TRANSPORTATION, AVIATION, AND AIRMEN

Earlier this month I was privileged to be inducted into the Arizona Military Aviation Walk of Honor, sponsored by the local wing of the Commemorative Air Force.  This year was the third installment ceremony, which I shared with WW I ace and entrepreneur Ralph O'Neill, Major General Carl Schneider, and Rear Admiral Denny Wisely.  Previous inductees included Frank Luke, Joe Foss, and two helicopter luminaries--Sergei Sikorsky and Fred Ferguson, a Vietnam Medal of Honor recipient.

My selection was based on the aerospace education category, as I’ve written nearly 50 books and more than 600 articles, largely on military aviation subjects.  But clearly I’m running in mighty fast company.  Therefore, I’d like to attempt to place my aviation perspective in broader context: air travel as it evolved from transportation generally.

I believe that the history of America is a history of transportation, from the Mayflower to the moon.  I'd like to offer a brief survey based on my family's experience, as many of you will share similar backgrounds.

Both sides of my family came to the New World in the 1630s.  They crossed the North Atlantic by sailing ship, covering about 3,200 miles in 30 to 35 days.  That's an average rate of advance of about 90 miles per day or not quite 4 mph.  They fetched up in Virginia, Maryland, and the Carolinas, and there they stayed most of the next 200 years.  Their main mode of transportation was horseback, about 8 to 10 mph.

But some looked west.  Two of my maternal great-great grandparents wanted more than the east offered, so they invested everything in a Conestoga wagon and an ox team.  In the spring of 1852 they crossed the Missouri south of the mouth of the Platte, and set out on the Oregon Trail.  Contrary to what you see in movies, they seldom rode that wagon.  Mostly they walked 2,000 miles in five months, engaged in a ponderous race against nature itself.  They had to reach Oregon City before the end of October when winter arrived.  Over those five months they averaged about 12 miles per day.  Their actual travel was 2 to 3 mph, depending on terrain.

John and Martha's grand daughter was my great aunt Areta.  "Auntie B" was one of the most memorable people I ever knew, and that is saying something.  She was born amid one of the last Indian wars in the Northwest, as her parents forted up with friends.  That was in 1878, almost three years before completion of the second transcontinental railroad.  Raised hardshell Baptist, she really did run away with a traveling salesman, and it was years before she could show her face in her hometown.  Yet she watched Neil Armstrong take One Giant Leap For Mankind.  

Think about that.  Areta was born when the fastest thing on earth was the steam locomotive, maybe 60 mph, though 14 to 40 mph was more typical between stations.  But 90 years later we attained escape velocity of 25,000 mph.  That’s one of the things that makes aviation so fascinating to me.  Apart from the exceptional men and women who populate aviation, it’s a limitless endeavor where innovation and risk-taking produce astonishing progress in a blink of history’s eye.  Let’s hope that the pioneering spirit of the innovators and risk takers survives us into the next century of flight.

For my acceptance speech at Falcon Field, the organizers asked me to share some recollections of notable airmen I’ve known.  I said that the committee should have tapped Tom Cruise for that task because it’s Mission Impossible, but since the CAF is military oriented, I focused on the following:

First of course has to be Jimmy Doolittle, perhaps the most complete aviator of all time.  His master’s and doctoral papers in 1925 extended our knowledge of the theory of flight; he carved unique records with instrument flight and his spectacular racing career; and of course his wartime influence is well known.  My first interview with him was in 1976, writing the program for his 80th birthday party by the LA Chamber of Commerce.  He was still working at Mutual of Omaha, and he said he took the stairs to his third-floor office “keeping in shape for World War III.”

Among Arizonans, I had to mention Joe Foss.  The Marine Corps has wronged him for 70 years by accepting Greg Boyington’s claims, but Joe was too much of a gentleman to make an issue of it.  (Even accepting Pappy’s USMC claims, he finished with 22 victories as a Marine to Joe’s 26.)  But the thing about Joe was that he was absolutely genuine.  His son said “Never an unspoken thought!”  When Joe spoke at opening of the Pacific Wing of the National WW II Memorial in 2001 he said, “They told me not to mention God or guns so that’s what I’m gonna discuss.”  The audience cheered its approval.

My friend and fellow Oregonian Marion Carl was another Guadalcanal fighter ace and longtime friend of Joe’s.  (In fact, Marion had instructed when Joe went through Pensacola.)  Marion was arguably the finest naval aviator of his generation—he had the flying gene the way Mozart had the music gene.  Marion soloed in 2 ½ hours, and anything less is hardly credible.  Yet despite his combat and flight-test records, he was devoid of ego.  He described aerial combat and milking cows in the same tone of voice.

