TRUMP, JUMBOTRON AND DEUS EX MACHINA

 
Ancient Greek literature spawned the concept of Deus ex machina—“God as (or from) machine.”  Although actually it’s a Latin calque for the Greek apo mekhanes theos.

In whatever language, deus ex machina could represent an unexpected development or a man-made contrivance that influences the plot.  Certainly that applies to the JumboTron (by whatever name) that captured Donald Trump’s attention on a Saturday evening in Pennsylvania.

But first some background.

Certainly Aeschylus in the fifth century BC never envisioned JumboTron nor anything like it.  The name alone would perplex the sagest of Attica’s sages.  

Some theater historians note that ancient Greece applied the concept to stage settings such as cranes and elevators.  
However, the path to JumboTron was long and varied, evolving from stage plays, operas, and even burlesque shows before live performances were displaced by motion pictures.  An early example of deus ex machina.

Without quite realizing it, I dealt with deus ex machina in the 2019 book with friend and colleague Stephen Coonts.  In The Dragon’s Jaw North Vietnam’s notorious Thanh Hoa Bridge (aka Dragon's Jaw) was the inanimate character that drove the book.  Not quite in the godly category but Steve and I thought it relevant though we did not allude to it as such.

Meanwhile, the link between Greek stage antiquity and XXI century technology is too rich to pass up.

The concept of huge outdoor screens emerged in the1980s when Sony fielded the JumboTron while Mitsubishi provided Diamond Vision.  Sort of like Kleenex and Xerox, apparently Jumbotron has become generic for the device.

Which brings us to Butler, Pennsylvania earlier this month.

As we’ve seen dozens of times on the videos, Trump was leaning on the podium, looking to his right when he was shot.  The JumboTron (assuming that’s the version) does not show on most videos, but he was discussing the data displayed—the huge increase in illegal aliens allowed by the Biden administration.

Therefore:

Without knowing it, the intended victim was looking almost directly at his intended assassin when the .223 caliber round clipped Trump’s right ear.

A few days later, Trump’s former White House physician said that the bullet hit the top of the ear approximately one-quarter of an inch from the skull.  That’s about two-thirds the width of my pinkie fingernail.

If Donald Trump had turned his head perhaps 20 degrees left—certainly 30—he would have died instantly.  

Deus ex machina.  The JumboTron saved Trump’s life.

But it did not spare three Trump supporters: a 50-year-old fire fighter who was killed plus two seriously wounded but reportedly recovering.

Apart from the appalling extent of the systemic security failure—leading from years of toxic hate speech and a long Secret Service culture of irresponsible behavior—is a variety of technical aspects. Experienced shooters have commented widely online and in emails, noting there are still more questions than answers.

The 20 year-old killer used “an AR-15 type rifle” possibly owned by his parents.  But source of the weapon is secondary at present.  More relevant:

What type of sight?  Standard-issue “iron” sights or some type of optic?

At what distance was the rifle zeroed?  Most marksmen prefer rifles to shoot to point of aim at 100 or 200 yards.

How capable was the killer?  Former classmates said he tried out for the high school rifle team (how many of those remain now?) and was an abysmally bad shooter.  Also, reportedly he had personality issues on the range possibly due to bullying in school.  Subsequently the school district denied both assertions.

The shooter fired from a stable position about 135 yards from a stationary target.  If he intended a head shot, that was good marksmanship.  If he intended a body shot, his sights were set far too high.  Maybe a difference of 15 inches or so—a major-major discrepancy that would immediately show on paper in practice.

How big a discrepancy?

In rifle shooting the standard of comparison is minute of angle (MoA).  The size of a group of shots (at least three, usually five) measured at a specific distance.  At 100 yards a one-inch group equals 1.0 MoA.  At 135 yards a 15-inch vertical disparity equals 11 MoA.  That is huge.

