almost at the push over point of their attacks.

Once the Dauntless dive bombers were committed to the vertical dive with dive flaps deployed it was almost impossible for the speedy Zeros to maneuver into an effective firing position. This was demonstrated in the afternoon attack on the Hiryu. Unescorted by fighters the dive bombers of the Enterprise finished off the Hiryu with the loss of only three planes despite being intercepted and harassed by the Japanese Zeros’ combat air patrol before, during and after their dives.

The bomb dropped at high speed by a dive bomber reached its terminal velocity and impacted the target vertically. This combination of mass and momentum helped make the Midway dive bombers effective against the Japanese carriers.

However, the lack of armor piercing aerial bombs limited the effectiveness of the dive bombers on follow up attacks against the heavy cruisers Mogami and Mikuma on June 7th. It took hits by 6 bombs to sink the Mikuma, and the Mogami escaped with severe damage after 6 bomb hits.

Pre-war attack doctrine allocated the dive bombers role to flak suppression so the torpedo bombers could deliver the killing blows. This meant that the bombs that struck the Mikuma and Mogami had impact fuses that shredded the superstructure of the heavily armored decks of the cruisers but failed to penetrate to the vitals of the ships.(3)

After Midway, as the effectiveness of the dive bomber was recognized, armor piercing bombs were soon added to the carriers’ arsenals.

The dive was always under control. With dive flaps deployed the aircraft would quickly reach a constant speed (terminal velocity). This could not be achieved with an aerodynamically clean plane like the Zero that would continue to accelerate in a vertical dive. This near vertical dive had another defensive advantage. Japanese ships had few HA (high angle) anti-aircraft guns. The targeted ship could not elevate most of its anti-aircraft guns to fire straight up. Even then the Dauntless presented a slim head-on target profile to enemy gunners. Screening ships had very difficult deflection shots at a deceptive flight path and only 30 seconds to adjust aim and range.

On the other hand torpedo planes flew low over the water at slow speed through the entire enemy fleet. Fighters and the screening ships’ anti-aircraft fire picked them up as far as twenty miles out and tracked them all the way in under constant fire to their drop point 800 yards from the target. To launch their torpedoes the planes maneuvered slowly for beam shots on the Japanese carriers and flew directly into the broadside barrage of all the target’s AA guns.

In fanning out to attack torpedo squadrons lost the massed defensive firepower of their gunners’ machine guns while in stepped down V of V formations. Each torpedo plane became a one on one target for the Zero fighter’s machine guns and cannon, a terribly uneven match.

Lt. Cmdr. John Waldron, leading the Hornet’s VT-8 torpedo squadron, found the Japanese fleet and attacked at 0930 hours without the cover of the dive bombers and fighters ignoring the warning of USF-74’s prewar doctrine that such an attack would be futile. Waldron was an experienced naval officer and should have known it was suicidal when he led his men to attack.

“Torpedo planes are extremely vulnerable just before launching a torpedo attack. The success of an unsupported torpedo attack upon the enemy main body with good visibility is considered doubtful, especially if there is a protecting screen. ”(4)

All 15 planes of Waldron’s command were shot down without scoring a single hit. Of 30 men in the crews only one man survived. At 1000 hours the Enterprise’s VT-6 torpedo squadron of 14 planes was expended in the same useless way with no cover from the dive bombers or fighters. Four survived.

The dive bomber squadrons maintained the mutually supporting defensive strength of their V of V formations right up to the push over into their dives. The rear cockpit gunners rode the dives looking backwards while manning their machine guns for immediate defense on pull out.

Even pilots of other services have a minimal understanding of dive bombing. All military pilots have put aircraft in vertical dives, and many have dropped bombs from a diving plane, but our Navy’s dive bombing was different from the diving attacks of conventional aircraft.

