THOUGHTS ON COMPETITION

Well, it happened again: I missed June for the third time in four years.  I offer no excuses, but the reasons were varied, ranging from yet another funeral trip to a massive load of magazine writing, editing, and proofing, and scrambling to deliver The Next Book.

Rather than comment on subjects that absolutely everybody else is addressing these days—whether the perennial troubles besetting George Zimmerman or the endless litany of government corruption—I sought a more personal topic. 

Recently I glimpsed a Youtube video of a drum and bugle corps competition in the Midwest.  That’s it! I thought.  Competition often gets a bad name in the XXI Century, but I’m convinced of its benefits and life lessons.

Now, I’m a low-key individual; ask anyone who knows me.  Aside from occasional rants (still rare even on this blog) I keep a low resting pulse rate, and my blood pressure is the envy of my doctor’s clinic.  After my annual physical some years back I asked the doctor how I was doing.  She said, “Barrett, you prove that 58 is the new 57!”

But I do like to compete.  Maybe that’s normal for one of three sons, but I learned early on that I was never going to beat Number Two academically.  (He graduated Stanford with honors and became a Rhodes Scholar.)  However, in high school I won state and regional events as a speaker, and I was a two-time Oregon percussion champion--tenor and rudimental bass.  

One of the vivid memories of my youth was standing in formation after the state drum and bugle corps championship in 1964, my freshman year in high school.  The Falcons never did well in field events but we were loaded with talent—one year we astonished everyone (including ourselves) by taking more than half the individual medals.  Winners were called front and center to receive their awards, and I’ll always remember the adrenalin rush, the thrill as my name was announced.  (Immediately followed by embarrassment as my mother hollered from the grandstand.)

You’re heard of Little League Fathers and Soccer Moms?  Trust me: they’re in the same genus as Drum Corps Parents.

Much later I won occasional rifle and pistol matches, and in 1997 I led the national championship team in cowboy action shooting.  (I never got kissed that much since VJ-Day, and I wasn’t at VJ-Day!) 

I peaked as a competitive shooter between ages 47 and 49.  In 1996 I shot the entire ten-stage national championship with one miss, finishing 38th out of 400.  That was a thrill, as I’d finally found the optimum balance between speed and accuracy.  I knew that the rifle round fired from inside the stagecoach was a miss when I touched it off, but I learned another lesson from competition: stay focused on the immediate task or challenge.  You cannot undo what’s done, but you can try harder every time henceforth.

Shooting a “clean match” at the 1998 Winter Range national championships also was a highlight: hitting 176 targets in ten stages--on the clock without a miss--was a record I could never beat and never tied. 

Whether consciously or not, I think I was drawn to non-cardio events as a way of compensating for my asthma limitations.  I was never going to be an athlete, but I could compete on even terms in debate and music, and to an extent in action shooting.

Many of my friends are what you could call Intense Competitors.  One of my coauthors, a professional fighter pilot and MiG killer, described himself as “safety wired on the Intense setting.”  He was in good company.  I remember Medal of Honor aviator Joe Foss, that kind soul and Christian gentleman, only half-joking when he said, “I can’t let my grandchildren win at Go Fish.”  

And a shooting pal admitted, “I had to quit competing because I was going to ruin some friendships.  I just could not stand to lose, even if I knew it was more my fault than somebody else’s.”

In today’s PC era, when education is conducted by socialist ideologues and emotional grass eaters in a carnivore world, we’re into the second generation of the feel-good philosophy.  Without diverting to a Rant about outcome-based education, competition has been downplayed across the fruited plain.  There was a time when you could feel good if you’d done your best; given your full effort.  Too often today, you get a star on your chart or an attaboy if you showed up.  Taken to extremes, I remember a P-38 ace who looked at the beribboned airmen of the 1980s and exclaimed, “I guess the Air Force gives medals for perfect attendance.”

