by Stout, Jay
“Cathryn has been putting every cent she could wangle out of me into material to fix things up nice for when the folks come down. She’s a junk-shop maniac but has really turned out some attractive furniture. She buys chairs, has me tighten them up a bit, paints them, reupholsters them, then slaps a slipcover over ’em and they do look pretty swell.”
Righetti and his new wife scrimped and saved, as did most newlyweds. However, worries about dollars and cents were less important to Arnold and his staff as they scrambled to grow the Army Air Corps. It was in March 1941 that the plan to train seven thousand pilots per year was scrapped and replaced with a plan to produce thirty thousand pilots per year. At the same time, the number of air groups the service was racing to field was raised from 41 to 84.3 And this was well before the former number was even close to being met.
Operating such a force would require infrastructure and support personnel that were additionally costly. Yet, with most of Europe under the thrall of the Nazis, Congress had long since stopped asking what the money was for. Rather, the nation’s lawmakers were interested in funding even more. Indeed, if money was to be spent, congressmen were anxious to ensure that a fair share of it was spent in ways that benefitted their constituencies.
Righetti took Cathryn to San Luis Obispo to meet the folks during May 1941. She was understandably nervous about how she might be welcomed into the large, tight-knit family that Righetti had described to her, but she apparently was easy to like. She wrote Mom and Pop after the visit. “I certainly do appreciate you folks being so very nice to me and making me feel like I ‘belonged.’ That had worried me a long time and when you all were so very kind, I wonder now why it ever bothered me at all.” Righetti confirmed Cathryn’s feelings: “I don’t guess I’ve said thanks to every one of you for being so swell to Cathryn. Kaki was worried to death over meeting you all, but has since not stopped raving over how much she loves each one of you.”
“Our trip back was pretty swell. I was rather pleased when Cathryn said at Boulder Dam, while we were going through its innards, ‘You know, when I see all this and stop and think just a moment, it doesn’t make me scared of Hitler at all.’ Pretty well put, wasn’t it?”
Notwithstanding Cathryn’s declaration that she was not frightened of Hitler, the dynamic at American military installations across the globe began to reflect the realities of the growing conflict. “Randolph is now a closed post,” Righetti reported, “and no one can come on the field without darn well defined business. Everything (hangars, airplanes, gas supply, buildings, etc.) posts a 24-hour guard, so we feel like war is already here. We can’t even get back on the base without positive identification.”
The increase in security followed President Roosevelt’s declaration of May 27, 1941, in which he stated, “that an unlimited national emergency confronts this country, which requires that its military, naval, air and civilian defences [sic] be put on the basis of readiness to repel any and all acts or threats of aggression directed toward any part of the Western Hemisphere.”4 At that point Great Britain, virtually alone, struggled not just to contain Hitler’s forces, but simply to survive. Indeed, on that very day, British troops fought unsuccessfully to repel the German invasion of Crete. London and other cities in Britain were still being bombed. And the U-boat scourge was choking the island nation’s lifelines to the rest of the world. On the bright side, the seemingly invincible German battleship Bismarck was sunk that day by the Royal Navy.
Roosevelt’s pronouncement served several purposes. Firstly, it gave Hitler notice that the United States would not tolerate Nazi incursions into the Western Hemisphere. Moreover, it underscored the fact that the United States would defend shipping in the Atlantic and continue to send aid to Great Britain. Further, the declaration gave him executive powers over virtually everything related to the nation’s security. This included not only military forces and bases, but also national infrastructure such as highways, ports, power plants and even radio stations and securities exchanges. And perhaps most important, it was an unequivocal message to the American people to prepare for war.
It was during this summer, following the declaration of the National Emergency, that Righetti first mentioned his weariness with flight instructor duties. “Everything’s still Randolph and this place is getting monotonous. I know now that I can stay here as long as I want, so I’ve definitely decided to ask for a change—I don’t want to fly these tubs until I’m too old to appreciate a hot airplane.”