The unique features engineered into the Dauntless SBD enabled the pilot to fly a controlled vertical flight from 10,000 feet or more to sea level, tracking a moving target ship as small as 40 feet wide which was taking evasive action. Of these features most important were the split wing trailing edge perforated dive flaps or “brakes” to retard diving speed and allow more abrupt pullouts. Wings were strengthened to withstand the high G forces at pull out. A yoke was designed to throw the bomb clear of the aircraft’s propeller when the bomb was dropped in a vertical dive.

Ideally the dive bombing aircraft, in a vertical 90 degree attitude, plunged at a 70 degree flight path because of the remaining lift on the wings. The target, at 24 knots would travel 1,214 feet while a plane dived from a two mile altitude. Wind was also a factor. The aircraft was literally flown down the dive path at constant speed, using ailerons and elevators to continually adjust the point of impact until bomb release and pull out. Neither the Stuka nor the Val was designed for bombing with extremely high dive paths.(5)   Instead of trailing edge split wing dive flaps their device was a flap that dropped vertically from the center of the wing spar. This also affected lift and the trim of the aircraft. As a result they were not as accurate as our Navy’s dive bombers without descending to lower altitudes.

Dive Brake Comparison (l to r): Dauntless, Val, Stuka

It was not the screaming power dive of some historians. The image of the screaming dive bombers was created by the German Stukas, which used sirens activated by air pressure as a terror weapon against troops. Actually our pilots retarded the throttle and put the propeller in high pitch while arming the bomb and deploying the dive brakes.

Of 223 aircraft of all types embarked on the three American carriers at the Battle of Midway and 114 land based on Midway atoll, only the carrier based dive bombers inflicted any serious damage on the Japanese carriers and that damage was the devastating margin of victory. Previously the dive bombers had incapacitated the Japanese carrier Shokaku with three bomb hits at the Battle of Coral Sea preventing Shokaku from participating in the Battle of Midway.

A major unasked question about the Battle of Midway is why Admiral Fletcher selected so distant a launch position on the morning of June 4th.

The original plan ordered by Admiral Nimitz was to take a dawn position 200 miles north of Midway. Instead both task forces were 260 miles northeast of Midway two hours after dawn. When the Japanese carriers were sighted Spruance had to turn further away from the enemy into a light southeast wind to launch. Fletcher had to run southeast away from the enemy to retrieve search planes dispatched to the north at dawn as a precaution.

With days to prepare and knowledge that the Japanese fleet would be attacking from the north west into the prevailing wind why did Admiral Fletcher take up such a poor opening position?

Much has been written about the argument between Admiral Spruance and Miles Browning about the 0700 launch from Task Force 16 but no one has raised the question of why they were so far out of position three hours after dawn. Under cover of darkness they could easily have moved 50-75 miles closer to Midway and the anticipated track of the Japanese, to reach the planned 200 mile position north of the islands.

This would have resulted in properly coordinated attacks by our Air Groups, shorter range to the targets and an increase of their impact. Earlier arrivals would have allowed time for searches. Losses that occurred in combat and from ditching after fuel exhaustion would have been minimized.

By 1020 in the morning of June 4th at the Battle of Midway the Japanese had fought off eight separate attacks, defeating all the American forces sent against them. Admiral Chuichi Nagumo and his staff were jubilant. It seemed that their ships were invulnerable. The American pilots were brave but harmless. Midway was in flames and open to the invasion troops. The American fleet had been located and the four Japanese carriers were preparing to launch hundreds of planes against them. If they had succeeded the Yorktown, Enterprise and Hornet would probably have joined our Pearl Harbor battleships at the bottom of the sea. At that point the U.S. Navy had lost the Battle of Midway.

