RAMANAM
In the Name of The Father, and of The Son and of The Holy Spirit, Amen.
It was ten o’clock on the morning of July 7, 1942, at my headquarters in San Francisco where I was commanding the Fourth Air Force. I had just finished reading a long report concerning the exploits of one of my young pilots who had been looping the loop around the center span of the Golden Gate Bridge in a P-38 fighter plane and waving to the stenographic help in the office buildings as he flew along Market Street. The report noted that, while it had been extremely difficult to get information from the somewhat sympathetic and probably conniving witnesses, there was plenty of evidence proving that a large part of the waving had been to people on some of the lower floors of the buildings.
A woman on the outskirts of Oakland was quoted as saying that she didn’t need any help from my fighter pilots in removing her washing from the clotheslines unless they would like to do it on the ground.
Considering the mass of evidence, it was surprising that more complaints had not been registered, but in any event I would have to do something about the matter. Washington was determined to stop low-altitude stunting and had put out some stringent instructions about how to handle the budding young aviators who broke the rules. The investigating officer had recommended a General Court-Martial.
I had sent word to the pilot’s commander that I wanted to see the lad in my office, and I was expecting him at any minute. My secretary opened the door and said, “Your bad boy is outside. You remember – the one you wanted to see about flying around bridges and down Market Street.”
I said to send him in. I heard her say, “The General will see you now, Lieutenant,” and in walked one of the nicest-looking cherubs you ever saw in your life. I suspected that he was not over eighteen and maybe even younger. I doubted if he was old enough to shave. He was just a little blond-haired Norwegian boy about five feet six,with a round, pink baby face and the bluest, most innocent eyes – now opened wide and a bit scared.
Someone must have just told him how serious this court-martial thing might be. He wanted to fly and he wanted to get into the war and do his stuff,but now he was finding out that they really were tough about this low-altitude ‘buzzing’ business and it was dawning on him that the commanders all had orders really to bear down on young aviators who flew down streets and rattled dishes in people’s houses. Why, he might be taken off flying status or even thrown out of the Air Force! He wasn’t going to try to alibi out of it, but he sure hoped this General Kenney wasn’t going to be too rough. You could actually see all this stuff going on in his head just behind those baby-blue eyes. He didn’t know it, but he had already won.
I let him stand at attention while I bawled him out for getting himself in trouble, and getting me in trouble, too, besides giving people the impression that the Air Force was just a lot of irresponsible airplane jockeys. He could see that he was in trouble just by looking at the size and thickness of the pile of papers on my desk that referred to his case. But think of all the trouble he had made for me. Now, in order to quiet down the people who didn’t approve of his exuberance, I would have to talk to the Governor, the Mayor, the Chief of Police. Luckily I knew a lot of people in San Francisco who could be talked into a state of forgiveness, but I had a job of looking after the Fourth Air Force and I should spend my time doing that instead of running around explaining away the indiscretions of my wild-eyed pilots.
“By the way, wasn’t the air pretty rough down in that street around the second-story level?” I was really a bit curious. As I remembered, it used to be, when I was first learning to fly.
“Yes, sir, it was kind of rough,” replied the cherub, “but it was easy to control the plane. The aileron control is good in the P-38 and -” He paused. Probably figured he had said enough. For a second, the blue eyes had been interested more than scared. He was talking about his profession and it was more than interest. It was his life, his ambition. I would bet anything that he was an expert in a P-38 and that he wanted to be still better. We needed kids like this lad.
“Lieutenant,” I said, “there is no need for me to tell you again that this is a serious matter. If you didn’t want to fly down Market Street, I wouldn’t have you in my Air Force, but you are not to do it any more and I mean what I say. From now on, if I hear any more reports of this kind about you, I’ll put you before a General Court and if they should recommend dismissal from the service, which they probably would, I’ll approve it.”
I began slowly to tear up the report and drop the pieces of paper in the waste basket. The blue eyes watched, a little puzzled at first, and then the scared look began to die out.
“Monday morning you check in at this address out in Oakland and if that woman has any washing to be hung out on the line, you do it for her. Then you hang around being useful – mowing a lawn or something – and when the clothes are dry, take them off the line and bring them into the house. And don’t drop any of them on the ground or you will have to wash them over again. I want that woman to think we are good for something besides annoying people. Now get out of here quick before I get mad and change my mind. That’s all.”
“Yes, sir.” He didn’t dare to change his expression, but the blue eyes had gone all soft and relieved. He saluted and backed out of the office. The next time I saw Lieutenant Richard I. Bong was in Australia.
General Kenney Reports, Duell, Sloan and Pearce, New York, 1949, pages 3-6.
AMDG