Recently I saw The Magnificent Seven again.  Steve McQueen (Vin) allows that more than the money, he enjoys the gunfighting trade for the competition involved.  Yul Brenner (Chris) describes James Coburn (Britt) as the best of the best, with knife or gun.  One of the Mexican villagers seeking to hire the gunnies asks, “If he is the best with a knife and with a gun, with whom does he compete?”

Chris gives a knowing grimace.  “With himself.”

There’s wisdom in that line.  The concept of competing with yourself is often characterized as seeking a new “personal best.”  It applies across the board, from golf to combat, and more than one warrior has said, “War is a full-contact sport.” 

It’s no original thought to conclude that we learn more from losing than from winning.  And in sports since nobody wins all the time (excepting Rocky Marciano), every competitor knows going in that he or she will lose at some point. 

Yet we see “coaches” who value artificial self esteem over accomplishment.  As if it’s possible to protect youngsters from the inevitability of losing.  It’s not only Mission Impossible, it’s downright harmful. 

Winning is more fun than losing, but the joy in competing is in accomplishment.   We set our own standards, and the lessons learned from early competition can provide lessons that can last a lifetime. 

TWO FRIENDS DEPART THE PATTERN

You know you’re getting old when you attend two memorial services in one day.

Actually, it was two services in two hours, honoring Doug Champlin, who died of cancer at 72, and Captain Stanley Vejtasa, USN(Ret) who died in January at 98.

At 2 p.m. on Friday the 24th Arizona gave Doug Champlin a wonderful sendoff, complete with a three-Stearman flyby, a two-SNJ flyby, and a Mustang fly-by (Bill Hane in Ho Hun.)  There were fine tributes from Hiram Champlin, who reckoned he had the best uncle in the world, and business associate Dave Goss who cited Doug's honor, integrity, and kindness.

Everyone in the antique or warbird communities knew about Doug, from the Oklahoma oil family.  I met him in 1974 when he bought the Douglas Dauntless from my father.  Dad and two partners had restored the WW II dive bomber—then the only SBD (navy) or A-24 (army) flying in the world.  Dad bought out his partners and we flew the classic aircraft for two years before Doug learned of it.  When he and his pilot left Pendleton, Oregon, that day, it was a bittersweet moment—the end of a relationship with an iconic warbird and the beginning of a cherished friendship.

Doug was a visionary and a collector.  He accumulated a wide variety of collectibles, from guns to automobiles to airplanes.  In 1981 he moved his growing aircraft collection to Mesa, Arizona, where he established a world-class facility, the Champlin Fighter Museum.  Eventually it totaled more than 30 original and reproduction aircraft from WW I well into the jet age.  I established Champlin Museum Press in 1982, and came to know and respect Doug even more than before.

For an aviation guy, working at CFM was like a kid finding the Big Rock Candy Mountain.  I resolved that I would notice the first time I passed through either hangar without looking left or right.  When I realized I’d walked the length of the WW I collection looking straight ahead, I’d been there eight or nine months.

Working for Doug was more like having a partner than an employer.  Essentially he said, “Tell me which new and reprint books you want to do, and we’ll discuss them.”  He had a few pet projects but generally he let me risk his money on my judgment.  We produced popular titles and academic studies with several memoirs.  The latter included Dick Turner’s Big Friend, Little Friend, Hugh Winters’ Skipper: Confessions of a Fighter Squadron Commander, and Boots Blesse’s Check Six: A Fighter Pilot Looks Back.  We did a coloring book with cartoonist Bob Stevens and we produced the definitive study of Austro-Hungarian aces of WW I, thanks to the industrial-strength enthusiasm of the late Dr. Marty O’Connor. 

We also reprinted two books by Adolf Galland, the WW II Luftwaffe fighter chief.  Getting to know Dolfo was a special treat.  He was a young general who went nose to beak with Goring and Hitler, defending his aircrews from slanderous accusations when they were taking 25% losses per month.  In vivid comparison, during the 1990s the U.S. armed forces had almost nobody willing to stand up for the troops during the Bush Leaguers’ Tailhook witch hunt.