Only the dive bombers were left as an effective strike force. The only thing that stood in the way of looming defeat that could change the course of the war for the Allied forces was the persistence of the three squadrons of American dive bombers searching the vast Pacific for the Japanese carriers. With Lt. Cmdr. Max Leslie leading, 17 Dauntless dive bombers of VB-3 from the Yorktown approached at high altitude from the southeast, trailing their lost torpedo squadron. Simultaneously 30 Dauntless of Lt. Cmdr. Wade McClusky’s VB-6 and VS-6 from the Enterprise approached from the opposite direction. McClusky continued on despite the fact that all of his pilots were low on fuel; some of the planes had reached the point of no return and never made it back to their carriers.

All of the squadron commanders were graduates of Annapolis. The United States Navy’s peacetime planning had not only provided us with inspired strategists like Admirals King and Nimitz. It had provided us with mid-rank tactical officers to take the lead in battle. All were experienced enough to know the odds against them. Without fighter support and running out of fuel, they pressed home their attacks, laying their lives on the line, matching the finest battle traditions of our Navy’s history.

At 1025, almost an hour after the futile attack of Torpedo Squadron 8, the dive bombers approached unseen at 15,000 feet and plunged into near vertical dives, pulling out low over the Japanese carriers seconds after dropping their bombs. 500 pound and 1000 pound bombs smashed into the flight decks of the Kaga, Akagi and Soryu. In minutes all three of these first line fleet carriers were in flames as the Dauntless dive bombers retracted their dive flaps and advanced throttles to take evasive action low over the sea, gunners fighting off the Zeros as the pilots headed back toward the American fleet.

16 of our dive bomber planes ran out of fuel and did not make it back to their carriers. It was another heroic effort similar to Torpedo Squadron 8’s sacrifice, but this time the sacrifice of these brave dive bomber crews paid off.

What had been shaping up to be another glorious victory for Admiral Nagumo in repelling 9 separate American attacks that morning was suddenly changed by the dive bombers into the first major defeat suffered by the Japanese Navy in 350 years!

At the conclusion of the film, MIDWAY, Henry Fonda as Admiral Nimitz looks up at a carrier and comments “Were we better than the Japanese or just luckier”? It was one of the better lines of the film; for Admirals Fletcher and Spruance were lucky…lucky to have the superb Dauntless dive bombing weapon and dedicated men like Max Leslie and Wade McClusky to lead their squadrons.

This essay has been written to assure that at least this short life of the dive bomber is given its proper place in history. It is dedicated to the men who fought and died flying this spectacular weapon, and to the few who still survive. The time has come to face the truth about the Battle of Midway and to portray the heroic story of the dive bombers without the well intentioned qualifying comments.

I suggest a good place to start would be with a movement to have Lt. Commanders Max Leslie and Wade McClusky awarded posthumous Medals of Honor.

George J. Walsh

Lt. Cmdr. USNR (ret)

gjwalco@msn.com

___________________

Endnotes:

(1) Warship Losses of WW II, by David Brown, Table Page 229

(2) Helldiver Squadron, by Robin Olds, Pages 141, 144, 188

(3) The Barrier and the Javelin by H. P. Willmott, Page 222

(4) USF-74, Section 2-407. (USF-74 was prepared under the direction of Admiral Halsey.)

(5) Destined For Glory, by Thomas Wildenberg, Page 234 Note 9

(cross-posted @ USNI blog  )

©2010 Steeljaw Scribe. All Rights Reserved.

VW-4 Hurricane Hunters

VW-4 WV-3 Super Connie

As Hurricane Bill sits off the coast today, dumping copious amounts of rain on the SJS homestead (such as it is at the moment), we pause to consider a community of aviators and scientists whose mission brings them face to face with The Beast, under conditions normally sane aviators strive to avoid.  Today we take much for granted, not least of which is the timeliness and quantity of data and warning we enjoy as these fearsome storms wend their way across the broad ocean areas and threaten landfall.  It wasn’t always so – and that brings us to today’s Flightdeck Friday, the Hurricane Hunter edition. – SJS

Long before satellites carpeted the globe with their all-seeing, all tracking weather eyes, hurricanes and other major tropical storms were identified, located and reported on by ships at sea and observations from remote locations.  As often as not, the location of the center, storm size estimate and track was as much chance and good luck as it was application of scientific principles.  To be sure, the timeliness of any subsequent reporting was severely handicapped, even with the addition of radio reports.

