Noel F. Parrish, Brig. Gen., USAF (ret)
Letter to Donald Weckhorst, dated 11 April 1984

Dear Mr. Weckhorst:

Your study of Chanute and its pictures are very interesting. Much has developed since I was there after Ft. Crockett and before moving to Wright-Patterson.

I have found some pages relating the background at the only Attache Base where Vandenburg, Twining and others were crowded around a Coast Defense gr.

Competition was keen, particularly among the youngest and most ambitious among us, and I was beaten out by the only younger Lieutenant, Joe Qualm. No one had dived into the ground lately, so we tried coming in at more speed in order to be able to pull up without stalling. Bombing practice, on the other hand, was indeed hair-raising; not so much for the pilots as for the men who kept score. The system was a model of simplicity. There were no bomb sights, and no bombs. We had some old WW I bomb casings, filled with sand, and since we approached the target at 100 feet or so there was no place for a bomb sight. By rudder action, we kicked the A-3 to a skidding angle as we approached so that we could peer down past the engine for a look at the concentric circles, 50 feet in diameter, drawn upon the sand of the inner beach. There was no way to measure approach speed or altitude accurately, so practice was important. At the time, no one seemed concerned over what would haplpen if a live fifty-pounder went off so closely underneath. We believed, more or less, in peace. The problem was that someone had to be near the circle to keep score as to where our rusty and heavy bomb case struck. So wild had been some of the bombing by neophytes that enlisted scores objected strongly to the hazard of proximity. Fortunately for the art of dropping sand bombs on the sandy shore, the Third Attack Group had 1st Lt. Mosely in charge weaponry training. Mosely held some strong opinions concerning the enlisted man s mind , as he called it. Such categorizing of humans had always disturbed me (since age 15) but one did not argue with Lt. Mosely except from superior rank. He was one of those often indispensable people who enjoy unpleasanat duty, not only for themselves but for others. Before the arrival of the Class of 1932 at Crockett, there had been a severe hurricane along the coast to the south, and Mosely had flown a transport plane to pick up a decaying body found on a beach. The enlisted man who was along moved forward beside Mosely for some fresh air, and was ordered back with the body as punishment for his impertinence. No harm was done to the man s career, once he recovered from a bad case of nausea. Beneath his crusty sociology, Mosely had the welfare of enlisted men at heart. He relieved them from target duty at the big bulls eye and replaced them with junior second lieutenants. Mosely had other theories more intellectual than practical, as it turned out. He felt that officers should often demonstrate their superiority in courage as well as rank, and that officer target scorers should stand in the bulls eye rather than outside the target circles. He knew of no case in which the bulls eye had been struck by a bomb, and they had fallen almost everywhere else. Consequently, we were instructed to stand in the bullseye as each bomb fell and to stand aside in the unlikely event of a bomb falling accurately. Among the first to follow these orders was Buster Cohn, a slightly senior second lieutenant, assisted by the writer. For a few runs it appeared Mosely was right. One by one, the bombs fell everywhere but near us, much to our relif. Then came a perfectionist who had learned how to skid his A-3 steadily and peer down at us beside the engine, so low and slow that we recognized him, even in goggles. He was coming straight at us. Buster Cohn, a former Olympic wrestler, stood his ground. I stood beside him, since there ws nowhere to hide. Here came the bomb. We had agreed to leap in unison away from the bomb's trajectory, but this one was headed directly toward us. We jumped in opposite directions and knocked each other flat. The fifty pounder came on, and struck several feet short of the occupied bullseye. Because of the very low altitude of the plane, it fell almost flat, and ricocheted just above our prostrate forms. Looking back, the pilot was momentarily conscience-stricken until he saw the near victims rising from the sand. Buster Cohn s influence as a man of proven courage and agility helped to modify the scoring procedures. Further, the beginning arrival of our new A-12 attack planes, heavier and faster, began the development of bombing methods which were less suicidal for all concerned. Cross-country piloting at very low altitudes was equally difficult but more convincing in its results. With other recent grduates, I was impatient in waiting for my first long trip alone, a two hour flight to cover 240 miles. Despite some threatning low clouds I arrived to visit my family and short-term red-headed friend late on Friday and promptly forgot to report my arrival by phone. Finally, the operations sergeant located me and all was forgiven, since my behavior was common among the young. Later, I was permitted to ride as passenger with Sam Payne, whose home was near mine after my family had moved from Uvalde to Kingsville. Climbing into the rear seat for the flight back to Crockett I almost tripped the parachute which was harnessed to my own seat, but managed to stuff it out of sight. Sam was inspired, when passing his home neighborhood, to make an impression. He dived somewhat too low, so low that he was unable to level off until we were beneath the crest of a small chinaberry tree in the front yard. For the next hour, toward Galveston across the coastal plain, he practiced diving more conservately toward pasturelands and so bringing hundreds of horses and cattle to their feet.

