THE COST OF DOING BUSINESS

This month’s Rant is excerpted from my Flight Journal article in December 2009. Somebody put it on email (minus attribution) so I’m posting most of the main text.

Imagine that you are commander of a great air force. It has risen to global prominence, dominating all rivals. Its unprecedented success has come at a price, however. Your chief of staff lays a memo on your desk. "Last month's casualties, sir."

You pick up the first sheet. “Hmmm; 331 men killed, and 308 aircraft destroyed. That’s 11 people and 10 planes per day.”

“Uh, yessir. It’s still the ballpark average.”

"I’d like to see an improvement in bomber losses, those really add up."

“Were working on it, General. But it’s sad to think that 10 young men alive today will be dead tomorrow.

“You know that’s the price of doing business. Now, what about the overseas and combat losses?”

That’s right. From December 1941 to August 1945 the U. S. Army Air Forces lost 14,903 pilots, aircrew and assorted personnel plus 13,873 airplanes --- inside the continental United States. They were the result of 52,651 aircraft accidents (6,039 involving fatalities) in 45 months.

Think about those numbers. They average 1,170 aircraft accidents per month---nearly 40 a day. (Less than one accident in four resulted in totaled aircraft, however.) Those colossal losses cost the Axis powers nothing; not one 7.7 mm bullet.

It gets worse,

Almost 1,000 Army planes disappeared en route from the U. S. to foreign climes. But an eye watering 43,581 aircraft were lost overseas including 22,948 on combat missions (18,418 against the Western Axis) and 20,633 attributed to non-combat causes overseas.

Some spectacular losses were recorded in the air campaign against Germany. The best known was the 8th Air Force’s double strike against Regensburg and Schewinfurt in August 1943 when 60 B-17s were shot down among 376. That 16 percent loss rate meant nearly 600 empty bunks in England. In fact, during much of 1942-1943 it was statistically impossible for bomber crews to complete a 25-mission tour in Europe.

Pacific Theatre losses were far less (4,530 in combat) owing to smaller forces committed. The worst B-29 mission, against Tokyo on May 25, 1945, cost 26 Superfortress, 5.6 percent of the 464 dispatched from the Marianas.

On average, 6,600 American servicemen died per month during WWII, about 220 a day. At war’s end, over 40,000 airmen were killed in combat theatres and another 18,000 wounded. Some 12,000 missing men were declared dead, including a number “liberated” by the Soviets but never returned. More than 41,000 were captured, half of the 5,400 held by the Japanese died in captivity, compared with one-tenth in German hands. Total combat casualties were pegged at 121,867. But U.S. manpower made up the deficit. The AAF’s peak strength was reached in 1944 with 2,372,000 personnel, nearly twice the previous year.

If the losses were huge---and they were----so were production totals. From 1941 through 1945, American industry delivered more than 276,000 military aircraft. That number was enough not only for U.S. Army, Navy, and Marine Corps but for allies as diverse as Britain, Australia, China and Russia. In fact, from 1943 onward, America produced more planes than Britain and Russia combined. And more than both Germany and Japan 1941-45.

Uncle Sam sent many of his sons to war with absolute minimum of training. Some fighter pilots entered combat in 1942 with less than one hour in their assigned aircraft.

The 357th Fighter Group went to England in late 1943 after training on P-39s. The group never saw a Mustang until shortly before its first combat mission. A high-time P-51pilot had 30 hours in type. Many had fewer than five hours. Some had one hour.

A future Thunderbolt ace said, “I was sent to England to die.” He was not alone. Some fighter pilots took off on their first combat mission with one previous flight in type. With arrival of new aircraft, many combat units transitioned in combat. The attitude was, “They all have a stick and throttle. Go fly `em.” When the 4th Fighter Group converted from P-47s to P-51s in February 1944, there was no time to stand down for an orderly transition. The group commander, Col. Donald Blakeslee, said, “You can learn to fly `51’s on the way to the target."

Meanwhile, many bomber crews were still learning their trade: of Jimmy Doolittle’s 15 pilots on the April 1942 Tokyo raid, only five had won their wings before 1941. All but one of the 16 copilots were less than a year out of flight school.

In WWII flying safety took a back seat to combat. The AAF’s worst accident rate was recorded by the A-36 Invader version of the P-51: a staggering 274 per 100,000 flying hours. Next worst were the P-39 at 245 and the P-40 at 188; and the P-38 at 139. All were Allison powered.

