by Dan Hampton
Through the fielding of operational P-80 squadrons, world speed records, and the National Air Race, the jet was now accepted as the future of combat aviation. Boyd’s Flight Test Division had expanded tremendously and reorganized by 1947, with Ken Chilstrom taking over from Gabby Gabreski as the chief of the Fighter Operations Section. They had completed most of the exploitation of Hal Watson’s captured aircraft and verified vast amounts of German aerodynamic advances. Both Adolf Busemann and Alexander Lippisch had been brought to the United States, and Chilstrom and Lundquist worked extensively with the latter at Wright Field. Busemann was quite happy to be in America, and his assistance to the NACA with their swept-wing research was invaluable. Lippisch was a different story. “Dr. Lippisch’s attitude was belligerent,” wrote Nate Rosengarten, a Wright Field project engineer. “He was reluctant to help us, and I believe he did not want us to fly the Me 163.” Lippisch also rather implausibly denied that he could not translate the Komet’s takeoff sequence for the test pilots.
The swept-wing data was invaluable, especially after North American realized it had to change the design of its new XP-86 prototype. Originally designed with a straight wing and NAA signature bubble canopy, with a top speed of 582 miles per hour it did not offer a significant performance advance over the P-80, or the Navy’s FJ-1 Fury. The GE J-35 jet engine put out 4,000 pounds of thrust, but the critical Mach number still hovered at 0.8 Mach. There was some internal North American resistance to the change and, incredibly, to using any German engineering, but this was overcome in the name of reality. The NACA provided extensive wind tunnel test results, and the Flight Test at Wright gave NAA its Me 262 exploitation results, including an actual wing.
This was vital because one major drawback of the swept design is its poor low-airspeed performance. This was critical because slow-speed, high-angle-of-attack maneuvering is essential in a twisting, turning dogfight as the airspeed bleeds off, and absolutely necessary during takeoff or landing. The German solution was to add leading-edge slats, which they had successfully developed for the Bf 109, which slid out at low speeds to increase the wing’s camber; in effect, to temporarily increase the wing area. A simple idea, the slats were held in place at high speeds by ram air, and as the plane slowed down this force obviously lessened so the slats moved out. There was an interlock in place, and when the gear came down, the slats automatically extended. The pilot could also manually lock them so there would be no asymmetric extension during a dogfight.
North American’s first seven XP-86s basically copied the German design, though later this was improved significantly. By late 1946 it was also decided to sweep the vertical and horizontal tails, which resulted in a net improvement from 0.8 to an astounding 0.9 critical Mach number, and an increase in top speed by at least 70 miles per hour. This, plus NAA’s laminar flow wing, made the XP-86 extremely “clean” and very, very fast. It was rumored that the Mikoyan-Gurevich design bureau had developed a similarly lethal swept-wing fighter of their own to replace the MiG-9, so it was vital for the United States to counter this.
The global situation, which always influences military development, had indeed become more volatile. After the Missouri made its startling appearance in the Black Sea, which the Soviet Union had long regarded as a Russian lake, Moscow pressured Turkey to restrict access through the straits—for security, it was claimed, and regional stability. Ankara refused. The 1936 Montreux Convention ceded control of the Dardanelles and Bosphorus, which together compose the Turkish Straits, to Turkey. Free transit of all civilian vessels during peacetime was guaranteed, but the passage of warships remained at Ankara’s discretion. The United States obviously supported this decision while the USSR vehemently opposed it. Of course, any support of Turkey irritated the Greeks, Turkey’s longtime nemesis, and the Soviets used the incident to make overtures in that direction. This incident and others, including Moscow’s refusal to endorse the Baruch Plan for international (UN) control over atomic weapons, prompted the American president to articulate what became known as the “Truman Doctrine.” In part, this extraordinary policy that molded world affairs, and still does, read:
No government is perfect. One of the chief virtues of a democracy, however, is that its defects are always visible and under democratic processes can be pointed out and corrected.