With a rifle already zeroed (remembering that individuals’ eyes are different), any competent instructor could coach a newcomer onto a torso-sized target at 135 yards in a short firing range session.  The rifle could be braced on a sandbag or other rest, or on a bipod.  Then it’s a matter of fundamentals: rifle fit to the shoulder and cheek placement on the stock; sight alignment (with metal sights) and sight picture; breath control; trigger release; and follow-through.

Repeat as necessary.

The Butler incident already seems headed for the rarified atmosphere of the John F. Kennedy assassination 61 years before.  Various theories and contradictory statements emerged within days—some within hours—amid a lack of firm knowledge about the criminal and his rifle.  It’s another inanimate object driving the story, whether Lee Harvey Oswald’s imported Italian rifle or the Pennsylvanian’s borrowed AR-15.

But what we do know is that an invention called the JumboTron averted a shattering event in the contentious, continuing conflict of American politics.

REMEMBERING BUD

 Frequently when someone enters our lives we do not realize what it means until later.

Bud Anderson entered my life in 1967, and now 57 years later he just exited.

Clarence Emil Anderson was one of the last ten U.S. aces remaining from World War II.  Born in Oakland, California, in 1922, he was enamored of aviation from childhood and knew he wanted to fly.  He became a civilian aircraft mechanic and entered the Army Air Forces the month after Pearl Harbor.

From there he never looked back.
Known as “Andy” or “Bud,” he earned an enviable reputation as a stick and rudder man.  The 357th Fighter Group formed with P-39 Airacobras, but when the group deployed to Britain in late 1943, it was only the second Merlin-powered P-51 squadron in Europe.  By then he was a captain commanding a four-plane flight.  All his fighters were named Old Crow, which he explained with a twinkle in his eyes, “I told my Baptist friends it was named for the smartest bird in the sky.”

Old Crow, of course, was a popular bourbon.  Still is.
    
In two combat tours, Bud shot down 16 German aircraft and shared another with his flight.  At war’s end he was a 23 year-old major, ranked third among the 357th’s near-record 41 aces.  

Upon return from combat, Bud married his childhood friend Eleanor Crosby whose first husband had been killed in Europe.  Bud and Eleanor had a son, Jim, and daughter, Kitty; Ellie died in 2015.

Subsequently Bud entered test flying, gaining an international reputation, mainly at Edwards Air Force Base, California.  His wartime squadron mate and fellow test pilot Chuck Yeager got most of the attention, but Bud had his own credentials.

Bud was involved in flight test from 1948 to 1962, rolling in and out of war college and squadron command.  Most notably, he flew the innovative “FICON” project, with escort fighters linked by wingtips to long-range bombers, and a reconnaissance jet carried in the belly of a B-36.

Bud’s second war was in Southeast Asia, flying a very different aircraft than the Mustang.  He flew two tours in Republic’s big, powerful F-105 Thunderchief, commanding a wing on Okinawa from 1965 to 1967, and another in Thailand in 1969-1970.

Upon retiring as a colonel in 1972, Bud returned to Edwards Air Force Base to manage McDonnell Douglas’ test facility, particularly evaluating the new F-15 Eagle.

Chuck Yeager’s 1986 best selling memoir led to Bud’s own book.  To Fly and Fight was published in 1990 via Bantam Books’ Ian Ballantine who produced Yeager’s volume.  To Fly and Fight remains in print today.

In civilian life Bud remained in aviation as a flight instructor and especially as a warbird pilot.  He flew restored Mustangs authentically painted as “Old Crow,” and was gratified with a rare P-39 Airacobra in his original colors.

Bud’s honors accumulated.  He was inducted into the National Aviation Hall of Fame and the International Air and Space Hall of Fame.

He was enormously popular in the U.S. and Europe, appearing at airshows and history events, signing thousands of books, photos and lithographs.  Such was the demand that event sponsors arranged for periodic dialysis treatments.

In 2022 Bud received an honorary promotion to brigadier general at age 100.  

Bud was the last living American triple ace.  

