The Bluffton news. [volume], January 11, 1945, Image 7

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THURSDAY, JAN. 11, 1945
lb
GOD
CHAPTER I: Scott’s early experiences
with gliders and airplanes. He goes to
Ft. McPherson and enlists In the regular
army as a private.
CHAPTER H: Scott wins the West
Point competitive exam and gets a fur
lough before reporting. He Is graduated
as a second lieutenant of infantry and
goes to Europe, which he tours on a
motorcycle. He sells his motorcycle and
arrives at Randolph Field. Texas.
It’s hard to describe my feelings
as I walked into the North gate of
that field and down the nearly mile
long road to the Bachelor Officers
Building, where I was to report. It
seemed that all my life I had wait
ed for this moment. Now at last
the great day was at hand when I
would begin my government flying
training. There -above me against
the blue Texas sky I could see the
roaring airplanes in their Army col
ors. As my feet carried me into the
field I could hear the rhythm of the
steps seeming to say in cadence,
“This is it! This is what I’ve waited
for all the days of my life!”
In October, 1932, I was assigned
to Lieut. Ted Landon for primary
flying training. I imagine this as
signment was about as momentous
for him as it was for me—for after
all I must have been quite a prob
lem, with all I thought I knew about
flying and the eagerness with which
I approatJHsd military aviation.
CHAPTER III
Though I had flown before in the
prehistoric crates of the past, this
fact had nothing to do with wheth
er or not I would get through the
course. On the side against me
was the fact that during my un
supervised flying I had doubtless de
veloped many faults that were not
for the Army pilot to be proud of.
In a case like mine, some pilots
think they know it all therefore
there is nothing to learn. Others
make such an effort to please their
instructors that this very eagerness
works against them as their own
wors*-* enemy—the result of tense
ness.
My case was more of this last
order. I knew I could fly the ship
but I tried to carry out my instruc
tor’s orders even before he gave
them. I listened almost spellbound
through our oral communications
system in that primary trainer—that
speaking-tube which we called a
“gosport” and which at best was
hard to understand over the rattle
of that Wright Whirlwind engine.
I used to try to read his mind, exe
cute his every little whim. I even
tried to outguess Lieutenant Lan
don and have the stick and rudder
moving in the right direction be
fore he could get the orders out of
his mouth.
Now thereby hangs a tale. I was
not only trying to look in his rear
view mirror and actually read his
,lips when I couldn’t hear through
.the gosport, but was diligently look
ing about the sky for other hare
brained student pilots. He must have
realized my eagerness, for he gave
me every break—and for the many
boners I pulled I needed lots of
breaks.
One day, at a bare four-hundred
feet altitude, I thought I heard the
instructor say, “Okay, Scott, put it
in a dive.” I peered around first and
then at the nearby ground, for it
looked very low to be going into a
dive. Then like a flash I thought I
understood: Why, he’s trying to see
if I’m ground-shy—I’U show him I’m
not.
With my teeth clenched and prob
ably with my eyes closed, I pushed
that PT-3 into a vertical dive at
point-blank altitude. Just as the
cotton fields down below seemed
about to come right into my lap I
felt Ted Landon grab the controls
and saw him hastily point to his
head with the sign that he was “tak
ing over.” We came out just over
the mesquite trees, and he roughly
slipped the ship into a bumpy land
ing in a cotton field. Then, while
I was trying to add things up and
realizing already that I had tied it
up again, I saw Ted very methodi
cally raise his goggles and with
great deliberation climb out of the
front cockpit. He glarea at me but
said sweetly enough:
“Scott, what in the g— d— hell
are you trying to do—what was that
maneuver? I said glide—G-L-l-D-E.
Don’t you at least know what a
normal glide is in all this time?
Weakly I said, “Sir, I thought you
said a dive.” I could see Ted fight
for control then he told me the
next time I had him at an altitude
so low, not attempt to think but
just try to keep the ship straight
and level.
