Way back in the early 1950's I was a lowly one-stripe airman stationed at Wright-Patterson AFB, Ohio. I was eventually destined to attend the Aviation Cadet program which would lead to a commission as a second lieutenant and the silver wings of an aviator. But as this story unfolds I was just another bottom-rung G.I.. My duty assignment was that of an air traffic control clerk at the Military Flight Service Center. It was one of 14 such centers around the country and I found myself there after completing training as a control tower operator.
The work was interesting and for this young, impressionable enlisted man it was a dream assignment. I was right where the "action" was in terms of military flight operations. And to add to the fascination I worked down on the flightline at one of the Air Force's most interesting bases. Just getting to and from that Flight Service facility meant having to walk through a huge hangar with all sorts of airplanes. I was like kid in a candy store and having the time of my life. But, of course, my interest was heightened by the knowledge that in a few months I would be heading to flight school.
And if that wasn't enough, my greatest treats came from being able to go along on dozens of flights in our unit's C-45 twin-Beech courier planes. The pilots in our outfit not only acted as clearance authorities reviewing and approving flight plans filed by other pilots from dozens of military and civil airfields in our region, they also had to fly to and inspect each of those airfields twice each year. The information they gathered was published in a Facilities Handbook, a reference document carried by all military aircraft.
Major John ( I'll omit his last name ) was my supervisor in the Flight Service Center and soon to become a real friend. He knew that I was designated to go to flight training and would be leaving the base as soon as a class assignment came in. I would one day be headed to pilot training and the start of a whole new military career, not to mention becoming an officer.
My boss became my mentor, intent upon getting me started early as an aviator. He took me under his wing and resolved to give me a head start at becoming a pilot. It was a heady experience for this 21-year old squirt. He actually gave me flying lessons in those C-45's and put me in the left seat. He actually got me to the point where I could fly the plane, navigate by map reading and radio range stations, beacons and direction finders. He taught me how to make take-offs and landings. He was determined that I succeed when I eventually got to the Aviation cadet program. His guidance, plus the training I already had in traffic control, did indeed prepare me for what would come.
Unfortunately, what came was not a career as a pilot. No sooner did I arrive at Lackland AFB, Texas for "preflight" training than they gave me yet another flight physical to be sure that I was qualified to become a pilot. Two prior physicals had already affirmed that I was, but this last hurdle proved to be too much. I could not pass the eye tests. Instead I was shunted off to become a navigator, where perfect vision was less important.
By June of 1954 I had progressed to become a second lieutenant and in October, after an 18-month long program, earned my wings as a radar navigator, bombardier and photo reconnaissance officer. I did well enough in training that my superiors decided I ought to remain at my central Texas base and serve as an instructor. In fact they kept four of us from my class.
So there I was, a brand new lieutenant, an ex-GI and now a flight instructor. I was disappointed at not being a pilot, of course, but still found my work interesting, challenging and satisfying. Things were pretty good for me.
Back in those days, General Lemay, the Commander-in-Chief of Strategic Air Command, decided that all three crewmen aboard B-47 bombers had to be qualified as radar navigator/bombardiers. The B-47 carried a crew composed of a pilot ( the aircraft commander ), a co-pilot and a radar navigator. Many pilots were sent to flight school to become radar navigators and bombardiers. The philosophy of Lemay was that incapacitation of any one man should not jeopardize the ability of the crew to find and strike their targets. If necessary a pilot should be skilled enough to take over for the radar navigator. The program was called "Blue Flame" and hundreds of pilots were sent off to become navigators.
One day, to my great surprise, I was instructor to a group of four pilot students aboard our radar-equipped T-29 flying classroom and one of those students happened to be Major John. It was a real pleasure for me to see him, but I'll never forget the deep disappointment in his face to see that I was not a pilot. I was ( excuse the expression ) a navigator. He was visibly crushed. But after the initial shock we resumed our strange friendship, though now the gulf between a lowly enlisted man and a major was markedly narrowed. We were both officers and we had some fine mutual recollections.
It happened that Major John was not doing very well in his navigator training. He was, in fact, on the verge of flunking out. He was a great stick and rudder aviator, but not adept at radar scope interpretation or the elaborate calculations required to accommodate ballistics and bombing. And his celestial navigation skills were very weak too. If he really did flunk out of this training program his military career would be in serious jeopardy. He needed help.
I took it as a personal challenge and cause to tutor him and work with him on and off duty to get him successfully through that program. Our rolls were now reversed. Where he had made the effort to give me a head start, I now had the chance to repay his kindness and become his mentor. It was a strange but highly rewarding opportunity and experience. I will always remember my old friend, Major John.
And, oh yes, he did make it and went on to fly B-47's in the Strategic Air Command.