You never knew whom you might meet at CFM: Scott Crossfield, Sergei Sikorsky, Joe Foss, and the full membership of the American Fighter Aces Association.  With typical generosity, Doug made the museum AFAA’s home from 1983 until CFM closed in 2003.  He was able to sell his collection intact to a consortium from the Seattle Museum of Flight—a huge benefit to the cause of aviation history.  But for the CFM family, that last banquet was a two-hankie evolution.

Later that afternoon the Early & Pioneer Naval Aviators Association reunion paid tribute to the ten Golden Eagles who departed the pattern in the past year, including longtime friends Rear Admiral Jig Dog Ramage and Captain Bill Scarborough.

The GE program was drafted with a tight schedule: 2 ½ minutes per eulogy.  Obviously, it’s not possible to cram a 20-pound career story into a 6-pound seabag of oration.  But each Eagle’s accomplishments are easily found, so rather than quickly reciting Swede's exceptional career, I focused on one special aspect of one exceptional day.

Some background: Swede received his wings of gold in 1939, and by 1942 was a seasoned fleet aviator.  Flying SBDs from USS Yorktown (CV-5), he participated in the world’s first aircraft carrier battle, earning two Navy Crosses on May 7-8.  Shortly he was ordered to the new Fighting Squadron 10 under the legendary Lt. Cdr. Jim Flatley. 

In the Battle of Santa Cruz, 27 October 1942, VF-10 helped defend Guadalcanal from enemy reinforcement.  It was a hard-fought contest as USS Enterprise (CV-6) and Hornet (CV-8) faced four Japanese carriers.  Swede made history that day as the first American credited with downing seven enemy aircraft in one mission.

However, Hornet was fatally hit and the Big E took bomb damage that jammed the forward aircraft elevator fully down.  As Enterprise took Hornet’s overflow the flight deck began filling up.  Only the middle elevator could be used to take planes to the hangar deck, as the aft elevator was needed to park airplanes.  Enterprise had eight arresting wires but eventually the landing signal officer began “cutting” airplanes onto the No. 3 wire.  Then the No. 2 wire.  Then only the No. 1 wire, closest to the stern, was available.

Enterprise’s LSO was the best in the business, Lt. Robin Lindsey.  He was willing to attempt the seeming impossible: with room for one last airplane, Robin would bring Swede aboard.

The stakes were enormous: Enterprise was the last remaining big-deck carrier in the Pacific Fleet.  If Swede crashed, the Big E could be out of action for weeks at the height of the vital Guadalcanal campaign.  But Robin and Swede had complete confidence in each other. 

Swede flew up the carrier’s wake, his Wildcat hanging on its prop.  With his paddles Robin gave Swede a “high dip”—drop the nose slightly—then “cut him long in the groove.”  Farther astern than ever before, Robin the gifted LSO compensated for the limited deck space, and Swede the superb pilot complied.  As he said, “I was looking right at the ramp.”

Swede’s tailhook snagged the sternmost cable and his fighter lurched to a stop.  The deck hands chocked his wheels right there: the deck was locked.  I don’t think it ever happened before or since.

I noted that aviation is a meritocracy, with reputations built upon the twin pillars of how much you respect someone's ability and how much you trust his judgment. Swede and Robin had complete mutual trust and respect, and proved it with a "one-wire trap.”  

I was doing just fine with Swede Vejtasa's 2 1/2 minute tribute up to the last five seconds or so.   Fortunately, I didn’t have to relate some of his later contributions: captain of USS Constellation (CVA-64) and founder of the school that later became Top Gun.  All that anyone needs to know about the essence of carrier aviation was contained in that brief episode 71 years ago.

Lord, but I've been blessed to know some wonderful folks.  Look no farther than Doug Champlin and Swede Vejtasa.

