by Bill Fawcett
A replica of an F2A was also made for the Cradle of Aviation Museum housed in what is left of Mitchell Field, not far from the Roosevelt Field Shopping Mall.
The museum’s F2A placard simply called the Buffalo “controversial.”
It’s not nice to speak ill of the dead.
(But the Buffalo still sucked.)
“One of the serious problems in planning the fight against American doctrine, is that the Americans do not read their manuals, nor do they feel any obligation to follow their doctrine.”
—The Soviet Junior Lieutenant’s Notebook, a training manual
Nazi Kamikaze?
The Selbstopfer
Brian M. Thomsen
One of the most memorable sequences in the Stanley Kubrick film Dr. Strangelove depicts Major Kong (played by Slim Pickens) riding an atomic bomb, like some kind of metal bronco, to its Soviet target. Though many viewers enjoyed the humor of this “end of the world” scene from the classic cinematic black comedy, most would be appalled to discover how close to depicting reality the scenario actually came.
During World War II the Japanese deployed kamikazes—pilots willing to crash their planes in a final act of destruction to complete a designated mission. Once all of their bombs had been dropped, the pilots of the so-called divine wind were expected to use their plane as a last weapon, aiming it to maximize damage to the enemy on impact, even though this assured their own death.
It was death from the air—a weapon fueled by self-sacrifice.
The Germans had a similar version of death from the air: the unmanned V1 and V2 rockets.
Launched from the French and Dutch coasts and aimed towards England and Scotland, these rocket-propelled bombs were considered reprisal weapons for the Allied bombings of Germany. But despite a well financed and accelerated research program and self-sacrificingly dangerous test piloting by ace test pilot Hanna Reitsch (who risked life and limb to solve certain stability problems in the rocket’s frame by literally riding the flying bomb on a test run), the actual targeted results of these attacks caused mostly random damage due to the imprecision of their navigational guidance capabilities.
The problem was simple—precise targeting was not feasible at the distances the rockets had to travel.
As the legend goes, a solution was offered by the infamous Nazi commando Otto Skorzeny. He was no stranger to staring death in the face, having survived numerous missions into enemy territory against seemingly insurmountable odds. On one mission he even landed a glider in the mountains in the middle of a hostile army to rescue Mussolini.
If a pilot-less guidance system was imprecise, he is believed to have suggested, design a rocket that could be piloted until its destination was secured, at which point the pilot could bail out before contact and after the target’s destruction was assured.
And thus the plan for the Selbstopfer was put on the fast track under the expertise of Ms. Reitsch.
Right from the beginning, however, it was stressed that the German war effort had no intention of launching suicidal kamikaze missions like the Japanese (despite the fact that the English translation of the word Selbstopfer is “self-sacrifice”), and an integral part of the planning and design of the new weapon took into account the means of escape for the pilot.
Just under 200 V1s were modified to include cockpits and a steering apparatus, allowing the rocket to be dropped into its flight path from a bomber to be steered by the pilot into enemy airspace and towards the proximity of its target. Once the flying bomb’s path was secured, the rocket itself would then be abandoned by the pilot, who would bail out as it made its vertical path downward to explosive contact with the target. To assure all concerned that the steering actually worked, Reitsch once again rode a prototype (unarmed, but properly weighted to assure a test flight consistent with the actual proposed flight; a wooden landing ski was also affixed to its undercarriage) on a test flight to results that were deemed initially adequate to the needs of the planned missions.
Upon approval of the design, close to a hundred pilots were assigned to train for missions that would target Buckingham Palace, Parliament, and other coveted locations calculated to maximize terror and anarchy in the enemy homeland. More strategic locations would also be included, such as bridges in Allied-held Belgium and battlefield command centers that were springing up along the way as the Allies made their moves eastward.
It was during these training runs that the problems began to crop up.
Though the affixed cockpit was fine for Reitsch’s slight build, most of the pilots found it to be an extremely tight fit. The resulting leg cramps made the agility required to extricate one’s self before impact quite difficult. Moreover, the hatch and latch that affixed the canopy to the cockpit, though it worked fine during the rocket’s horizontal flight, often jammed once the vehicle began its vertical descent—the very point at which it was considered locked on to the target—thus greatly impeding the pilot’s ability to escape.
Other factors such as the wind resistance caused by the rate of descent, the proximity of the escape canopy to the pulsejet intake, and so forth, all made the real possibility of bailout almost nonexistent—even before taking into account the hazards of parachuting so close to the ground, into enemy territory, and within the blast range of the rocket’s impact.
Right from the beginning, no matter how you looked at it, these were going to be one-way missions. Suicide flights, however, were not supposed to be on the agenda.
All claims to the contrary the Selbstopfer, despite all of the extra research and development, was no different from the Asian kamikaze. Lacking the Japanese cultural willingness to fall on their sword, the Germans abandoned the project.
“No weapon has ever settled a moral problem. It can impose a solution but it cannot guarantee it to be a just one.”