One of the primary objectives of the foreign policy of the United States is the creation of conditions in which we and other nations will be able to work out a way of life free from coercion. This was a fundamental issue in the war with Germany and Japan. Our victory was won over countries which sought to impose their will, and their way of life, upon other nations.
The peoples of a number of countries of the world have recently had totalitarian regimes forced upon them against their will. The Government of the United States has made frequent protests against coercion and intimidation in violation of the Yalta agreement in Poland, Rumania, and Bulgaria. I must also state that in a number of other countries there have been similar developments.
I believe that it must be the policy of the United States to support free peoples who are resisting attempted subjugation by armed minorities or by outside pressures. I believe that we must assist free peoples to work out their own destinies in their own way.
The seeds of totalitarian regimes are nurtured by misery and want. They spread and grow in the evil soil of poverty and strife. They reach their full growth when the hope of a people for a better life has died. We must keep that hope alive.
The free peoples of the world look to us for support in maintaining their freedoms. If we falter in our leadership, we may endanger the peace of the world. And we shall surely endanger the welfare of this nation.
In other words, the United States will intervene anywhere in the world it chooses in order to defend those who cannot defend themselves, and in the name of national security. An admirable sentiment and generally well-meaning though it could be construed as, and indeed was used as, justification to advance Washington’s interests. The Soviet Union, and later Red China, North Korea, and North Vietnam, along with the balance of the Communist world, would interpret this as a threat to their own interests and security. Applied incorrectly, this policy was certain to involve the United States in actions it would not have otherwise taken. It did, in fact, codify the differences defining the Cold War, though most did not view it as such at the time.
Facing this new, global reality would call for a different sort of military than the one that fought the Second World War. As President Truman explained to Congress, “whether we like it or not, we must all recognize that the victory which we have won has placed upon the American people the continuing burden of responsibility for world leadership.” Gone were the isolationist days of the 1930s, and the immense, multi-theater military capability of the war years was insupportable by a democratic constituency and financially unsustainable. Through technology and maintaining the nuclear edge, it was thought that the Truman Doctrine was feasible. Airpower had indisputably proven its value, both tactically and strategically, so Washington envisioned this as the way to project American power and influence while maintaining a reasonably compact military.
“We must never fight another war the way we fought the last two,” Truman informed his staff. “I have the feeling that if the Army and the Navy had fought our enemies as hard as they fought each other, the war would have ended much earlier.” There was a great deal of truth in this for, despite the often desperate situations, lives at stake, and dire consequences for failure, there remained fierce competition between the Army and Navy. Battlefield success amplified the respective merits of each service branch and translated into personal accolades for their leaders. This is certainly not to say that the fighting admirals and generals were motivated by glory; the best of them were not. But those in Washington were looking ahead to the postwar era and that magic pot of gold under the political rainbow: funding. Money was everything, especially research and development projects that became new weapon
s, and subsequently beget new missions.
The war had shown the politicians the effects of a military principle known as “unity of command.” Combat is confusing enough without having to figure out who is in charge, and this had to be extended back to Capitol Hill; otherwise, the services would continue operating independently of each other and with their own interests at heart, not necessarily national interests. MacArthur’s drive across the Pacific and his postwar actions are a superb example. It was also recognized that such unity needed to encompass all the tools for making war or national defense; this included intelligence gathering and procurement.
There was opposition. The Navy had always feared the Army’s political power and was afraid a reorganization/unification of the military would cost it the Marine Corps and Naval Aviation. There were also those in Congress who believed this move would “Prussianize” the United States by creating an enormously powerful military elite. To allay these fears, Navy Secretary James Forrestal commissioned Ferdinand Eberstadt, an old friend, to research the issues. Eberstadt produced a remarkable report that, along with the man himself, has received very little historical credit.