He wasn’t alone in his desire for some sort of excitement beyond that provided by flight instruction. “Two of my better friends left yesterday for China with about 100 Air Corps men who are under contract to keep the Burma Road open. They’ll clear $600 per month plus expenses and get a $500 bonus for each enemy [Japanese] aircraft shot down. Whyinell [sic] am I married and forced to be responsible? I could make $20,000 in two years if I lasted.” Although he had no way of knowing it, the program he described was organized as the American Volunteer Group, which later became more popularly known as the Flying Tigers.
Although Righetti’s brother Ernie loved and admired him, military service was out of the question because of the limp that polio had given him. On the other hand, his youngest brother Maurice was seventeen at the time and very keen to follow Elwyn’s example. “Maurice, I realize that I’ve never actually given you my opinion on what I think you ought to do regarding your education,” Righetti wrote. “I’m not going to now—it is, after all, very much just up to you. But I can speak from my own experience and considerable from the boys I know when I say, get a college degree if you possibly can. Above all else, don’t let a lousy CAA [Civil Aeronautics Authority] program and a few hours in a beat-up [Piper] Cub turn your head. I frankly believe I can teach you more and better stuff in two weekends than they will in 35 flying hours.”
The CAA program that Righetti viewed with such disdain was the Civilian Pilot Training Program—the CPTP. Started in 1939, it was designed to give no-cost initial flight training to as many qualified persons as were interested. Although chief among the publicly stated objectives was the expansion of aviation in the United States, its military value was apparent. It included basic flying and ground instruction and ultimately gave training to nearly half-a-million individuals. Righetti, like most military flyers of his vintage, considered it a second-rate program headed by civilian amateurs. Nevertheless, some of the most successful pilots in the coming war received their first flight training through the CPTP.
There was big news for the family in November. “We finally got the lowdown from the doc,” Righetti wrote, “and he tells us it should be around June 1, but we’re holding out for June 3, so Pop’s first Righetti grandson will be born on his birthday.” Cathryn was pregnant. “Cathryn feels swell except she’s kinda excited—I guess she’ll get used to it.”
The news of the baby was accompanied by more welcome news when Righetti was promoted to first lieutenant on November 1, 1941. With greater rank came greater opportunities and rumors of imminent reassignment were upended on an almost daily basis by fresh rumors of imminent re-reassignment. New training bases were being made operational at an unprecedented rate and Righetti, only just more than a year removed from flight training, was now one of the most experienced instructors in the United States Army Air Forces, or USAAF; the Air Corps had been renamed on June 20, 1941.
With his experience—as thin as it was—Righetti was an obvious choice for taking a leadership position at one of the newly opened training airfields. “We’re expecting to transfer soon and are hoping it will be while Kay is still feeling okay. Our new post will definitely be Mission and I think we’ll like it.” Righetti was likely trying to put some shine on an undesirable assignment that would take them to the hot, scrubby hinterlands of the Rio Grande Valley. Mission was the more commonly used name for Moore Field which was located about fifteen miles northwest of the town of Mission in south Texas. It was remote and offered few large town amenities.
&n
bsp; “THE CHANCE OF A SKUNK PICKING ON A LION”
The Japanese sneak attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, brought the United States into World War II.
“Dearest Family,” wrote Righetti the following day from his post as Randolph’s airdrome officer. “Well, I guess everybody is a little astounded by the rather unexpected turn of events. I don’t guess it’ll be so bad, however, since the consensus seems to be that there’s nobody we all would rather shoot than the Japs. Naturally, I couldn’t say all I’d like to about our chances, etc., on account of military stuff and such, but let it suffice that the little brown brothers stand about the chance of a skunk picking on a lion. There’ll be some smell, but I feel the final count will be about the same.”
“I’d sure like to be in a fighting outfit,” he declared. “The first casualty reports say I lost one of my students who was also an especial friend. I imagine there are strong feelings on the coast. Please tell me about it.” Righetti went on to describe that the base had been understandably busy and that all leave had been cancelled. There was little hope that he and Cathryn would make it home during the Christmas holidays.