VP-23 PB4Y-2's over NAS Miami, August 1949

P2V-3W Neptune

The addition of aircraft with the ability to cover long distances in relatively short order began to improve the reporting.  Immediately after the war, the PBM Mariner and PB4Y Privateer were drafted into service for hurricane recce, the long legs of the Privateer in particular (range of 2800 nm) having served the Navy well in WWII for convoy protection and ASW duties, with some 700+ procured. While several of the Navy’s patrol-bomber squadrons (VPB) conducted hurricane recce, it was the establishment of Weather Reconnaissance Squadron THREE (VPW-3) on 17 May 1946, that signaled the start of dedicated hurricane recce operations (note: it still had a secondary mission of ASW/long-range patrol).  Operating radar equipped PB4Y-2s, VPW-3 departed NAAS Camp Kearney, CA for NAS Miami and its first season of hunting hurricanes in the Caribbean.  Like most of naval aviation in the inter-war period between WWII and Korea, VPW-3 underwent several designation changes, even while its missions fundamentally remained unchanged.  On 15 November 1946 it was re-designated Meteorology Squadron THREE (VPM-3) and  as Heavy Patrol Squadron (Landplane)THREE (VP-HL-3) on 8 December 1947, the second squadron to be assigned the VP-HL-3 designation.  Re-designated Patrol Squadron TWENTY THREE (VP-23) on 1 September 1948, the squadron finally split in 1949, with a majority of the planes and personnel heading north to NAS Brunswick as the VP-23 Seahawks with a burgeoning Cold War mission of ASW and mining, and the remnant was commissioned as Weather Squadron TWO (VJ-2) in 1952.  Before heading north, however, VP-23 flew into a record 33 hurricanes during the 1949 season which ran from 1 Jun – 1 Nov 1949.  The squadron also played a feature role in the 1949 movie, Slatterly’s Hurricane  .  1954 brought a change in aircraft (P2V-3W and later, P2V-5F Neptune’s equipped with the APS-20) and a change in designation, this time for the last time, to Airborne Early Warning Squadron FOUR (VW-4).  VW-4’s mission, following that established in VJ-2, was weather reconnaissance and a plane was in the works that would change the face of hurricane early warning.

At the end of WWII, the development of AEW radar had taken two clear paths – one, CADILLAC I,   had led to the development of a carrier-based AEW capability using the TBM-3W.  By August 1945, a det of FAETUPAC TBM-3Ws were onboard USS Ranger and preparing for the invasion of Japan.  At the same time, CADILLAC II  was putting the finishing touches on an AEW variant of the B-17G, designated PB-1W.  The concept of operations for this AEW program was to bring an organic CIC capability aloft and allow the air-battle to be plotted and fought even further from the battle force than what the more limited TBM-3Ws would allow.  After the war, the Navy continued its work on AEW radar, looking for a platform that would allow a larger antenna and more powerful radar to be carried aloft.  Greater endurance, longer patrol ranges and substantially improved coverage – all earnestly sought.  A transport from Lockheed would provide the answer.

TWA Lockheed L-749, 1951

Lockheed WV-1 at Barbers Point, 1952 (PB-1W in background)

Lockheed PO-1W

In 1949, the Navy acquired two L-749 Constellations as proof-of-concept prototypes.  Mounting the proven, but less powerful AN/APS-20 below and an AN/APS-45 height-finding radar mounted above the fuselage imparting a double-hump look.  Looking for improved range, the Navy then chose the new Super Constellation (L-1049).  With increased fuel capacity (some in new tip tanks) and mounting four Wright R-3350-DA3 Turbo Compound 0 18-cylinder supercharged radial engines, boasting 3,250 hp each, the new WV-2 (nee PO-2W) had a range of over 4,200 nm and plenty of power to carry aloft the larger APS-76 (later variants were the APS-82 and -95 AEW radars).  With the larger antenna and more power, the WV-2 could “see” well out past 200 nm with its radar, an swept area that could handle plotting not only hostile aircraft inbound to the United States (for the primary mission of the WV-2 was for the AEW barrier on both coasts), but the largest of storms as well.