Essentially, it advocated the creation of a National Security Council (NSC) rather than outright military unification. There were too many differences in military roles, he said, too much valuable tradition, and too large a diversity in requirements for a single military. Instead, Eberstadt proposed the NSC would formulate the policies based on foreign threats, domestic defense, and future requirements. There would be military members on the council, but also the secretary of state and the president. At no time, most agreed, would the U.S. fundamental principle of civilian control over the military be abrogated. General of the Army George Marshall was adamant about this point, and the danger of permitting military dominance of foreign affairs—now more than ever.
In the end, a compromise was reached and the National Security Act was signed on July 26, 1947. Besides the NSC, this act created the Central Intelligence Agency for the coordination (theoretically) of all intelligence functions necessary for the nation’s security, with a mandate that one of its two top individuals would always be a civilian. The armed forces would be reorganized, but with a civilian secretary overseeing each branch and serving as a liaison to Congress. The Navy would retain the Marine Corps and its Naval Aviation branch due to the unique challenges it faced; the war in the Pacific bore out the good sense in this. The Army would remain the army except, in an evolutionary move signaling the shift in priorities, its Air Corps would become a separate service: the United States Air Force.
Though he was a career Army officer, Ken Chilstrom knew this was the right path for a service that had won its spurs in combat. “We never did think much like the infantry or tank fellas,” he remembers. “They were mostly very traditional and skeptical of new technology . . . unless it was for bullets or guns. The separation had to happen, especially given what was going on with the Russians. This is why we knew the jet was the future . . . and the new Air Force was going to show that to everyone.”
Yet the new service faced an uphill climb in some areas, as the Army and Navy jealously protected their budgets and regarded the upstart U.S. Air Force as a threat. The inaugural secretary of the Air Force, Stuart Symington, needed something to demonstrate the value of the new service. Something no one else had done or could do, a capability that would simultaneously alter the international balance of power in favor of the United States, fire the public’s imagination, and open funding streams from Congress. In fact, there was one program about to be transferred to the new Air Force that he knew fit all the requirements: the X-1 and the achievement of supersonic flight.
By May, Slick Goodlin had competed the requisite powered flights, verifying the contractual requirements that the aircraft withstand eight g’s and was stable to 0.8 Mach. Contrary to Hollywood’s story, he never refused to fly because he had not been paid $150,000. In a 1989 interview with Air & Space Magazine, Goodlin was understandably bitter: “That account is false. I had a handshake deal with Bob Stanley of Bell that I would make the first supersonic flight before we turned the plane over to the Air Force. He agreed I’d get $150,000 for the supersonic flights.” Bonuses paid to test pilots were not uncommon, but the provision for this amount in Bell’s proposed contract to continue supersonic flight testing came at a time when budget cutbacks were very real.
The overall timing fit well with Symington’s ambitions so in June 1947, the X-1 was officially turned over to the Army Air Corps and the AMC Flight Test Division, specifically, to Colonel Al Boyd and Lieutenant Colonel Fred Ascani, his deputy. Born Alfredo John Ascani in Beloit, Wisconsin, Ascani was one of those boys whose life was changed forever by Charles Lindbergh. Seeing the Spirit of St. Louis fly over on its way to New York before leaving for Paris inspired him as nothing else had. Graduating from West Point in 1941, Ascani’s class standing permitted him to choose his branch, and he chose the Air Corps without hesitation.
Wanting fighters, he volunteered as an instructor pilot, hoping this would improve his chances, but in 1943 there was a huge demand for bomber pilots due to the horrible casualties in Europe. Ascani was sent to B-17s and then on to command the 816th Bombardment Squadron out of Foggia, Italy. Returning home after fifty-two combat missions, he was assigned to Wright Field, and the Bomber Test Section where he would shortly become the Flight Test Division deputy. When the X-1 program came along, Boyd could not decide which pilot to choose so he asked his deputy. There was a lot riding on this, and much that could go wrong, not only aerodynamically but politically. According to Ascani, when Boyd asked for a pilot to take the program he only considered one pilot. “My own choice would’ve been the easiest for him to make,” Ascani later wrote. “Major Ken Chilstrom, head of the Fighter Test Section.”