On another day, after about two
weeks of instruction, we had been
making only take-offs and landings,
and I knew the time was approach
ing when I would solo. As usual,
that realization made me more and
more tense as the end of the period
neared. On the take-offs I’d tense
up and forget all about holding the
nose straight, and on the landings
I’d jerk back on the stick instead of
easing it slowly back into the ap
proach to landing stall. AU I could
do was day-dream about: Here we
are, Scott, just about to take over
and prove to the world that we can
do all of this by ourselves.
Around the field in traffic I couldn’t
hold the correct altitude, and my in
structor was cussing a blue streak.
He’d yell about my having graduat
ed from West Point and say that he
knew I was supposed to have some
IS MY
Col. Robert L.Scoff
SYNOPSIS
COPILOT
W-N.U. RE.LE.ASt
brains but he haon’t been able to
find them. After each bumpy land
ing he’d look around at me and hold
his nose—that was symbolic enough
for me. I finally bounced into an
other landing that nearly jarred his
teeth out. Then, as usual, he
showed what a prince of a fellow he
was, and showed me that an instruc
tor had to become accustomed to
students’ making mistakes—knowl
edge which stood me in good stead
years later when I became an in
structor.
Lieutenant Landon got out of the
front seat, taking his parachute with
him, and I knew the moment of mo
ments had corpe. As he leaned over
my cockpit and reached inside the
ship for the Form One, the time
book always carried in Army ships,
I saw only his hand and thought he
was offering to shake hands with
me. So I grabbed the hand and
shook it. He just grinned and
growled:
“With landings like those I can
do you very little good, and I’U be
damned if I’m going to let you kill
me. Do you think you can take this
thing around the field all by your
self and get it back down?”
“Yes, Sir,” I yelled.
“Then take it around and make
a landing as close to me as you
can.”
I had never felt so good. Taxying
out I could see the world only in a
rosy light. My head was reaUy
whirling. Pointing the ship into the
wind, I over-controlled into a nor
mal student takeoff and was in
the air. Honestly, the living of this
life was wonderful—here I W’as an
actual Army Pilot with my own ship,
and up here free from the shackles
of the earth. I envied no one. Cir
cling in traffic I’d “get my head in
the clouds” and gain or lose altitude
but that didn’t matter. I was solo
ing.
Then, at the fourth leg of my
traffic pattern, I began my glide in
towards Lieutenant Landon. By the
gods he had said, “Land as close
to me as you can," and I was surely
going to rhake that ship stop right
by him—I wouldn’t have my in
structor being ashamed of his stu
dent. Even before I got to the mo
ment to level off, I could see that I
would land right on top of him. But
the Lieutenant was running, throw
ing his parachute away just to get
clear of a student who had really
taken him literacy.
Anyway, I missed him and
plunked the ship into the ground aft
er levelling off too high. Well, I
held it straight and there was no
ground loop. As it stopped I
breathed again, and I could feel
the smile that cracked my face. A
pilot! I had landed the ship and
it was actually in one piece!
Looking back over my shoulder I
saw Lieutenant Landon. He was
just standing there about half a
mile away. Then I made another
mistake. He raised his hands and
I thought he waved me in—I didn’t
know until the next day that he had
been shaking his fist at me for trying
to land right on him.
So I taxied in, never giving a
thought to how my instructor was
going to get in with his chute—you
see, Randolph is a big field and I
had left him more than a mile
from our hangar. I had parked the
plane and was in and beginning to
dress when I began to realize what
I had done. Looking out the win
Jt v I could see him trudging across
the not soil of Texas, in the sun,
with ships landing aU around him.
My Lord, I had tied it up again!
I tried to get my feet back into my
flying-suit, tripped and fell, got up
and ran out of the hangar door. I
guess I was going to take the ship
and taxy out and pick him up. But
I had lost again—the ship was being
Gen. C. L. Chennault, who was
Colonel Scott’s superior in Burma
and China.
taken from the line by the next stu
dent. I just stood there with sink
ing heart as he came up. But he
didn’t even look my way, except to
say, ‘‘It’s kinda hot out there.” Then
he just glared and threw his chute
in his locker.