Lockheed WV-2 of VW-1 overflies USS Sellstrom (DER-255) while flying the AEW Barrier Patrol (1957)

Radar plot of Hurricane Donna from VW-4 WV-2 (1960)

VW-4 WC-121N (WV-3) (1967)

By 1958, VW-4 was being equipped with the WV-2 (later updated to a specially configured WV-3/WC-121N).  Equipped thus, VW-4 could survey a swept area of 200,000 sq. nm and over the course of a mission, cover 1.5 million sq nm.  From 1958  through 1972 the Super Connie served with distinction in VW-4.  Long after the AEW barrier patrol had been stood down, when the other examples of the WV-2/EC-121K were either retired or flying special missions in Vietnam and at home, the Hurricane Hunters pressed onward into the worst mom Nature could throw at them.  It is perhaps noteworthy that in so doing, not a single WV-2 was lost.  In fact, in all of VW-4’s operational history, only one aircraft and crew – a P2V that was penetrating Hurricane Janet   in Sept 1958, was their sole loss.  Key in this equation was the toughness of the WV-2.  While designed and optimized for speed, the Connie developed a reputation for toughness on these flights, bringing her crews back even after some particularly harrowing flights.  One extreme example was what occurred on 24 August 1964 as Hurricane Cleo gathered strength.  A Category 3 storm, Cleo was approximately 85- 120 nm SSW of Puerto Rico and moving west. Launching at 0850 that morning, a VW-4 WV-3 (BuNo 137891) departed NAS Guantanamo Bay, Cuba to conduct a  low-level, daylight penetration and then land at the NAVSTA Roosevelt Roads. They were to collect the usual weather data as on all penetrations, the lowest barometric pressure, areas of precipitation and extent of winds including the highest winds in the storm.  But as the record will show – this was anything but a “normal” Cat 3 hurricane:

VW-4 WV-3/WC-121N after penetrating Hurricane Cleo (1964)

At 12:45 pm came the first real test. Whirling and swirling just ahead, five miles high and twenty-five miles thick lay the deadly wall cloud. Surface wind increased, 115…120, humidity was now 100% with a steady wall of water. The aircraft lurched forward. The engines were straining. The pilot called for more power. The fury below was all white. Turbulence increased to the point where all the cockpit instruments seemed to be dancing as if suspended in air. They were almost unreadable. Lieutenant Commander Don Edgren, who was at the controls, had all he could do to keep the aircraft upright and the wings somewhere close to level. Finally, the plane punched into the area which was where the eye was seen on radar but as they left the wall behind them, the pilots and crew stared in astonishment. The storm had no calm eye. It should have been a big, cloud-domed room about fifteen miles in diameter. Instead it was a wild, confused whirlwind turned loose on the aircraft. Winds were of exceedingly high velocity blowing in several directions at the same time. Turbu­lence was extreme. The plane was being tossed around like a toy. Reese and Edgren tried to make several turns but the plane was blown into the wall cloud a number of times. This was a storm with an eye gone mad. No one had ever seen anything like it before. There was no peaceful place to rest and relax for this crew. They had hoped to have a cup of coffee while the meteorologists took the pulse of the storm, instead everyone was just hanging on for dear life. (More here: navyhurricanehunters.com  )

By 1972, VW-4 was changing aircraft once again, this time for a modified version of the WP-3A.  The transition was not long though as VW-4 was stood down from hurricane hunting in 1975 and the mission passed to the 53rd Weather Reconnaissance Squadron  , flying the WC-130 based at Keesler AFB, and NOAA’s Hurricane Hunters  , operating out of MacDill AFB, flying WP-3Ds and Gulfstream IV’s.