Bomber wrecks were fewer but more expensive. The B-17 and B-24 averaged 30 and 35 accidents per 100,000 flight hours, respectively----a horrific figure considering that from 1980 to 2000 the Air Force’s major mishap rate was less than 2.

The B-29 was even worse at 40; the world’s most sophisticated, most capable and most expensive bomber was too urgently needed to stand down for mere safety reasons. The original cadre of the 58th Bomb Wing was to have 400 hours of multi-engine time, but there were not enough experienced pilots to meet the criterion. Only ten percent had overseas experience.

Perhaps the greatest unsung success story of AAF training was navigators. The Army graduated some 50,000 during the war, and many had never flown out of sight of land before leaving for a war zone. Yet the huge majority found their way across oceans and continents without getting lost or running out of fuel---a stirring tribute to the AAF’s educational establishments.

As the training pipeline filled up, cockpit experience improved. By early 1944 the average AAF fighter pilot entering combat had logged at least 450 hours, usually including 250 hours in training. At the same time, many captains and first lieutenants claimed over 600 hours.

At its height in mid-1944, the Army Air Forces had 2.6 million people and nearly 80,000 aircraft of all types. Today the U. S. Air Force employs 327,000 active personnel (plus 170,000 civilians) with 5,500+ manned and perhaps 200 unmanned aircraft. The 2009 figures represent about 12 percent of the manpower and 7 percent of the airplanes of the WWII peak.

Whether there will ever be another comparable air war is doubtful, as fighters and bombers have given way to helicopters and remotely controlled drones over Afghanistan and Iraq. But within living memory, men left the earth in 1,000-plane formations and fought major battles five miles high, leaving a legacy that remains timeless.

THE WRIGHT BROTHERS, POTATO DAY AND SQUARE DANCING

The 17th of this month was the 107th anniversary of the Wright Brothers’ first powered flights at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Wright Brothers Day (official since 1963) is separate from National Aviation Day, established in 1939 on Orville Wright’s 68th birthday. Both events are variously ignored or the subject of pro-forma proclamations from the duty politician occupying 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. (Incidentally, August 19 also is National Potato Day. Honest.)

National days of observance proliferate like weeds after a rain shower. Frankly, many of them alternate between absurd and irrelevant, usually the result of some pol seeking favor with a particular constituency or special interest group. During the Reagan administration a search for The National Dance included such esoteric candidates as the hula and the polka.

Now, I hasten to note that I have absolutely nothing against the polka. In fact, the stout Wagnerian wife of a Luftwaffe fighter ace swept the hangar floor with me (and other pilots) at Abbotsford, B.C. one evening to the accompaniment of accordions and other Lawrence Welk instrumentation. But while they may polka frequently in Milwaukee, did you ever dance the hula in the contiguous 48? Me neither.

Finally in 1982 The Gipper declared the square dance as The National Folk Dance, which at least has some claim to being uniquely American. (Besides, in the 6th or 7th grade, it was about the only way boys could hold hands with girls, however briefly, without garnering sneers or suspicion.) However, Ronnie’s effort was only for a two-year period, and a couple more states still need to sign on before it becomes official. (Wisconsin and Hawaii remain notably absent from the process.)

So what does The National Folk Dance have to do with the Wrights? Glad you asked. You see, we are burdened with Vice President Joe Biden. (Stay with me—this is headed somewhere, honest.)

In October, bloviating at a Democrat Party fund raiser, Biden declared, “Every single great idea that has marked the 21st century, 20th century, and 19th century has required government vision and incentive.”

Forget the airplane for a moment. Let’s consider independence from Britain, the assembly line, the light bulb, the automobile, the telephone, television, machineguns, banana splits, Cherry Coke, personal computers, and…oh hell. You get the idea. There’s a bunch of excellent reasons he’s called “Slow Joe.”

For a more reasoned/reasonable assessment, consider this statement from 2000: "The Wright Brothers created the single greatest cultural force since the invention of writing. The airplane became the first World Wide Web, bringing people, languages, ideas, and values together."

That statement came from Bill Gates who—contrary to what Slow Joe may believe—had far more to do with inventing the internet than Algore. Or for that matter, more than about 60 percent of Delaware voters can absorb.

But I digress.