Well, I nearly worried myself to
death that night. I knew he’d more
than likely tell me after the next
day’s ride that I was the damnedest
student he’d ever seen, and that I
didn’' have a prayer of making a
pilot. But next day he didn’t say
a word. AU day I started to go
over and tell him how sorry I was,
but I guess I didn’t have the nerve.
My time came to ride with him.
We went out oyej the rolling hills
THE
of Texas, went through our chan
delles and Lazy 8’s—spins and stalls
—shot a few landings. Then, as we
put the ship dow*n on Randolph
Field, he taxied to the exact spot I
had left him the day before. Look
ing back at me he said sweetly:
“Scott, you were kinda inaccurate
in your landings yesterday. You get
out and watch me. I’ll show you
what I wanted.”
Getting out with a puzzled expres
sion, I stood aside. First he pointed
the tail at me and ran the ship up
full gun, blowing Texas dust all over
me. Then he took off and came
around to land. Three times he did
this, each time making me run like
hell to get out of the way. Just as
I was completely out of breath he
landed, looked back at me, and be
gan to taxy in to the hangars—leav
ing me to the long, hot walk across
Randolph Field with the parachute.
I shaU never forget the smile he
wore as I trudged in past him where
he sat smoking a cigar. His look
spoke volumes, though he said noth
ing. I felt good, too, and happy.
He could have used no better meth
od to make me relax, to make me
feel as though I had actuaUy joined
the brotherhood of Air Corps pilots.
Next day I soloed again, but defi
nitely remembered to taxy over and
take him back to the line with me.
During my flying training, I had
girl trouble, too. You would no
doubt caD it “trouble,” but I knew it
was the real thing. I had a Chevro
let then, and every week-end I just
had to see my girl, even if she did
live over thirteen hundred miles
away in Georgia. To get to see her,
I vrould drive that thirteen-hundred
odd miles to her college or her
home in Fort Valley, spend any­
where from ten minutes to two hours
with her, then jump back in the
car and drive madly for Texas and
the Monday morning flying period.
I always had to delay my start
until after Saturday morning inspec
tion. That meant that I had to av
erage just about fifty-four miles an
hour, even counting the time I saw
the girl, in the forty-seven hours
that I had from after inspection on
Saturday to flying time at eight
o’clock Monday mornings!
Week-end after week-end I drove
madly across the South from the
middle of Texas to the middle of
Georgia. On one of these cross-coun
try dashes, I weakened and was
fool enough to ask the Commandant
of Student Officers if I could go to
Atlanta. I can still see and hear
Capt. Aubrey Strickland saying, “At
lanta what?” And me meekly re
plying, “Atlanta, Georgia, Sir.” He
just said, “Hell, no,” and I turned
and walked from his office with the
good intention of obeying the order.
But within the hour I had weak
ened. I filled my rumble-seat tank,
which held fifty-five gallons of fuel,
and was off to see her for the short
time available. (Yes, she was, and
still is some girl.) On the return
trip I burned out two bearings near
Patterson, Louisiana. Jimmy We
dell, one of the well-known speed
flyers, helped me to get it fixed after
I explained the predicament I was
in. But even with five of us work
ing on the number one and number
six bearings of the Chevy, I was
twelve hours late getting back to
Randolph Field.
As I walked into the bachelor offi
cers’ quarters that I shared with
Bob TerrUl, I expected any minute
to hear the sad news. But I was
too afraid to ask for details, so I
just waited for Bob to say, “You are
to report to the General tomorrow
for court martial for A.W.O.L. in
violation of specific instructions.”
Finally he put down his letter writ
ing, looked at me almost in dis
gust, and broke out:
“Scott, you are the damned luck
iest man that ever lived! You didn’t
get reported today. No! This is the
first time in the history of Randolph
Field that it’s been too cold to fly.
And it wasn’t only too cold to fly,
it was too cold to have ground
school, because the heating system
had failed. We haven’t flown today,
we haven’t been to ground school.
So they don’t even know that you’ve
been over there to see that girl.”