Bud’s son James Edward (named for two 357th pilots killed in actions) became a second-generation fighter pilot.  After graduating from the Air Force Academy he flew O-2 observation planes in South Vietnam, even logging a sortie with Dad alongside.  Subsequently Jim transitioned to F-4 Phantoms and commanded an F-5 Tiger II squadron before retiring as a lieutenant colonel.     

Jim had two more aviation careers.  He flew for Southwest Airlines until mandatory retirement, then managed Arizona State University’s aviation department.  Meanwhile, he maintains https://toflyandfight.com, one of the finest aviation websites extant, including tributes to the 357th Fighter Group.

Jim also is my webmaster at btillman.com, with generous assistance from Josh Kettinger.

So how did I know Bud Anderson?
    
In 1966 I began writing fighter aces, seeking signatures.  The response was not only gratifying but led to some cherished friendships.  Colonel C.E. Anderson replied to my initial letter by sending a couple of signed photos—which I’d not requested—and I was pleasantly surprised that a correspondence developed.

Think about that: Bud took time to write to a 40-hour teenage pilot though he commanded a wing in combat.

That’s all anyone needs to know about Bud Anderson.

HOW I GOT INTERESTED IN AVIATION

People used to ask how I got interested in aviation; I asked how fish get interested in swimming.  

My father grew up in Portland, where he was exposed to the then-legendary Tex Rankin’s flight school.  (Apparently nobody considered the contradiction of somebody called “Tex” building one of the world’s largest flight academies in Oregon). Rankin became a world-known aerobatic competitor and Hollywood “stunt pilot.”

In the late 30s Dad accompanied his father and some Sea Scouts on a couple of summer voyages to Canada and Alaska.  One of the tour outfitters operated a big Bellanca on floats, and that impressed my father no end.

Came the war: with some friends, Dad intended to circumvent U.S. neutrality (such as it was—FDR sent Americans to fight Germans and Japanese before Pearl Harbor) by joining the Royal Canadian Air Force.  But one of the co-conspirators neglected to bring the required documents so the group returned home to await events.

On leave from Oregon State College, Dad was working as a draftsman at Douglas Aircraft in the LA area when things blew up (literally) at Pearl Harbor.  Long story short: Dad passed the Civilian Pilot Training Program in Idaho, proceeding to Navy flight training at Pasco, Washington, and Corpus Christi, Texas.  He remained Stateside during the war. 

Still, aviation and airplanes were all around—atmospheric.  I spent my first seven or eight years in the folks' ranch house literally in the middle of a wheat-pea field.  "Crop dusters" were a constant in The Season, although by the early 50s aerial application of powdered fertilizers  was long gone.  The more common term was “ag flying,” shorthand for agricultural aerial application.

I remember when one of Marsh Aviation's modified Navy N3N trainers circled the house while our mother was bathing us. Three naked little boys ran outside to wave at Mr Friendly Pilot.

My mother's family owned what became Barrett Field on the north edge of Athena, Oregon (pop. c. 900 at the time). Marsh operated there for many years before we built the hangar complete with transplanted airway beacon from down near Baker City, mid 70s.  As a sprout, I spent mucho tiempo at the field, intrigued with the operation: takeoffs, landings, loading Malathion and 2-4D (more properly Dichlorophenoxyacetic acid), etc.  

Malathion, developed in the 1950s, is an organophosphate insecticide that kills pests feeding on farm crops as well as disease-bearing mosquitos.

Herbicides such as 2-4D (developed during World War II) kill weeds that can outgrow productive crops and choke off part of a farm field.  However, 2-4D became one of the elements in the Agent Orange defoliant of Vietnam War notoriety.

The Marsh crew had five-gallon glass mixing jars.  The guys would drain the residue, stick the hose in the jar, let it rise some, then swish it around for awhile before dumping it out. Then they'd refill with water, insert Lipton bags and brew sun tea on the ground. I never heard of any offspring with six fingers on a hand or a third eye...