VW-4 WP-3A over NAS Jacksonville (1973)

WC-130 of the 53rd Weather Reconnaissance Squadron

NOAA's WP-3D and Gulfstream IV Hurricane Hunters

Still, while the aircraft and organizations have changed, the mission – and the perils, haven’t:

Eyewall of Hugo

Hugo radar image prior to penetration by NOAA WP-3D

“WE’VE GOT FIRE COMING OUT OF NUMBER THREE!” Terry’s urgent cry shatters the stunned silence on the intercom.

“And I see something hanging from number four,” adds Sean, his voice sounding strangely calm.

For several eternal terrifying seconds, I watch the massive, white-frothed waves below us grow huge and close. I wait for impact, praying for survival. With two engines damaged, both on the same wing, I know that our odds are not good.

But my prayers are answered by the cool, professional reaction of the cockpit crew. Gerry snaps us up out of the right-rolling dive, a perilous 880 feet from the water. Steve Wade hits the kill switch on engine number three, and the 30-foot long flames shooting out of it die as the flow of fuel chokes off. Lowell and Frank take charge of keeping us in the eye, scanning the inside to size up where our path should take us.

A dark mass of clouds lies directly ahead, seconds away. Is it the eyewall? Or merely harmless low scud in the eye? There is no time think, no time to plan the best flight path. We must turn now to avoid the clouds. If we hit the eyewall again at this altitude, the storm will surely kill us. We must stay in the eye. (Read the rest here: Hunting HUGO 0)

©2010 Steeljaw Scribe. All Rights Reserved.

20 July 1969

102:42:08 Duke: Roger. Copy. (Pause) Eagle, Houston. You’re Go for landing. Over.
102:42:13 Armstrong (on-board): Okay. 3000 at 70.
102:42:17 Aldrin: Roger. Understand. Go for landing. 3000 feet.