In all of these trips to see my
girl over in Georgia, I drove 84,000
miles. I wore out two cars—and
you’ll probably agree that her fa
ther had fun right to say to her:
“Why don’t you go on and marry
him? It’D be far cheaper than his
driving over here every week-end.”
But I found that I still had some
talking to do.
When I had finished Primary and
Basic training at Randolph, I al
most let down my hair and wept,
though, on the day that Comman
dant of Student Officers called over
and said that now I could have
permission to go to Georgia, to see
my girl. I thanked him and went,
but I of course didn’t have the heart
to tell him that I had been heel
enough to go many times before,
in secret.
Well, when graduation came at
Kelly and I had those wings pinned
on my chest, I had the wonderful
feeling tnat I had gone a little way
towards the goal I wanted. I was
at last an Army pilot. Never did
the world seem so good. And then
out of a clear sky came orders for
me to go to duty in Hawaii. That
was pretty bad because I wanted to
get married before I went out of the
country, and as yet the girl hadn’t
gotten her degree from college.
Probably if I had gone to Hawaii,
I would have figured out some way
to have flown a P-12 back over ev
ery week—but I didn’t have to do it
after all.
The Chief of the Air Corps came
down a few days later and I waited
until he had had lunch in the Offi
cers’ Mess. Then I walked over
and said, “General, can I ask you
a question?” “Sure, sit down,” he
said, and I told him the whole story
—and I made it like this: “General,
I know that I’m supposed to go
where I’m sent because I’m in the
Army, but I’ve got a girl over in
Georgia, and I think I can do a
lot better job wherever you send me
if you can give me time to talk her
into marrying me.” He djdn’t^an-
BLUFFTON NEWS, BLUFFTON, OHIO
pear iu 5e very impressed at first,
but he took my name and serial
number, and two or three days lat
er, when he got back to Washington
I was ordered to Mitchel Field, New
York.
As I drove my car towards my
first tactical assignment I kept
reaching up to feel my silver wings
on my chest—I wanted to prove that
it wasn’t a dream. This was what
I had been working for since 1920
Now I was actually riding towards
the glory of tactical Army aviation.
I recall that I had just about
completed the trip to Long Island,
when something happened that will
keep me remembering the fall of
1933.
Just before I reached the Holland
Tunnel, I was suddenly forced to the
curb by three cars all bristling with
sawed-off shotguns and Tommy
guns. I jumped out pretty mad, but
saw that many guns were covering
me and that it was the police.
They looked at my papers, but said
anyone could have mimeographed
orders. They searched the car and
me, took down the Texas license
number, and even copied the engine
number. All the time I tried to talk
with the flashlights in my eyes.
CHAPTER V
By this time, war with certain
countries appeared imminent. I had
always believed that we would fight
Japan, and had always believed that
Japan would make the first thrust.
And I tried to “figure out” every
cadet that came through our school
—tried by talking to him to find out
whether or not he had the urge for
combat, for I knew that the urge
was positively necessary. Not only
did a man have to have that cer
tain incentive to fly and keep on
flying, until flying became second
nature, but he had to have the defi
nite urge for combat. When he
learned to fly automatically he
would control the ship without think
ing about the controls and have his
mind free to concentrate on naviga
tion and the aiming of his guns—
besides watching his tail for the
enemy.
I talked with the cadets many
times, and I was surprised to find
that a lot of them still thought it
was wrong to want to get in the air
against any enemy and fight. Some
times I was disappoined to find that
men lacked fighting instinct for the
coming war. Youngsters seemed to
think that combat was unnecessary.
Many of them, it seemed to me,
were learning to fly merely for the
high-paying airline jobs of the fu
ture. But as time went on, I
changed my mind. There would al
ways be a few who didn’t want to
fight, there would be some who were
uncertain, but from their attitude as
the war tension increased I knew
that when war came, as it inevita
bly would, these youngsters in the
fighting ships of America would do
their part.
From Ontario I went to Lemoore,
in the San Joaquin Valley of Cali
fornia, and there I went through
one of the low periods of my life.