The astronaut I knew best was Wally Schirra, as we coauthored a book with two other Golden Wingers, Blue Angel Zeke Cormier and carrier skipper Phil Wood.  Wildcats to Tomcats took years to complete but it was worth the effort.  Once Wally picked me up in his new purple Porsche and, though knowing better, I asked, “What’s the top end, Wally?”  He shot me that Gotcha grin: “Idunno.  Let’s find out!”  On the winding roads behind Rancho Santa Fe I remember thinking, “My name will be in all the papers because I’m going to die with Wally Schirra!”

They’re all gone now, but I remember each with abiding respect and affection, for I was privileged to know such men.

EXPOSING AVIATION PHONIES

It's not right to lie about one's military service but in the USA it's legal.  Consequently the Stolen Valor Act, originally drafted to deny unearned attention to phony heroes, had to be redrafted.  The revised bill was passed last year, emphasizing that lying about one's record is permissible as long as the liar gains no financial benefit.

The list of phony war heroes is long and keeps growing.  The most prominent was President Lyndon Johnson, who received an unearned Silver Star in 1942.  As a furloughed congressman, Lt. Cdr. Johnson, USNR, rode a B-26 that aborted over New Guinea.  Nonetheless, Gen. Douglas MacArthur gave Johnson (a favorite of President Franklin Roosevelt) the nation’s third-highest combat decoration with a bogus account of heroism. 

Probably nobody knows how many fake fighter aces have peddled their stories to inept reporters and naïve hero worshipers but here’s a sampling.

In 1994 a continuing education instructor at Mayport, Florida, convinced the command that he was a triple ace and a retired rear admiral.  The navy bought the lies and paid tribute to the “hero” in the base newspaper.  “Fightin’ Dick Russell” said he flew in the Solomons where he had been “The Satan of the Slot,” a moniker from the dreadful 1970s TV series, Black Sheep Squadron.

About that time a Florida model shop announced that it was (again) honoring “Colonel John C. Meyer,” WW II ace and Korean War MiG killer.  I contacted the babes in the woods, informing them that four-star general John C. Meyer had died in 1975.  At first the modelers refused to believe me.  When they heard from others, including veterans of the 352nd Fighter Group, the hero worshipers dropped off the scope.

One of the longest-lived phonies was a California liar called Andy Cowan.  He thought he could skate under the ace radar by claiming 4 ½ victories, but like so many fakes he did not realize that it’s called The Information Age for a reason.  He did however convince elements of the U.S. Navy that he was a WW II fighter pilot who “fought in all the big battles.”  Furthermore, without naming them he claimed being on three carriers that were sunk—an impossibility.  And nobody of that name shot down any airplanes in WW II.  Yet he was a frequent speaker at local schools, even showing “himself” in wartime photos—lifted from history books.  When he finally died in 2008 the Salinas paper’s obituary repeated most of Cowan’s lies.  But when confronted with the facts, the editors refused to print a retraction. 

In 2011 I worked with Pacific Theater historian Bruce Gamble (a former naval flight officer) to expose a fake Black Sheep Squadron ace in New Mexico.  Marine Corps archives confirmed that no Terry Fredericks had served in the Corps during WW II, let alone as an aviator and ace.  To its credit, the El Paso Times investigated further and published a correction and retraction.  The original article was only published because a retired admiral naively believed Fredericks’ lies.

More recently, two Indiana papers wrote lengthy articles about 88-year-old Glen Fleming of the South Bend area.  Fleming said that he flew SBDs at Coral Sea, F4Fs at Midway (as a dive bomber!), became an ace in Hellcats, and finished the war flying Avenger “rocket bombers.”  Both the South Bend Tribune and the La Porte Herald Argus published fawning articles about the fake, who claims he left the navy with combat wounds in 1946.  But every Navy combat fighter pilot is known from 1942—none named Fleming.  The Herald Argus ignored my emails.  It took the POW Network with Fleming’s actual navy records to elicit a response—he was a second class petty officer who spent nearly all the war ashore, leaving in 1945.

In the 1980s Arizona’s largest newspaper publisher was Darrow “Duke” Tully who claimed for years he was an Air Force reservist.  He hobnobbed with Barry Goldwater and boosted John McCain’s congressional candidacy, often appearing in dress uniform with miniature medals.  He gave himself periodic promotions, peaking at colonel.  But finally his lies caught up with him and he resigned in disgrace, moving out of state.  Once in awhile you’ll still hear Arizona airmen say, “I was Duke Tully’s wingman!”

So: what to do when you encounter a reputed war hero?

Job one is to become a skeptic if not an outright cynic.  Rather than accept the claimant’s tales of aerial heroism, ask for records, starting with Department of Defense Form 214 (DD-214) that shows details of military service.  If the individual cannot provide it or the equivalent, he’s immediately suspicious.  The liar’s default position is “I lost it.”  But copies are available for real vets.

Demand to see other documents: logbooks, medal citations, wartime correspondence.  Photos may or may not be helpful because phonies lie about who’s who in pictures. 