Then, with a baby on the way, he highlighted his new wife’s practical nature now that the nation was at war. “Cathryn’s planning on buying three-cornered cloths [diapers] right after next payday before cotton goods get too expensive.” But he also brought up a more serious topic. “There’s some little possibility that I may draw an assignment one of these days where Cathryn couldn’t go, and in such a case I’d certainly like to have her with you all. I could afford about $250 per month board after making the car payment—now practically our only bill. I know you all and she would use the dough a lot more wisely than would her family, and she has expressed her preference of living with the Righettis. Maybe it would help you a little.”
The war became very real, very soon. It was only about a week later when Righetti wrote the family: “We got this Xmas card from Chris 10 days after he was killed at Pearl Harbor. It was rough because he was a kind of fixture around the house when he was here. He was my favorite student.”
As anticipated, Righetti was transferred to Moore Field during early 1942. He took Cathryn with him rather than leaving her with her mother in San Antonio where she might have been more comfortable. It was the third house she had set up in a year. She was weary not only from the move, but also from her pregnancy. “I can’t use any clothes until July. I have been feeling fine lately. The only thing that bothers me is that I am getting too fat. My top weight should not be over 117 and I weigh 115 now.”
“By the way, I think I will name Miss Righetti, Elizabeth Kyle. Kyle is a family name.” She meant the name as a tribute to the Righettis as Elizabeth was Mom’s name as well as the name of Elwyn’s older sister. “But if it is a boy, I don’t know what we will name it since Elwyn is going to choose the name.”
Choosing a boy’s name never became an issue. Elizabeth Kyle Righetti was born on May 30, 1942, in nearby McAllen, Texas. She was healthy and beautiful and had a lustrous head of dark red hair. Mom Righetti and Cathryn’s mother came to help with the newborn, and both mother and baby thrived while Elwyn toiled at the flight instruction business, flying AT-6s.
With the USAAF expanding at a seemingly impossible rate, Righetti and Cathryn and the new baby spent only part of a single hot summer in the Rio Grande Valley before he was transferred back to San Antonio. The service was still trying to sort out its pilot training concepts and it shuttled personnel from one base to another until they fell into a niche or were overlooked and forgotten in the chaos. On October 7, 1942, Cathryn noted—without complaining—“You know we spend most of our time moving. We have moved three times since August 24.”
Righetti was assigned to the 1030th Basic Flying Training Squadron at Kelly Field. They were given quarters about which Cathryn was judicious with her praise. “Our quarters here on the post are pretty good for Kelly Field. However, everything here is so old that it is about to fall to pieces. That is, everything but the flying line, and that is in very good condition. The other day [September 27] when Mr. President [Roosevelt] was here, they didn’t give him a chance to see anything but the line. They whisked him by the quarters so fast it would have made your head spin.”
At that point, Righetti had already been promoted to the rank of major. Before the war it would have taken him more than ten years—if ever—to achieve the same rank. However, by the start of 1943 the USAAF’s officer cadre had already expanded nearly forty-fold from 3,500 when he was commissioned in 1940, to 140,000. Overall, the service had grown from 45,000 to 1.7 million men during the same period.1 Indeed, only one in 36 personnel had been on the job for more than three years. In essence, virtually everyone in the USAAF was an amateur.
Nevertheless, the quality of the new men was generally excellent and proven performers were promoted quickly. Moreover, the relatively few prewar men who led them proved up to the task. Together, in combination with reasonably well-considered doctrines and plans—that admittedly changed too often—they were evolving into the world’s most powerful air force.
Righetti was put in command of the 1030th and had the mission of preparing instructors to teach the basic phase of flight training. “Things are going well now,” he wrote in early 1943, “but it’s sure work, work, work. I have my school well set up and we’re milling out instructors. I just finished writing the instructor’s manual and guess I did a good job since it’s to be used in all of the training centers, starting next class.”