In general, we felt that people who ran out of houses or stopped on the highway to gaze at our surprising noise and nearness were more than recompensed by the excitement of their inconvenience. How the cows and horses might feel was scarcely worthy of speculation. One of the small towns nearest Crockett sent to Major Hickam a letter complaining about our effect on their chickens, turkeys and other animals, and received a reply stating we would try to avoid their vicinity if we could read the name of their town on the water tower. As for night flying, which we practiced frequently around the vicinity, we stayed a bit higher (there were no landing lights on our planes) until we approached our tiny field. Some of our hot pilots welcomed every challenge to their skills, but the rest of us were made uneasy by the problem of occsional fogginess, puddles of water on the turf, poor lighting and inadequate marking of the field's narrow perimeters. Nominated to lead an element for landing practice, an honor I did not seek, I was faced with leading two wingmen across the fence behind me as I touched the ground at precisely the proper angle and speed. I had learned the problems of overshooting as minor, compared with the consequences of undershooting, especially if my wingmen should happen to be lagging. The wingmen, one of whom was hot pilot Bill Bonnell, stayed very close, so close that they cleared the fence a second behind me and were not sure we could all stop before reaching the opposite fence. Suddenly both their engines roared in my ears as they pulled up and over, leaving me to stick with my own judgement and brake to a stop all alone. Their action was more justifiable than mine, but no harm was done and I had learned again that caution may sometimes be excessive. Yet, again, another death occurred to remind me that the opposite also was true. Not long after my departure, Major Horace Hickam, our admired commander, was practicing night landings in one of the new A-12s that had been recently delivered. Some pilots had found it difficult to get these faster and heavier models into the field, especially at night. Go-arounds were frequent, but Major Hickam (now Colonel) felt that he should attack the problem himself and determine its seriousness. One unhappy night, coming in low and resolved not to commit a go-around, Hickam touched his fixed and sturdy landing gear just a few feet short. The low wing monoplane flipped on its back after striking a small drainage ditch that had just been installed. Col. Hickam was instantly dead, with a broken neck. In the opinion of most who knew him, this was the greatest single loss to the Air Corps although similar ones would yet occur. He possessed a rare capcity for being well liked and highly respected at the same time. On one memorable occasion he had returned from a lengthy visit to Washington headquarters, (the Pentagon was still years away). He spoke to his small group of officers in a most informal and friendly fashion concerning the future of us all. Though it was not yet mid-1933, the shape of things to come had begun to jell, despite the refusal of most public leaders, and consequently the public itself, to acknowledge the realities. If the present attitude continued for the next few years, said the Major, we would be woefully unprepared when the crunch came, and all of us who remained fit would be needed for a desperate stand. Although the Navy tended to see the greatest threat to our dream of peace as developing in the Pacific, the Army and especially the Air Corps saw the greatest threat as growing in the East. It was too early, he said, to know just what nations would be involved. In any event, we were not now permitted to make any plans for defense against any specific government in Europe. An attack against us would come, in any case, from whatever power had achieved dominance in either Europe or the Western Pacific. Since we would be limited, into an indefinite future, to a totally defensive military force, the Air Corps would probably be equipped only for a last-ditch defense of the eastern coast of North America. The easiest route of invasion to attain a bridgehead on our continent would be the shortest ocean route to the Canadian Maritime provinces, where England had maintained bases in three wars. Our air force, especially the attack and bomber groups, would be called upon to expend itself in trying to prevent the establishment of a bridgehead in tht area. We would have more effective equipment by then, but it would still be limited in quantity and in range. Most important, he concluded, was that we remember our important role in a task as yet unrecognized.