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

Off Midway Island, June 4, 1942.  The flight deck of USS Enterprise (CV 6) was crammed with airplanes waiting to launch against the Imperial Japanese Navy task force reported nearly 200 miles distant.  Grumman Comet fighters were first off, requiring less of a deck run than the Douglas Mohave scout-bombers.  Below on the hangar deck, laden Douglas Scorpion torpedo planes awaited their turn.

The carrier aviators had a position report of their target, thanks to long-range reconnaissance by Consolidated Clemente patrol planes.  Meanwhile, Marine Corps land-based Comets and Brewster Twister fighters were engaging a losing battle against more than 100 Japanese aircraft blasting the atoll.  At the same time six Grumman Dragons, the Navy’s newest torpedo planes, were flying outbound to attack the enemy carriers alongside aging Vought Stratford scout-bombers.

Break-break.

The facts of the Battle of Midway are accurately stated, but the aircraft names are anachronisms.  They accurately reflect the original popular names proposed by the Navy Bureau of Aeronautics in a document released 12 months before the climactic battle. 

Between June and October 1941, someone drastically changed the names of naval aircraft.  Comets became Wildcats; Mohaves became Dauntlesses; and Scorpions turned into Devastators.   Of the land-based planes, Dragons emerged as Avengers and Stratfords became Vindicators.

Very few of the original names survived the change.  Probably the most notable was Consolidated’s PB2Y Coronado while the PBM Maryland emerged as the Mariner.  As noted, the classic PBY Catalina began as the Clemente.

It’s interesting to note (to me anyway) that the June 1941 document was signed by “Commander Durgin.”  That was Calvin T. Durgin, an aviator since 1920 and owner of a master’s degree in aeronautical engineering from M.I.T.  He made a solid reputation during WW II, commanding the carrier Ranger (CV 4) during Operation Torch, the November 1942 invasion of French Morocco, and as an admiral he led escort carrier task groups in the Pacific.  He died in 1965, leaving us to ponder the whimsical names that he or his board original chose for some of the fightingest airplanes in Navy history.

Americans have never been very good at naming or designating airplanes.  Look no farther than the 1980s “F”-117 Nighthawk, a stealth “fighter” without air to air armament or the speed to get out of its own way.  The next generation stealth machine, the eternally-delayed and problem-plagued F-35, skipped 11 numbers, leaping from the prototype Northrop F-23.

Other nations put America to shame in aircraft designations, especially the British.  The RAF’s alliterative naming system made it easy to remember many aircraft, especially the elegant Supermarine Spitfire, but also the Avro Anson, Handley-Page Halifax, and Short Sunderland.  A few exceptions crept in, particularly the Avro Lancaster and the Vickers Wellington bombers.  But on the other hand the Brits outdid themselves with the Blackburn Blackburn, a massively ugly 1920s biplane.

The long-lived, innovative De Havilland company probably remains the prominent exception to British consistency.  While the firm’s prewar lightplanes were a succession of Moths (Fox, Gypsy, Tiger, etc) its military products ran the gamut from Mosquito to Sea Vixen.  Perhaps the company’s naming philosophy was to remain inconsistent.

However, even when the system partially broke down, the RAF lads maintained an internal logic.  Following the Hawker Hurricane were the firm’s next fighters, the Typhoon and Tempest.  We might say that the “light blue” service possessed a breezy sense of humo(u)r in that regard.

One aircraft name that spanned not only nations but cultures was “Thunderbolt.”  Americans are well acquainted with Republic’s hulking P-47, but two other WW II fighters were Italy’s Macchi Castoldi 202 Folgore (also translated as Lightning) and the Japanese Navy’s Mitsubishi J2M Raiden land-based fighter. 

Whatever names they bear, combat aircraft remain a subject of fascination spanning generations.  But how and why some of those names are chosen seems to remain lost in the mists of time.  

A dip of the wingtip to my colleague Rick Morgan for producing the obscure 1941 documents.