The pace never let up. “If I was busy before, I’m a hundred times that now,” he wrote a short time later. “Honest, I didn’t know there was so much work in the world.” There was an upside; Righetti was making more money than he could have ever reasonably expected to earn at that point in his career. “Our financial setup is really improved and we’re awfully proud of it. Each month I write $250 off my checking account and forget I had it. This will mean $1,000 each four months, and 3 Gs [$3,000] per year.” He was on pace to save well more in a year than most men received in their paychecks during the same period. And he occasionally supplemented his military pay by other means: “On top of that, I’ve taken in $136 in poker lessons the boys have given me this month.”
By this time, flight instruction, together with the administrative duties for which he was responsible as he rose in rank, no longer excited Righetti as they once had. More and more he wanted a combat posting. However, as a proven flight instruction expert he was needed where he was. Any of the men that he and his staff trained could be sent into combat. But none of them could step into his position and perform nearly so well; he was an important component of the USAAF’s training machine. Pulling him from that machine would reduce its effectiveness. In short, the USAAF saw little upside to sending Righetti into combat.
Nevertheless, he found ways to divert himself. For instance, he was constantly “on the road.” That is, both for training purposes and for official business, he flew across much of the nation. These trips afforded him paid opportunities to visit with far-flung family and friends, or simply to explore new places and meet new people, to include major and minor celebrities.
For instance, a conference took him to New York. “I started out very well by having a letter of introduction to Joan Roberts—star in Oklahoma, the play of the year. It was really some show. Being a stage door Johnnie was quite an experience, and Joan really showed me the town. She’s just a kid but is really going places. She leaves for Hollywood in June with a seven-year contract at Selznick’s. Watch for her—she’ll be one of the big singing stars in a little while.”
On another trip he lunched with actor Jimmy Stewart at Hobbs Army Airfield, New Mexico. Stewart, who became a genuinely skilled and respected combat bomber leader, was the student of one of Righetti’s friends from flight school, Mark Richards. “Jimmy Stewart is stationed there and we had lunch with him. He’s quite a chap.”
As a more senior officer he was able to cherry-pi
ck some of the better assignments. For instance, he might have served in some capacity in the making of the film, A Guy Named Joe, either participating in flying scenes or serving as a technical advisor, or both. A photograph shows Elwyn Righetti, smiling and in uniform, standing with Irene Dunne and James Cagney.
Another assignment had him spend a day with renowned photographer Ivan Dmitri, who was equally famous for his watercolor paintings and etchings under a different name: Levon West. “I spent today with Ivan Dmitri who is supposedly the foremost color photographer in the U.S. He’s on the Saturday Evening Post payroll and makes much of their stuff. Watch for his story in about three months—it’s on airfield mascots and should be interesting. I flew him to Brooks and Hondo. In return, he took about ten pictures of Kyle and thinks she’s so pretty that they’ll make magazines. He’s sending us the proofs in a week or ten days and we’ll pass them on to you all. He said to expect her on a magazine cover.”
Sometimes Righetti simply visited with friends. “I spent Tuesday nite with Dick Ellis at Montgomery [Alabama] and we recreated ourselves by spot-lite hunting rats in the city dump. Got about ten apiece as big as squirrels.”
He also flew home to visit Mom and Pop. Sometimes he flew directly from Texas, and at other times he picked up new training aircraft from the southern California factories and made the short flight north to San Luis Obispo where he spent a night or two before heading back to San Antonio. He often announced his arrival by flying low, fast and loud over the ranch house. “So, if a red-nosed AT-6 buzzes the house, please stand by the phone.” His impromptu one-aircraft air shows were impressive. He once terrified sister Betty’s young twin boys so badly that they hid in a box of laundry.
Betty remembered that he was quite taken with the musical Oklahoma! “He used to come home for a visit and he’d sing, “I’ve got a wonderful feeling, everything’s going my way.”2 There were other diversions. He spoke Spanish well enough that he was sometimes used by his superiors to translate for visiting dignitaries. Moreover, he still loved to hunt and regularly took a shotgun on flights to the Midwest where he gunned for pheasant.