Please consider the accomplishment of the Wrights, two self employed bicycle mechanics who, lacking a high school diploma between them, solved the riddle of the ages: human flight. And they did it in about four years.

Neither of Bishop Wright’s boys were dullards. Wilbur, in fact, planned to attend Yale before a hockey accident derailed his plans for higher education. But considering how things turned out, undoubtedly that puck in the face was a Good Thing.

In those early 20th century days, somehow the Republic struggled along with six cabinet posts (State, Treasury, Justice, Agriculture, Interior, and newly established Commerce) plus the Army and Navy departments. Notably absent were Labor, H&HS, HUD, Transportation (!), Energy, Education, Veterans and Homeland Security. It goes without saying that more than a century ago the Wrights and, for that matter, Henry Ford, got along just fine without federal watchdogs at Transportation or Education. But I’ll say it anyway. Orville and Wilbur, considerably predating outcome-based education, could read, write, and cipher without federal guidelines, and undoubtedly most of their classmates could immediately identify the USA on a world map. Reportedly two-thirds of the current crop cannot.

Perhaps the most impressive aspect of the Wrights’ achievement was not merely producing a workable flying machine, but the way they went about it. They started with the advantages of intense curiosity and native intelligence, sufficient not only to question the conventional scientific wisdom of their time, but to find it wanting. That was an enormous intellectual achievement, for it forced them to confront their idol—the late-great Otto Lilienthal—and their mentors, engineer Octave Chanute and Professor Samuel Pierpont Langley of the Smithsonian Institution.

From there, the Wrights began a patient, methodical approach that involved invention and innovation. Lacking a wind tunnel, they built one. Lacking sample airfoils, they made and tested 200. Lacking a lightweight engine for their aeroplane, they had one built to their specs. Furthermore, they were the first to recognize that a propeller also is an airfoil, and their design was nearly 90 percent as efficient as props on current lightplanes.

Note to Slow Joe Biden: Orville and Wilbur invested entirely their own funds—around $20,000 ($450,000 today)—and succeeded where Professor Samuel Pierpont Langley of the Smithsonian Institution failed spectacularly after 16 years of effort. Moreover, Langley received $63,000 in U.S. Government funds ($1.65 million today)—about 85 percent of his total support.

In fairness, the brothers did derive some benefit from their tax money. They received important data from the Weather Bureau, and the hardies at the lifeguard station also proved helpful.

The Wrights are not faultless. Their bitter patent disputes, notably with Glenn Curtiss, retarded aviation progress until the First World War. In that period America’s gigantic lead in aviation diminished and soon disappeared with Europe dominant after 1908.

Wilbur, four years junior to Orville, died in 1912 at age 45. Orville passed away in 1948, age 76. Now, considering what they represent—the American genius for innovation and their effect upon shrinking the world—isn’t it time they get more recognition than a single day that’s often ignored? Surely air travel is worth more than National Potato Day—and a damnsight more than Slow Joe Biden can appreciate.

VETERANS DAY

(Excerpted from my speech delivered to the Arizona Wing of the Commemorative Air Force in Mesa earlier this month.)

This month is Veterans Day, honoring all our military personnel, past and present. Currently some 24 million living Americans have worn the nation’s uniform. But only one of those surviving served in WW I, known at the time as The Great War.

Did you know that WW I officially ended last month? The current German government made the final $94 million payment required under the Versailles Treaty, 91 years and another world war (and a half-century cold war) after 1919. The Nazi government had renounced the treaty in 1933, and payments didn’t resume until after WW II.

A bit of background on the holiday.

On the first anniversary of the Great War armistice President Woodrow Wilson (of whom more later) issued a proclamation observing the occasion. Congress made Armistice Day a national holiday in 1938, and it became Veterans Day in 1954.

About 4.7 million Americans served in the Great War, of whom roughly one quarter went to Europe. Some 116,500 Yanks died in the war, including 53,500 killed in action while 3,350 were listed missing. Another 204,000 were wounded. It was the first war in which enemy action caused more casualties than disease. Only 20 years before, 385 Americans were KIA fighting Spain while more than 2,000 died of other causes.

Several hundred WWI servicemen still remain MIA, but a handful are found occasionally. Last year some French researchers turned up the remains of an American who was identified by the marksmanship badge on his uniform. He was a Marine NCO, 29 year old 1st Sergeant George Humphrey, killed in September 1918. He was buried in Arlington Cemetery this summer.