It was not that Lemoore was bad,
for the people were wonderful—but
war was getting closer and closer,
and I was getting farther from com
bat duty. Finally, after war had
opened on December 7, I began to
write Generals aU over the country
in an effort to get out of the Train
ing Center. After all, I had been
an instructor for nearly four years
and it was pretty monotonous. I
knew that instructors were neces
sary, but I wanted to fight, and I
thought that if I could get out to
fight with my experience, I could
come back later on and be even
more valuable as an instructor of
fighter pilots.
At last things began to happen.
On December 10, I was hurriedly or
dered to report to March Field.
When these secret orders came, I
thought the day for my active entry
into the real war was near. Hardly
taking time to get my toothbrush—
the radiogram said, “immediately”
—I jumped into a car and drove
madly through the Valley and over
the pass of Tejon through the snow
at the summit at nearly ninety miles
an hour, to March Field. I arrived
there in a blackout, and though I
was to see plenty of combat later on,
I’ll take an oath that the nearest
I’ve been to death in this war was
when I rode into March Field with
my lights out, trying to follow the
line in the highway that was not
there. Army trucks went by with
dim, pin-point blue lights, and as I
looked out of my car the trucks
would almost hit me.
When I finally got on the post
with my radiogram for admission,
I tore up to the headquarters and
operations office, expecting any min
ute to be told to jump in a P-38
or a P-40 and go up to protect Los
Angeles. There were many others
like myself, for apparently all pi
lots with pursuit experience had
been assembled.
No one knew what we were to do.
No one knew we were supposed to
be there. We could get no flying
time, and some of the old pursuit
pilots hadn’t been in a single-seat
er for years. We waited and waited
while rumors increased. Some said
we were going to the Philippines
by carrier some ventured that our
destination was Java or Australia.
Since then, I have seen some of the
men in India and China. Their
ways to war must have been as
circuitous as mine.
Squadrons of pursuit planes would
come through daily on the way up
the coast and we all grew envious
watching them. The only cheer
ing thing was the radio broadcast
which told of Capt. Colin P. Kelly
and his crew sinking the Jap battle
ship Haruna. In this engagement
Kelly became the first hero of the
war, and I was very proud. For
Captain Kelly had been under my
instruction at Randolph Field. I
could well ’remember that fine stu
dent’s excellent attitude for a com
bat pilot. He had broken his collar
bone in a football scrimmage at
Randolph and had told no one on
the flying line. Looking in the rear
view mirror, I saw him flying with
his left hand on the stick when I
corrected him. I learned of the ac­
cident. Fighter Kelly had been so
anxious to get on with the course of
instruction that he was completely
ignoring broken bones. Of such ma
terial are heroes made.
As the days went on we noticed
that pilots whom we had trained
were doing the things in this war,
in every theater, with the few air
planes we had. It was some conso
lation to know that we had trained
the youngsters who were sinking the
Jap ships and shooting down the
enemy planes. But it was not
enough.
“I still wanted to fight myself. I
could well remember the years and
years I had trained in Panama with
the 78th Pursuit Squadron I had
always been too young to lead an
element, a flight, a squadron, or
anything. Then suddenly I was told
here that I was not only too old—
imagine that, at age 34’—to lead a
squadron, but also too old to lead
even a group. In fact I was too old
to fly a fighter plane into combat.
I used to tell the Generals that from
being too young, I had suddenly
jumped to being too old. There had
never been a correct age.
But all the argument was to no
avail, and after waiting around
March Field for ten days we were
ordered back to our home stations.
I returned to Lemoore in tke San
Joaquin. I know there was no man
on Bataan any sadder that night
than I. Then came orders to report
to Victorville—at least here was a
change, and I welcomed it. I found
myself director of training in a tw’in
engine school—I was still getting
farther and farther from the war.