Ask specifics: what squadron(s) were you in, and who were the COs?  (If he asks “What’s a CO?” you’ve found another liar.)  What aircraft did he fly?  One fake was asked what model of P-51 he flew and replied, “Oh the mind that they had in England.”

Better yet, ask, “With all your flying experience, tell me how a wing generates lift.”  (You can easily obtain the answer by a minute’s Googling.)  For some obscure reason there are more Navy phonies than Air Force phonies.  If he claims to be a Golden Winger, ask him to describe the carrier landing pattern. 

Also ask to talk to the hero’s wartime friends.  If he says they’re dead or he’s lost track of all of them, that’s another clue.

No reputable journalist will publish an article with “facts” based solely on the subject’s assertions.  But there are many lazy reporters and indifferent editors in the media, so we’ll continue seeing “reporting” of unethical wannabe heroes like Lyndon Johnson and his ilk.

         

THE BIG SIX-FIVE

Recently I turned 65, which officially makes me a Senior Citizen.  Surprisingly, the clock turning over another “milestone” number did not bother me very much, other than the attendant flail in signing up for Medicare.

But I did reflect on a few previous chronological events, and here’s how I remember them:

Eighteen.  Old enough to vote, which still strikes me as an extraordinarily bad idea.  It’s right up-down there with sixteen-year-old drivers.  (In case anybody thinks THAT’S a good idea, consult the nearest parents or insurance agents.)  Yes, I’ve heard all the rationales for reducing the age of “maturity” from 21 to 18, and none of them hold up.  “If you’re old enough to die for your country, you’re old enough to vote.”  Well, actually no, you’re not.  Presumably voting requires mature judgment, which is rare enough in people 40 to 70 years of age, let alone teenagers.  And ignoring the huge majority of U.S. military history from Bunker Hill onward, if it were true, why do all 50 states still hold the drinking age at 21?

Twenty-one.  Which was FORTY-FOUR years ago.  For obscure reasons, I vaguely remember thinking that Things Would Be Different From Now On, but mainly they continued on the trajectory I’d launched at 18.  I was a year from collecting my journalism diploma from the University of Oregon and naively thought that the sheepskin would open the door to a career, especially with my string of published articles and some broadcast experience.  But actually, I got more of a practical education when my first job interview at a Portland TV station ended with, “You’re the wrong sex and the wrong color.” 

Thirty.  That one I remember for its surprisingly mild impact.  Unlike ladies’ oft-reported angst, maybe my attitude was a Guy Thing.  “OK, I’m 30.  This isn’t so bad.  Actually it feels dang good!”

As they say in Hollywood, lapse-dissolve, fade in to Forty.  Now that’s 33 1/3 percent older than Thirty, which is Statistically Significant.  But honestly, I barely thought about it.  I was past the halfway mark of the Biblical threescore and ten but I was reasonably successful, enjoying my work and only somewhat aware that I was still single.  Forty was not bad, not bad at all.

Fifty.  Or, more accurately, FIFTY!!!  Now that’s a Serious Number.  When The Big Five-Oh rolls over on the odometer you know you’re farther from The Beginning than The End.  It’s a time for talking stock, considering where you’ve been, where you want to go, and computing the time-space continuum as the days begin trickling-dwindling down.  As Der Tag approached I didn’t actually sulk but I admit to moping some.  Maybe for as much a couple of weeks.  But then I awoke one morning and realized that I could continue in Mope Mode or I could shed it, because either way I was still gonna be Fifty.

So I decided to throw myself a Big Five-Oh Party.  I still have the announcement, which included:

How to mark half a century on this earth?

Answer: throw a party for those you met along the way.  Those whom you value, who shared the good times as well as the bad, who helped you over some of the rough spots, and who mattered.  Especially those who still do.

Nobody could list all the people or all the events that shaped each of us into who we are—that would take a very large book, and I’ve written a couple dozen.  But here’s some who mattered most:

My parents, who gave me life and a moral compass.

My brothers, who gave me grief for years.  Then one day I was able to leave them behind when I went off to school and started kindergarten.

My wingmen, most of whom were better “sticks” but might have flown off the edge of the earth without somebody to navigate for them.

My pards who rode the shooting ranges of the New West to a national championship.

My editors, some of whom are smart enough to leave my prose alone.

My publishers, some of whom actually seem interested in selling books.

My friends.  Their numbers dwindle, making them all the more valuable.

Today, in 2013, I guesstimate that nearly half of those who attended that event are gone, including my mother and my best-ever best friend.  Yet others have arisen as our orbits crossed, and I’m increasingly grateful for them—and even moreso for my bride, Sally.

There have been enormous changes in 15 years.  Neither the nation nor the world is better off than in 1998, and some usually-optimistic folks have a hard time believing that things will improve anytime soon. 

However, if you’ll check back in ten years I’ll be glad to amend that view if conditions warrant it.