—Ernest Hemingway
A Little Hard to Swallow
Paul A. Thomsen
Nazi Germany, World War II
During the first hundred years of manned flight, the pursuit of greater speed and the achievement of grander altitudes consumed time, resources, and even human lives to push aviation sciences forward. In the Second World War, both Axis and Allied forces utilized air power in attempts to pound their enemies into submission, but, unlike the other great powers, Nazi Germany was not satisfied with a propeller-driven craft. This desire for something better drove them to make advances in experimental aircraft and engine design. In 1938, the German aviation experts conceived the idea for a line of revolutionary jet aircraft, called the Me-262 Schwalbe (German for “Swallow”), a fighter/bomber capable of flying rings around the enemies of the Axis nation. Sadly, for Nazi Germany, no one ever considered their leaders might have even grander plans for the Schwalbe, or that problems with bringing a temperamental experimental plane to full battle readiness during the pressures of a losing war might cripple a successful design.
In 1938, Dr. Waldemar Voight and his team conceived of the Schwalbe as a fighter plane that would maximize the potential of available technology and revolutionize military aviation. The sleek airframe, held aloft by a 12.8-meter swept wingspan and a turbine engine tucked under each wing, was designed to mirror the speed and dive capabilities of its avian namesake. While a series of design problems plagued the development of the plane’s prescribed turbine engines for years, the Schwalbe made steady progress from the drawing board to finished product. In fact, the experimental craft’s spring 1941 maiden flight, propelled by a set of temporary piston engines, so impressed the German leadership that the designers were asked if it could be refitted for dual use as a fighter and a bomber. Since telling the Führer or his minions “no” was never a bright idea, the designers enthusiastically replied in the affirmative, wiped the cold sweat from their brows, threw out the old design book, and drew up a new one to meet their audience’s expectations with what had already been approved.
By 1942, the Junker Jumo 004 B turbine engines were ready to propel the now experi
mental craft to speeds in excess of 520 mph (more than 100 mph faster than the American-built Mustang fighter), but the Schwalbe’s problems were only beginning. First, in trials with the piston engines, the test pilots required lengthier airstrips than other aircraft to be able to achieve enough speed to get the plane airborne. Second, pilots also discovered that just a little too much or too little pitch or yaw on takeoff at the right moment could very rapidly end the life of plane and/or pilot in a blur of speed, metal, tarmac, and trees. Third, once aloft, the pilots encountered increasingly heavy vibrations that violently shook the airframe as the Schwalbe reached maximum speed. As a result, while many onlookers marveled at the plane’s outward appearing grace and potential combat applications, the pilots and crewmembers struggled to meet the precise demands of the delicate plane.
Once the turbine engines were installed, the test pilots were relieved to find the unnerving vibrations had largely vanished, but while the ride was smoother, the added speed and stability provided by the jet engines added even greater difficulties. The pilots needed even faster reaction times on takeoffs, landings, and, most important, throughout the course of the missions. Before long, it became clear to the leadership that most of the battle-hardened veterans of the Luftwaffe could not meet the demands the Schwalbe’s high speed aerial acrobatics, steep dives, and split second attack-or-die decisions made on their bodies and minds. They had to find fresh new pilots with faster reflexes to fly the temperamental little plane.
The Luftwaffe quickly recruited and trained a batch of young aviators. As hoped, after just a few missions, the young pilots rewrote the book on aerial combat. With the fast little plane they could easily overtake their targets and outrun their pursuers. Instead of the old method of attacking from in front or behind their target and then closing in on the enemy, the Schwalbe could come at the enemy from the side, fire her four 30mm cannons or, later, rockets, at their target, and fly away before ever approaching the enemy’s own effective firing range. In dive bombing attacks, the crews soon discovered the guidance systems were too slow and cumbersome. They learned to rely more on instinct and rapid eye-hand coordination than instrument guidance to effectively drop their bombs and destroy designated targets. By late 1944, the plane was finally fulfilling its designers’ dreams.
With this new breed of pilots flying the most advanced set of technological aviation equipment ever designed, what could go wrong?
The design delays, leadership demands, production problems, and the slow learning curve had sorely taxed the nation-state and, with the Allied forces now on the continent, Nazi Germany did not have a lot of time to produce or field the aircraft.
According to the Smithsonian Institute National Air and Space Museum, of the 1,443 Me-262s ever completed, only 300 actually saw combat. With the Allies now bombing as many airstrips as they could find to degrade the Reich’s once vaunted air power, pilots and ground crews were forced to hide and fly the battle-ready Schwalbe out of unorthodox places, including forested sections of the Autobahn. Likewise, their high-speed engines made turning against incoming enemy fire difficult.
Even more seriously, the Schwalbe’s new turbo engines were neither designed nor built for longevity. In the waning months of the war, Nazi Germany’s slave labor force manned many of the machines that produced many of the plane’s components. Underfed and often abused, these forced laborers did not stress quality control. As a result, the jet turbine engines they built often failed in flight, leaving the startled pilot stranded amid a veritable storm of prey turned predators. Finally, without clear air superiority, the need for lengthy runways made taxiing Schwalbe fighters and bombers highly vulnerable to enemy aerial predation.
While as initially problematic as most experimental aircraft, the Me-262 Schwalbe actually exceeded her designers’ expectations, but neither time nor resources were on her side.