It seemed to me now that all
was lost. I had tried desperately
for the last six months to get out
of the Training Center, and now
that war had come it seemed that
the powers at the top had decided
that all of us, whether we had been
trained as fighter pilots or as com
bat pilots, bomber pilots, or trans
port pilots, were nevertheless to stay
there in the Training Center. Decem
ber, January, and February went
by, and in these months I wrote
from VictorvUle to General after
General. I remember saying to one
of them:
"Dear General, if you wiU excuse
me for writing a personal letter to
you on a more or less official sub
ject in time of war, I will certainly
submit to you for court martial after
the war. But if you can just listen
to me I don’t care whether that
court martial comes or not. I have
been trained as a fighter pilot for
nine years. I have flown thousands
of hours in all types of planes. I’ve
been brought here as an instructor
and I think I’ve done my job. Please
let me get out to fight. I want to
go to Java. I want to y to. Aus­
Your
THE
tralia, I want to go to China, India,
and anywhere there’s fighting going
Capt. Colin Kelly, who sank the
Jap battleship Haruna.
on—just so you get me out of the
monotony of the Training Center.”
An answer came back from this
General: He would do all he could,
he would even forget the court mar
tial, but men were necessary in the
training centers. Even with these
kind words, it appeared that my
cause was lost. Then, when the fu
ture looked worse than at any time
in my life, a telephone caU came
from Washington, from a Colonel.
“Have you ever flown a four
engine ship?”
I answered immediately: “Yes,
Sir.” I had flown one for a very
few minutes, at least I’d flown it in
spirit while standing behind the pilot
and co-pilot—but that was the only
time I’d ever been in the nose or in
the cockpit of a Flying Fortress. His
next question was, “How many
hours have you flown it?” I told him
eleven hundred there was no need
to teD a story unless it was a good
one, and after all, I considered this
a white kind of lie—a white lie that
was absolutely necessary if I was
to get to war.
After giving this information I
went back to waiting with my hopes
way up. One night in early March,
1942, they came true and to me
they read like a fairy tale, too good
to be true. I -was to comply with
them immediately, reporting to a
field in the Central States. There I
would receive combat instructions
from the leader of our mission.
As I drove over from Victorville
to my home in Ontario that evening,
it seemed as though I was already
in the air—adventure had come at
last. Even then the fear tugged at
my heart that the orders would be
Don't rorget Your
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PAGE SEVE
changed beiore 1 coma start, i toid
my wife that I was going to com
bat, but the nature of the orders for
bade my telling her where, or what
type of mission. Not even at the
look of pain that crossed her face
did I lose my feeling of victory. She
was trying to act happy, but I knew
it was only because she remem
bered that I wanted duty in combat.
That night I began to pack hastily,
resolving at the same time to take
my wife and little one-year-old
daughter back towards Georgia,
where they could be among rela
tives. As I packed and arranged for
the furniture to be shipped I still
had my exalted feeling of victory.
When I got into bed, very late, I
thought I would drop right off to
sleep. But as my mind relaxed for
the first time after the orders had
been received, I felt myself come
to complete wakefulness. I even
sat up in bed, for I had realized for
the first time what I had done.
Here was my home, with the two
people whom I loved more than
any others in all the w’orld—my wife
that after that things just took care
of themselves.
With airmail over, we went back
to our usual duties at Mitchel Field.
Things sort of settled down, and I
began to make more flights and
more automobile trips towards
Georgia.
Finally I talked the girl into it.
We went on up to West Point and
were married. Catharine really fits
into this story because it was the
trips over to Georgia to see her,
from every place in the United
States, that not only made me drive
an automobile but taught me cross
country flying, since I had been fly
ing in these later months from wher
ever I was—by way of Georgia.
From Mitchel Field I w’as sent
to Panama. And then began my
real pursuit training. In P-12’s I
roamed across the country of Pana
ma up into Central America and
down into South America. I was
given a job constructing flying fields,
which we figured would some day
protect the Canal. These fields were
put in for the purpose of installing
radio stations and also air warning
devices to teU us when enemy
planes approached the Panama Ca
nal. I would have to go down on
the Colombian border and contact
the natives, some of whom were
head-hunters, to work on these fields
that we were building. We would
have to get the grass cut off, and I
would make motions with a machete
—the long knife of the Darien In
dians—and show them what we had
to do to keep that field so that air
planes could land on it. _______
(To be Continued)