102:42:19 Duke: Copy.
102:42:19 Aldrin: Program Alarm. (Pause) 1201
102:42:24 Armstrong: 1201. (Pause) (On-board) Okay, 2000 at 50.
102:42:25 Duke: Roger. 1201 alarm. (Pause) We’re Go. Same type. We’re Go.
102:42:31 Aldrin: 2000 feet. 2000 feet.
102:42:33 Armstrong: (On-board) (With some urgency in his voice, possibly as he sees West Crater) Give me an LPD (angle).
102:42:34 Aldrin: Into the AGS, 47 degrees.
102:42:35 Duke: Roger.
102:42:37 Armstrong (on-board): (Confirming Buzz’s LPD readout) 47. That’s not a bad looking area. (Garbled) Okay. (Pause) 1000 at 30 is good. What’s LPD?
102:42:41 Duke: Eagle, looking great. You’re Go. (Long Pause) Roger. 1202. We copy it.
102:43:01 Aldrin: 35 degrees. 35 degrees. 750. Coming down at 23 (feet per second).
102:43:07 Armstrong (on-board): Okay.
102:43:07 Aldrin: 700 feet, 21 (feet per second) down, 33 degrees.
102:43:10 Armstrong (on-board): Pretty rocky area.
102:43:11 Aldrin: 600 feet, down at 19.
102:43:15 Armstrong (on-board): I’m going to…
102:43:16 Aldrin: 540 feet, down at…(LPD angle is) 30. Down at 15. (Pause)
102:43:26 Aldrin: Okay, 400 feet, down at 9 (feet per second). 58 (feet per second) forward.
102:43:32 Armstrong (on-board): No problem.
102:43:33 Aldrin: 350 feet, down at 4.
102:43:35 Aldrin: 330, three and a half down. (Pause)
102:43:42 Aldrin: Okay, you’re pegged on horizontal velocity.
102:43:46 Aldrin: 300 feet (altitude), down 3 1/2 (feet per second), 47 (feet per second) forward. Slow it up.
102:43:52 Aldrin: 1 1/2 down. Ease her down. 270.
102:43:58 Armstrong: Okay, how’s the fuel?
102:44:00 Aldrin: Eight percent.
102:44:02 Armstrong (on-board): Okay. Here’s a…Looks like a good area here.
102:44:04 Aldrin: I got the shadow out there.
102:44:07 Aldrin: 250 (feet altitude), down at 2 1/2, 19 forward. (Pause)
102:44:13 Aldrin: Altitude-velocity lights.
102:44:16 Aldrin: 3 1/2 down, 220 feet, 13 forward. (Pause)
102:44:23 Aldrin: 11 forward. Coming down nicely.
102:44:25 Armstrong (on-board): Gonna be right over that crater.
102:44:24 Aldrin: 200 feet, 4 1/2 down.
102:44:26 Aldrin: 5 1/2 down.
102:44:29 Armstrong (on-board): I got a good spot (garbled).
102:44:31 Aldrin: 160 feet, 6 1/2 down.
102:44:33 Aldrin: 5 1/2 down, 9 forward. You’re looking good.
102:44:40 Aldrin: 120 feet.
102:44:45 Aldrin: 100 feet, 3 1/2 down, 9 forward. Five percent (fuel remaining). Quantity light.
102:44:54 Aldrin: Okay. 75 feet. And it’s looking good. Down a half, 6 forward.
102:45:02 Duke: 60 seconds (of fuel left before the ‘Bingo’ call).
102:45:04 Aldrin: (Velocity) light’s on.
102:45:08 Aldrin: 60 feet, down 2 1/2. (Pause) 2 forward. 2 forward. That’s good.
102:45:17 Aldrin: 40 feet, down 2 1/2. Picking up some dust.
102:45:21 Aldrin: 30 feet, 2 1/2 down. (Garbled) shadow.
102:45:25 Aldrin: 4 forward. 4 forward. Drifting to the right a little. 20 feet, down a half.
102:45:31 Duke: 30 seconds (until the ‘Bingo’ call).
102:45:32 Aldrin: Drifting forward just a little bit; that’s good. (Garbled) (Pause)
102:45:40 Aldrin: Contact Light.
102:45:43 Armstrong (on-board): Shutdown
102:45:44 Aldrin: Okay. Engine Stop.
102:45:45 Aldrin: ACA out of Detent.
102:45:46 Armstrong: Out of Detent. Auto.
102:45:47 Aldrin: Mode Control, both Auto. Descent Engine Command Override, Off. Engine Arm, Off. 413 is in.
102:45:57 Duke: We copy you down, Eagle.
102:45:58 Armstrong (on-board): Engine arm is off. (Pause) Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.
102:46:06 Duke: (Momentarily tongue-tied) Roger, Twan…(correcting himself) Tranquility. We copy you on the ground. You got a bunch of guys about to turn blue. We’re breathing again. Thanks a lot. (Source: NASA Official Transcript 1)

It began life as a rough model constructed of paperclips and wood. It was the first true spaceship, designed for operations exclusively outside the Earth’s atmosphere. It had a 100% mission completion rate and on one flight, was the slender thread that brought three astronauts back safe to Earth. It was built by the legendary Grumman Ironworks at Bethpage New York. It was the Lunar Excursion Module (LEM) later known as just the Lunar Module or LM. And thirty-eight years ago today, it was the vehicle that put the first men on the Moon.