Metaphorically, if only the plane had not been so hard to swallow….
“Unquestionably, there is progress. The average American now pays out twice as much in taxes as he formerly got in wages.”
—H. L. Mencken
Less Bang for More Bucks
The Expensive Saga of the F-111
William Terdoslavich
When you make a new plane, make it high tech. And if that doesn’t work, throw money at it until the problems get fixed. That’s how the F-111 fighter-bomber got built.
Back in the 1960s, the F-111 was the largest aircraft contract to be put out for bid since World War II. The program was going to run $6 billion, back when $1 billion was a lot of money. The United States planned to buy 1,700 F-111s, then the world’s most advanced warplane.
But it didn’t quite work out that way.
The F-111’s new technology triggered development problems that literally doubled its price before the first plane was ever built.
It got worse from there.
Buying a Paper Airplane
The F-111 suffered its awkward birth because Defense Secretary Robert McNamara made a decision. When faced with two competing bids for a plane to replace the F-4 Phantom II, he picked the most conservative scheme offered by the firm with the most experience building fighter planes. Four boards, staffed by experienced Navy and Air Force officers, chose the Boeing design. McNamara overruled them, choosing General Dynamics. And he made his choice on the basis of blueprints and specifications.
The F-111 program, originally called the Tactical Fighter Experimental (TFX), was going to be a revolutionary break with the past. The plane was designed as a supersonic fighter with twice the range of any existing fighter. While jet fighters of the day could sprint for short distances above Mach 1, the F-111 would fly much of its mission at that speed.
To accomplish this, it would need a “swing wing,” which could be moved forward for greater lift during takeoff and landing, but swept back 72.5 degrees to form a delta-shape that would put the wing behind the supersonic shock wave, thus cutting drag. Fuel-efficient fan jet engines would attain the F-111’s needed long range, while afterburners would give it extra power for short takeoffs. Advanced electronics would fly it on autopilot below 300 feet. The cockpit design allowed it to eject in one piece, protecting the two-man crew.
In the interests of economy, McNamara wanted the Air Force and Navy to use the same plane, which would help save $1 billion and still keep the F-111’s program cost at $6 billion.
But the deal smelled fishy. One senator caught a whiff of it. Then all hell broke lose on Capitol Hill.
McClellan Marches on the Pentagon
Senator John L. McClellan (D-Arkansas), chairman of the Senate Permanent Investigative Subcommittee, was curious about how the F-111 contract had been awarded after Senator Henry “Scoop” Jackson (D-Washington) raised a red flag over the contract. Jackson, of course, was looking out for Boeing, based in his home state.
In Washington, D.C, where everything is political, gossip ran thick that General Dynamics got the TFX contract because it was a Texas-based company. Vice President Lyndon Johnson, Navy Secretary John Connally, and Fort Worth banker Fred Korth, all Texans, were suspected of swaying McNamara’s hand.
Boeing chairman William Allen offered to build four TFX prototypes to do a fly-off against four prototypes built by General Dynamics. Boeing came in with a $482 million bid to make 23 prototypes. McNamara suspected Boeing was low-balling the Pentagon.
Roger Lewis, head of General Dynamics, thought that two to four prototypes were too few to test adequately. General Dynamics was also going to build 23 TFX prototypes at $630 million, but that was due to higher labor costs.
McNamara justified picking the more expensive offer by pointing out that General Dynamics, partnered with Grumman as a subcontractor, had more experience making fighter planes than Boeing. The General Dynamics bid relied less on an untested high-tech material called titanium for the plane’s design, and an earlier development date was promised.
The hearings got uglier when defense undersecretary Roswell Gilpatric
and Navy Secretary Fred Korth (who had replaced Connally) were accused of conflict of interest. General Dynamics was a client of New York–based corporate law firm Cravath, Swain and Moore, where Gilpatric practiced prior to coming to Washington. Likewise Fort Worth–based General Dynamics had done business with the bank Korth headed prior to his becoming Secretary of the Navy. The Justice Department cleared both men later in 1963, but by then each had resigned from government, going back to the private sector.
Nine months of hearings and 3,000 pages of testimony later, McClellan recessed the hearings. President Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas.
Lyndon Johnson was now president. General Dynamics was going to make the F-111 fly.
First Flight, Second Guess
Two versions of the F-111 were planned. The Air Force wanted the F-111A to be its supersonic low-level strike aircraft. The Navy wanted the F-111B to do fleet defense, using long-range radar-guided missiles to shoot down hostile aircraft.
The first Air Force F-111A was rolled out in October 1964 and flew by the end of the year. The Air Force wanted to buy 1,400 of the planned 1,700 aircraft. Technical troubles and rising costs now kicked the total program cost estimates $7-$10 billion. The 1,700-plane purchase was cut to 1,450.
The Navy’s version went to hell in a hand basket very quickly.
They wanted an aircraft weighing no more than 55,000 pounds. The F-111B was going to weigh in at 68,000 pounds, and it would be twice as expensive as the F-4 Phantom currently in use. By the time the F-111B was rolled out in May 1965, Rear Admiral William Martin told the Senate that the Navy would rather have more F-4s.