Ken, or “K.O.” as he was often called, was extremely smart, very smooth, and his combat experience made him exceptionally calm under pressure. The problem was that Boyd wanted Chilstrom to head up the Phase II tests of the XP-86 program, which, in most everyone’s opinion, would be the finest jet aircraft yet produced. Without a viable, swept-wing fighter to oppose the new MiGs, it would not matter how many rocket ships America built. Chilstrom was essential for this and was the perfect pilot to see that vital program through. As engineers and pilots, both Boyd and Ascani knew Mach 1 could be exceeded by any reasonably competent pilot, whereas the XP-86 program represented the immediate future of the Air Force. “If you want it,” Al Boyd said to Chilstrom referring to the X-1, “then it’s yours.” They decided to leave the choice to Ken.
“I didn’t want it,” he recalled, shaking his head adamantly. “I didn’t think much of Bell’s aircraft or of them as a company. Their war record was lousy and their planes, well . . .” He spread his hands and shrugged. “I was looking to the future and that was the jet and the XP-86, not the rocket. The X-1 program . . . who knows? Others used the phrase ‘sound barrier’ but that was a misnomer. It did not exist and we all knew it.”
So Ascani asked Chilstrom for a list of pilots from the Fighter Section who could do the X-1, and Ken gave him seven names, among them Bob Hoover and Chuck Yeager. “They were junior guys,” he says. “All of them were exceptional pilots, but not really heavily involved with other projects so they were, well, expendable.”
Ascani and Boyd both liked Yeager. They agreed he was a top-notch, instinctive pilot, and both he and Hoover had more balls than sense. “Education was not a factor,” Ascani recalled, “or else Yeager would have been quickly eliminated. Chuck was very unpolished. He barely spoke English. I’m not referring to his West Virginia drawl; I mean grammar and syntax. He could barely construct a recognizable sentence.”
Boyd agreed and still could not decide. If the new Air Force needed the X-1 to prove supersonic flight was possible, then whoever flew it needed to adequately represent the service. According to Fred Ascani, “Boyd fretted about the Air Corps’s image if its hero didn’t know a verb from a noun
. He decided that before Chuck would meet the public, I would give him English lessons.” In the end it did not matter if the X-1’s military pilot really understood the aerodynamics around him. Bell and Chal Goodlin had already fleshed out many of the preliminary details, so as long as the Army test pilot could control the aircraft through the transonic region and past the Mach, then the flight had a good chance of success. An instinctive stick-and-rudder pilot like Yeager could probably do just that.
There was more to it than image, though, so if Yeager was chosen, then both Boyd and Ascani agreed that someone would need to be along to coach him through the aerodynamic and engineering aspects of the aircraft. In the end, Boyd knew Chilstrom had to work the military Phase II tests on the XP-86; Yeager was too inexperienced for that, so Chuck, and Bob Hoover as a backup, would be assigned to the X-1 with Jack Ridley along to keep the pair out of trouble.
“Well, . . . Hoover and I were definitely not flight test engineers!” Yeager admitted later. “We could fly airplanes . . . but Jack Ridley . . . was a brain! Jack Ridley knew everything there was to know about aerodynamics and he was practical. And, besides, he was a good pilot. He spoke our language. Bob was a Tennessean and I was a West Virginian and, being an Okie, Jack spoke real good language for us.”
Ridley gained a degree in mechanical engineering from the University of Oklahoma in 1939 and earned his Air Corps wings by 1942. Because of his academic background he got trapped into accepting aircraft for the military from various civilian contractors. Unable to get to a combat unit, Jack attended the Army Air Force School of Engineering at Wright Field then, in 1945, went to Caltech for a master’s in aeronautical engineering. Returning to Wright Field, he was exactly what Al Boyd wanted: an educated project engineer who was also a pilot. It was Ridley’s job to translate the aerodynamics to Hoover and Yeager and offer any improvements for the X-1 design.