For so important an event, the Great War has received precious little attention. There has never been a national memorial to Americans who served and died in WW I, and obviously there never will be. In 1931 the District of Columbia erected a handsome memorial to those residents who died in the war, but it’s fallen into disrepair. There’s a fine museum in Missouri which receives little public notice.

Not many people today ever knew WW I combat veterans. We were fortunate to know some Great War airmen when the Champlin Fighter Museum existed from 1981 to 2003. Three of our favorites were aces but completely different kinds of people. Two of them were really sweet old gentlemen. Bob Todd had been shot down and captured flying a Camel with the 148th Aero Squadron while Ray Brooks of the 22nd made ace in a SPAD. On the other hand, Ken Porter of the 147th was a crusty old balloon buster who served in the same pursuit group as Frank Luke. Ken once was asked about the knights of the air nonsense, and I’ll always remember his reply. “Son, if you ever found yourself in a fair fight, it meant you fouled up.” Only he didn’t say “fouled.”

I knew of a couple of Great War aces who didn’t get along. We liked to think that it involved a dispute over cards or mademoiselles but we never learned why. Apparently it was a postwar feud because they flew in different organizations in different areas.

A local WW I pilot was Gordon Collinson of Scottsdale, who flew SE-5s in No. 41 Squadron RAF. I once asked him about early dive bombing and he said that his squadron dived diagonally across a road or bridge because that increased chances of a hit. Any Thud pilots in the audience? That’s exactly the way it was done in North Vietnam, unless LBJ’s rules of engagement required our guys to get shot at more effectively by the enemy.

Everybody knows about Frank Luke—or thinks they do. The definitive account of his brief career and famous last mission was published in 2008 by a colleague of mine, Stephen Skinner. The Stand is an intriguing story, especially once the political background is understood. Luke was of course a maverick, but he was by far the most successful balloon burner in the U.S. air service. Because it was essential to destroy the German balloon line for the St. Mihiel offensive in September 1918, he was given wide latitude by his group commander, a fact resented by his strict squadron CO. It’s said that had Frank returned from his last flight he would have been court martialed but more likely he would’ve been transferred from the 27th to the 94th Aero Squadron where CO Eddie Rickenbacker was more supportive.

Actually, there was another Arizona ace, SPAD pilot Ralph O’Neill from Nogales. He died in 1980.

In 1918 the U.S. population had just topped 100 million. Arizona, 48th and last of the continental states, had about 300,000 people. Arizona figured in America’s eventual entry into the war, however remotely. In 1917 the German foreign minister wrote the Mexican government suggesting an alliance: an invasion of the U.S. southwest with a settlement involving return of Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas to Mexico proper. It was an absurd idea: Mexico remained in a state of chaos after the revolution.

Today, the conventional wisdom holds that Germany started the war. But the record shows room for latitude. The event was precipitated when a Bosnian Serb nationalist assassinated the archduke of Austria-Hungary in July 1914. The Serbs made all manner of conciliatory offers but Vienna was determined to have war and refused to settle. Russia began mobilizing in support of the Serbs, which brought in Germany as an Austrian ally. Look at the telegrams between the Kaiser and the Czar—they were both Queen Victoria’s grandchildren, and the Czar and King George of Britain looked more like twin brothers than cousins. The exchange went, “Dear Nicky” and “Dear Willie.” Had Russia stood down, Germany would lack reason to go to war, but could not permit Russia’s huge manpower to mobilize first. Consequently, Britain and France jumped in and the rest, as they say, is history.

Eighty years later a coauthor of mine, noting events in Bosnia, said, “How can you expect peace in an area where they built a monument to the guy who started the First World War?”

It was an entirely unnecessary war that killed perhaps 16 million people, and aggravated the influenza pandemic in 1918-19. Wilson had been re-elected in 1916 on the basis “He kept us out of the war” but then committed America to the conflict the next year at least partly because of heavy U.S. investments in France and Britain. Winston Churchill later said that absent America’s entry, there likely would have been a cease fire in 1917 because the French army mutinied and the Brits couldn’t maintain an offensive by themselves. Therefore, America’s entry probably cost many more lives than would have been lost after the middle of 1917.

Whatever the geopolitics, I want to take this opportunity to acknowledge the origin of Veterans Day, and urge you to remember the doughboys, airmen and sailors who served during “the war to end all wars.”