On all other occasions Hickam was friendly and pleasant, though obviously concerned and thoughtful. Once during his formal inspection of planes and pilots ready to fly, I was standing at attention by the engine of my new A-12 as he stopped and asked: Lieutenant, is this your airplane? Sir? I asked in bewilderment. I m asking, does this plane actually belong to you? No, sir , I replied It belongs to the government and I am allowed to use it as ordered . After a pause the commander smiled and said That s fair enough . He moved on down the line. Later, I learned from his attractive daughter, who was wisely dating a regular officer, that he found my rather juvenile appearance amusing. She added that he thought well of me nevertheless, a timely boost. Not long before, a large and friendly mechanic, rather tipsy, had said Lt., sir, I want you to know that I like you. Some of the men say you are just a punk kid, but I tell them you are a good one or words to that effect. Not only did Lt. Stearley invite us to his, at last, wedding; Major Hickam gave a dinner party for the class of 1932 just before we became civilians again. He assured us he was unhappy to see us go and hoped some day to get us back again. It was doubly a sad time for me, for just a month earlier I discovered a most attractive visitor across the street and learned that her father was a famous professor at Texas U (Republican!-And a professor of political science) who had been a valiant candidate for governor against a notoriously corrupt demagogue who won. The professor had then become the acting governor of the Philippines and the young daughter had lived in Manila during recent years. While there, she had known my handsome bachelor uncle who had been a pilot in France during World War I. At eighteen, she had returned to the U.S. to attend college at Baylor college for women, of which more later. It seemed we might never be together again, a prospect almost as serious at the time as my jobless future. At our farewell ball in the splendid Galvez hotel, I was proud and sad concurrently, and allowed myself to be persuaded to drink enough to feel woozy for the only time in at least seventy years. No harm came of it, and no solace. Many years later, Major Hickam s daughter informed me that my charming date whose capacity for bourbon had astonished me was actually pouring most of her drinks into a potted palm. Ms Hickam also informed me that the object of my affection was not eighteen as she had said, but fifteen. No harm came of that, either. During the period when we began using radio in our planes, my mother came to visit and was allowed to take a ride in the windy back seat of an A-3. She was then 54 and, like most people, had never been up before. As I wrote to a friend she was far less frightened than I had been on my first flight . In fact, she enjoyed the half-hour ride immensely despite the wind-beating in the unprotected rear cockpit. She had been in her mid-twenties before living with electircity or plumbing, or riding in an automobile. Another visitor in the spring was the U.S.S. Wyoming, a moderately antique battleship that we were invited to board. The host officer proudly informed us airmen that battleships were now unsinkable, as a result of recent advances in armor and defensive weaponry. Proudly he reassured us that the navy still considered aviation a diversion, even for naval use, and that navy officers were not allowed to fly for more than a very few years. We call them fallen angels when they return to sea duty. This policy was the catalyst that caused Billy Mitchell, ten years earlier, to charge navy officials with near treason and responsibility for the loss of many lives. A few more years would pass before Admiral Tower and other naval airmen were rescued from oblivion by the intervention of President F. D. Roosevelt. In the spring of 33 at Crockett we listened to radio speeches by the first candidate to fly while campaigning, to his assurance that all we have to fear is fear itself , to the announcement of the bank moratorium, and to a guarded promise of improving national strength. When former President Coolidge died we held a parade ceremony on the base, and officers wore wide black arm bands for a month. There were other events, such as ratings for pistol marksmanship , (no rifles), flights up and down the coast and watching thousands of ducks rise but never reach us, while swarms of rice birds sometimes soared in front of formations that could not dodge suddenly to avoid splattering and returning home with wings and struts adorned with tiny feathers, and in my case an unusual assignment to discover the motive of an enlisted man s killing of a girl in the island city s famous Post Office Street area. During the investigation that was finally successful, I made some interesting friends and learned a great deal about a verboten subject, a problem that would interest me for many years. For the first time I was able to buy an automobile, a Ford model-A used roadster worth 300 dollars, soon dubbed the yellow peril by colleagues who had spotted it parked on Post Office street more than once. Also, I bought my first typewriter (they were seldom owned by college students) at 25 dollars for a used portable. The typing skills I had been required to teach myself at Moneterey caused me to begin the spoiling of many beautiful blank pages over the next fifty years. Despite Roosevelt s optimism, the depression continued. Once or twice our pay was late, and we were deprived indefinitely of 15 percent of our pay. Perhaps the most memorable visitor was Major, or possibly Colonel, Carl Spaatz, who had recently become famous as pilot of a Fokker transport that had remained aloft for a record number of hours by refueling from cans delivered in flight by other planes. He was just passing through our obscure base when Lt. Stearly rushed me out to the operations office, saying this is a chance to meet the grand old man of the Air Corps before he retires. Ten years would yet pass before the grand old man became the great air leader of WW II, and nearly twenty years before he retired and became a valued friend. There were stirrings of hope for improvement with the Roosevelt accession, but soon these were blasted. As the class of 32 retired to reserve in the summer of 33, orders arrived that many officers would be withdrawn from flying duty and sent to begin organizing non-military employment for young men. Many planes in various bases were to be greased for inactivity, like the antique artillery guns of old Crockett. I put all belongings in the rumble seat rear of the roadster and headed north, one of the few among us reserves who considered enlisting.

END OF LETTER