Early in the decision-making process of how to get to the moon, two concepts were being considered – direct ascent to the moon or Earth-Orbit Rendezvous (EOR). In the first case, the moon landing would be accomplished by a single vehicle, shedding stages along the way. This would have required enormous lift capability (the Nova rocket  ) for launch from Earth and still have considerable mass for the return launch from the Moon. Alternately, EOR would launch components into Earth orbit where they would be assembled into a single vehicle which again, would land on the Moon. Like direct ascent, it would also have a substantial mass to both safely land on the Moon and launch to return to Earth. A guerilla-approach by supporters of the Lunar Orbit Rendezvous (LOR) eventually gained acceptance. One Saturn V would launch a spacecraft that was composed of modular parts. A command module would remain in orbit around the moon, while a lunar module would descend to the moon and then return to dock with the command module while still in lunar orbit. In contrast with the other plans, LOR required only a small part of the spacecraft to land on the Moon, thereby minimizing the mass to be launched from the Moon’s surface for the return trip. Now it was just a matter of designing the lunar lander…

Early configurations of the LEM included a forward docking port as it was believed the LEM crew would be active in docking with the Command /Service Module. Early designs included large curved windows. Configuration freeze did not start until April 1963 when the ascent and descent engine design was decided. In addition to Rocketdyne a parallel program for the descent engine was ordered from Space Technology Laboratories in July 1963, and by January 1965 the Rocketdyne contract was cancelled. As the program continued there were numerous redesigns to save weight (including “Operation Scrape”), improve safety, and fix problems. For example initially the module was to be powered by fuel cells, built by Pratt and Whitney but in March 1965 they were paid off in favor of an all battery design. The initial design had the LEM with three landing legs. Three legs, though the lightest configuration was the least stable if one of the legs were damaged during landing and the most stable, 5, was too heavy. The compromise was four landing legs. As features were dropped for weight consideration, the shape became more angular until it emerged as the LEM we all have come to know and love.

Despite these actions, lunar module costs had not leveled off by late spring. In-house cost control and forecasting had also begun to deteriorate, aggravating the problems already encountered. After a ten-day review, a review team reported its findings to company corporate officers and NASA officials with substantial recommendations on program management, costs, subcontractor control, and ground support equipment. To bring about the kind of cost forecasting and control that NASA wanted, Grumman adopted “work packages” – breaking the program down into manageable segments, with strict cost budgets, and assigning managers to ride herd on each package. By linking tasks to manpower, program managers could better judge and control work in progress. This approach was a real departure from the commodity-oriented approach used by Grumman until that time.

On top of the contracting difficulties, the LEM was running into technical and engineering difficulties with the navigation system, the rendezvous radar and the ascent engines. The former were the source of considerable weight gain and yielded questionable performance and reliability. The latter, however, was causing grave concern as test runs had shown tendencies to rough running and excessive nozzle erosion. The problem was eventually solved though by combining efforts by Rocketdyne and Bell into a new engine which subsequently ran exceptionally well. Other challenges were likewise overcome.

The first LM flight was on January 22, 1968 when the unmanned LM-1 was launched on a Saturn IB for testing of propulsion systems in orbit. The next LM flight was aboard Apollo 9 using LM-3 on March 3, 1969 as a manned flight (McDivitt, Scott and Schweickart) to test a number of systems in Earth orbit including LM and CSM crew transit, LM propulsion, separation and docking. Apollo 10, launched on May 18, 1969, was another series of tests, this time in lunar orbit with the LM separating and descending to within 10 km of the surface. The next flight would be the most famous – Apollo 11.

July 19, 1969. Apollo 11 passes behind the Moon and fires its Service propulsion engine in order to enter lunar orbit. In the several orbits that followed, the crew got passing views of their landing site, the southern Sea of Tranquility about 20 km (12 mi) southwest of the crater Sabine D. The landing site was selected in part, because it had been characterized as relatively flat and smooth by the automated Ranger 8 and Surveyor 5 landers, as well as by Lunar Orbiter mapping spacecraft. It was therefore unlikely to present major landing or extra-vehicular activity (EVA) challenges.

The one of the two remaining flight article LMs is LM-2, found today in the Smithsonian:

Oh, and the Soviets also had their design:

but it went nowhere…

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