Document created: 29 December 03
Air University Review, May-June
1973
William J. DePaola
Lieutenant Colonel Philip M. Flammer
Military activities that use the land and sea as their ‘‘arenas” took centuries, if not millennia, to mature. Air power, on the other hand, has come of age in less than three generations. The era of the Wright brothers is still part of human recollection, and there are men among us yet who flew combat in World War I. By comparison with the usual time frame of a military arena development, talking with one of these men is like conversing with a knight out of the middle ages or, more appropriate, one of the Spartan elite in the Peloponnesian War.
However, after the next decades, personal contact with military aviation’s first great eras will have to come through the machines and relics left by those who used them. That is why institutions such as the huge Air Force Museum at Wright-Patterson AFB, Ohio, will continually grow in importance. They are not only a major link with the past but also, in a very real sense, part of the past inasmuch as these exhibits ‘‘were there.”
The Air Force’s new Museum is the most complete of its kind in the world. Dedicated by President Nixon on 3 September 1971, it occupies a 400-acre site, with ample space for exterior display, upkeep and repair facilities, and, most impressive of all, a striking display building that has some 160,000 square feet of exhibition area. More than 100 aircraft are housed inside, ranging from a replica of the Wright Model A, the first military aircraft in history, to the giant B-36, which was on the drawing boards less than 40 years after the Wrights’ first flight, yet has a wingspan more than double the distance covered on that epic venture
The interior displays are carefully arranged so that the visitor has a chronological tour. It is only a few short steps from the Wright Model A to the World War I area, where several machines are displayed from that era, when planes and pilots caught the imagination of the world. The period between the wars is dominated by such craft as the sleek Curtiss R3C-2 racer, in which Lieutenant Jimmy Doolitle won the Schneider Trophy Race in 1925, and the P-26, a rare fighter plane that marks the changeover from the liquid-cooled, fabric-covered biplane to the air-cooled, metal-skinned, low-wing monoplane.
World War II dominates much of the display, if only because there are so many important airplanes, and people are better acquainted with them than perhaps any other group. The work horses—the B-17 Flying Fortress, B-24 Liberator, and B-29 Superfortress—are there, as are the P-51 Mustang, P-47 Thunderbolt, and P-38 Lightning, which helped wrest control of the skies from the Germans and the Japanese. There are also sleek post-World War II craft, ranging from jet fighters of the Korean War to more recent experimental aircraft.
Some of these exhibits, such as the cobra-like B-70, the only one of its kind in the world, are simply overwhelming. Yet there is also something awesome about the little A-1 in which Major Bernie Fisher won the Medal of Honor in Vietnam. The A-37, looking like a toy near the B-36, enjoys the distinction of having left the Museum to fly a tour in Vietnam and then returned to its place of honor.
Some of the most memorable stories from the Air Force Museum relate to activities few visitors get to see. These are the acquisition and restoration programs, which range from the seemingly simple, such as getting certain World War II aircraft out of Europe, to something as romantic and adventurous as recovering a Japanese Zero that had nestled for years in the jungles of New Guinea or a pre-World War II observation plane from the desolate wastes of Alaska.
People who recall World War II in the Pacific may well imagine that Zeros still exist in substantial numbers. But the one that now rests outside an old hangar near the Museum was a real find. Shot up by the Americans and abandoned by the Japanese, it remained in the rotting jungles of New Guinea until it became the property of the Papuan and New Guinea War Memorial Trust. From there it went to Tom King, an Australian, who traded an old Wirraway for it. But King, who couldn’t afford to restore the machine, sold it to the Air Force Museum for $3000 through the Museum Foundation (the Museum has no funds of its own for such purchases).
This Zero still shows the scars of battle. Indeed it looks as if it had been in a disastrous accident. Yet when it appears on the Museum floor at some future date, visitors will no doubt remark how incredibly well preserved it is and that the Museum must have been very fortunate to find one in such beautiful condition.
The secret between the now and the then will be the structural and cosmetic skill of master craftsmen at the Museum and the thousands of man-hours spent in renewing the old. Old plans will be studied, dents hammered out, new pieces manufactured, and vital parts restored. When the workmen are through, the difficulty will be remembering what the machine looked like in its derelict state.
Perhaps no story of acquisition and restoration is more dramatic than that of the 0-38 observation plane that was rescued from the Alaskan wilds and is now undergoing extensive rebuilding. The pilot, a lieutenant who later became a general, mushed the stricken plane into a controlled crash in 1941. Damage was so extensive that no salvage was attempted, and Air Corps officials soon forgot about the wreckage. Then in the late 1950s a prospector came in to inquire about salvage rights. Officials recognized the plane for the rare old bird it was, and a recovery operation was put in motion.
A surprise greeted the rescuers when they arrived by helicopter. Sturdy spruce had grown up through the fuselage, moose had eaten much of the fabric, and that which remained on the wings carried unmistakable traces of marauding bears. Yet there was almost no corrosion. The frail craft had survived more than a score of arctic winters with as much ease as the celebrated Lady Be Good had survived the African desert. The propeller still turned, the framework was as bright and sturdy as the day it began its cold confinement, and the fabric on the rudder remained so well preserved and tight that it will be left as is.
Airplanes, like animals, are usually not the subject of great interest or concern when they exist in large numbers, and thus they can too easily become extinct through simple neglect. Thousands of B-17s flew combat during World War II, yet only three of them are known to remain. One, which went by the name Shoo-Shoo Baby, wandered around western Europe for a quarter of a century before its recent acquisition by the Museum. (See William G. Holder, ‘‘The Return of Shoo-Shoo Baby,” Air University Review, XXIV, 2 [January-February 1973], 22-31.) Other B-17s may still exist, but the Museum does not know of them. A recent “want list’’ specifies more than fifty aircraft, plus ‘‘any World War I aircraft, (U.S. and foreign)’’ that the Museum would like to add to its inventory.
But what if a much-desired plane is simply not available? If it falls within the capabilities of the restoration and repair crews, the answer is simple: they build one. The Museum has long wanted a British Sopwith Camel of the World War I era, but only a set of plans, still marked “Confidential,” was available. The framework of a brand new Camel now sits on the hangar floor, the metal and wood pieces cut to exact specifications. Nearby sits a rotary engine—one in which the crankshaft is stationary and the cylinders rotate—in perfect condition. Eventually it will be matched to the frame, and another treasure from the history of flight will be wheeled to the Museum floor.
No doubt the new Museum will never be as complete as its directors would wish. Perhaps, too, the present cavernous display area will someday be as crowded as the building recently vacated. Such thoughts will hardly disturb the visitor. Already there is enough to give dramatic evidence of the history of military aviation. Many if not most of the items on display are themselves impressive milestones in an almost overwhelming epic.
Air University Review
William J. DePaola is Art Editor and Illustrator, Air University Review. Following four years in the USAF as an electronics technician, he was graduated from Philadelphia College of Art in 1957 and later was an illustrator with Boeing. Except for a one-year interval, Mr. DePaola has been with the Review since 1962.
Lieutenant Colonel Philip M. Flammer (Ph.D., Yale University) is
Associate Editor, Air University Review. After flying training and
weather assignments, he was with the Air Force Academy History Department from
1958 until 1971, except for two years at Yale under the AFIT program. Colonel
Flammer’s articles have appeared in Air University Review, Aerospace
Historian, and Military Review.
Disclaimer
The conclusions and opinions expressed in this
document are those of the author cultivated in the freedom of expression,
academic environment of Air University. They do not reflect the official
position of the U.S. Government, Department of Defense, the United States Air
Force or the Air University.
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