My childhood ambition was to become a military pilot, but I was doubly or triply damned, depending on specifics.  First, I was born with hereditary asthma and then my vision went south in grade school.  Flat feet were the least of my problems.  But man!  How I savored the long-lean airframe that Vought produced in the F8U (later F-8) Crusader.  In 1980 it became the subject of my fourth book.

Still, I led a fortunate youth, and I was astute enough to appreciate it at the time.  I began flying lessons at Walla Walla, Washington, in 1965 and soloed Piper Cherokee N6053W that May.  The elation I felt with that familiar right seat vacant was unprecedented to me.  My instructor was graying, crew-cut Al Bixby who at 50 almost seemed a senior citizen to me.  Now I’m 25 years beyond his age at the time…

Two years later the N3N re-entered my life.

In 1967 Dad purchased a “project airplane,” a 1940 N3N-3 that was surplus to an ag operator’s needs in Colorado.  With a friend, he flew the partial restoration to Oregon where it was completed in wartime Navy colors with the “buzz number” 70 on the fuselage.  It was tacit tribute to our stylized seven-zero ranch brand though the seven was rounded to avoid an unwanted right-angle juncture of two heat sources on a hide.

Which undoubtedly is more than most readers will care to know.

Anyway:

While I got my private pilot license in Cherokees, I like to think that I learned to fly in the N3N.  Which was appropriate, as the “N” was built by the Naval Aircraft Factory in Philly to train student aviators from the late 30s onward.  Stable, predictable, and powered with a reliable 235-hp Wright engine, the N3N was built hell for stout, rated at nine G positive, as I recall.  Some 900 N3N-1s and N3N-3s were built, all adaptable to floats as well as wheels.

(Sidebar: in the Navy aircraft designation system, the first N indicated a trainer; the three showed the builder’s sequence; and the last N indicated N for the Navy manufacturer.  There were only three N2Ns in the mid 1920s.)

I graduated with a journalism degree from the University of Oregon in 1972.  And I was a terrible career planner: I’d concentrated in magazine writing when Life, Look, and the Saturday Evening Post were folding.  I’d first been published in high school, but en route to my diploma I aced a magazine writing class with my first paid sale, a whimsical Air Progress  article titled “Confessions of a Superstitious Aviator.”  I was oafishly proud and retain the check stub.

Later that year the Douglas SBD Dauntless entered my life.

With two friends, Dad purchased the only flying Dauntless from Multnomah Country, Oregon, which wanted a newer, cheaper spray plane.  To condense things considerably, Dad bought out his partners and we—with requisite help—began restoring the mosquito bomber to 1943 naval configuration.  Allies at McDonnell Douglas and rare parts scroungers provided what else we needed including representative tailhook and bomb-displacing “trapeze.”

I got about seven glorious hours in the gunner’s seat.  It was terrific timing because I started my first book, then the only operational history of the war-winning Dauntless, without which the U.S. would’ve lost the Pacific War in 1942.  The book was published in 1976 and remains in print today.  In 1992 I consulted much of the material and personal experience in Dauntless: A Novel of the Pacific War.

In 1974 Dad sold the Dauntless to the late-great Doug Champlin, for whom I worked in Arizona a decade later.  Another cherished friendship among so many that have blessed my time in aviation. 

So then: what’s the allure of aviation?  It can be mundane (a Tomcat pilot said, “It sounded like an interesting job”) and it can be sublime (check Richard Bach if you’re not of 1970s or 80s vintage).  But the satisfaction of controlling a platform in three dimensions, sharing the ambience with like-minded men and women, retains its special appeal.

Of course, I didn’t know that at age eight but I damnsure knew it by sixteen.  Yet I did not anticipate aviation’s unavoidable price, the sudden shock of violent death—I’ve seen two deadly accidents including a triple fatality—but that’s part of the bargain.

And like millions of others, I accept the bitter with the sweet, the incomparable sensation of Flight.