Christmas Eve already. Amazing how the time flies, isn’t it? I have a string of lights out on the patio and a festive light shining on the pumpkin on the porch. The World’s Most Pathetic Christmas tree spreads it wire-and-green needles in the corner with some merry colored lights to buoy my seasonal spirits even as I consume some.
I had intended to tell you the other day about a cautionary tale regarding Raven and his fabled Spad- the nickname for the massive piston-engined Douglas AD4-J Skyraider. I ran out of time that day, and with merriment starting to break out all over, I thought I would finish the tale Dad told me on the patio of the house we lived in on the corner of Chester and Frank in Birmingham, Michigan.
That wasn’t where they lived when they first arrived. Raven and Big Mama moved to Detroit shortly after they married in New York City. Their friend Bob had called Brooklyn to tell Dad that Ford’s was hiring. That is a Detroit thing, by the way. People referred to the car company as if old Henry was still calling the shots from the Model T plant in Highland Park.
Dad had decided to get out of the Navy as soon as they would let him go in 1945- only half the class went on to go to the fleet. The GI Bill beckoned, and he graduated from Pratt Institute at the Clinton Hill campus in Brooklyn. Raven was not done with flying, though. He took his Wings of Gold and affiliated with the Naval Aviation Reserve program, drilling a weekend a month with a two-week active period, normally during the summer.
When they got settled in the Motor City, Dad discovered that Ford’s was hiring, and he got a job as an automotive stylist and clay modeler, and I came along in 1951, te first of three children that would form Raven and Big Mam’s family.
He also reported to Naval Air Station Grosse Ile for duty in a flight status.
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The base was located on the southern tip of the island- I saw it a couple years ago flying out of DTW and was impressed by the unique triangular shape formed by runways. The field operated from 1927 until late 1969, and is now a township airport. During World War II, NASGI had been one of the largest primary flight training stations for Naval aviators, and RAF pilots. Among the many thousands of Navy pilots who began their careers at NASGI were former President George H.W. Bush and Price is Right game show host Bob Barker.
Training was conducted using the venerable SNJ Texan and Boeing Stearman. Immediately following the end of WWII the base was equipped with several squadrons of the huge Martin AM Maulers, and for a short time six McDonnell FH-1 Phantoms (not the later and more famous Phantom II). They were the only jets ever based on the island.
After the war, the base’s runways were judged too short for use by the new generation of Navy jet fighters, and efforts to extend the runway length were met with disapproval by township citizens, so in the 1950s the base would see use as an ASW training base. Grosse Isle was also stocked with AD4-J Skyraiders, powered by the new and more powerful R-3350-26WA engine.
Raven got checked out in his Spad, made Lieutenant. and settled in for a routine tour as a Reserve pilot. The monthly routine included cross country navigation training and simulated attack missions on places like exotic Toledo, Ohio. Tensions had subsided between Michigan and Ohio since The Glass City had been threatened in the nearly bloodless 1836 border dispute. Still accounts for some of the rivary between Buckeyes and Wolverines. early 19th century.
There was a refinery by the river north of downtown, and the tower used to burn off excess gases produced in the cracking process burned brilliantly for the Navy pilots to see and use for their attack runs.
I don’t know precisely what time of year it was, probably summer of 1952 or ’53. Dad was lucky- the squadrons west of the Mississippi were called up for Korea, but the ones (like Dad’s) east of the Big Muddy were held in reserve for other contingencies. But the times called for the Reservists to be as proficient as possible, and Raven’s section of Spads were briefed on the strike package, settled their knee-board cards, picked up their helmets and manned up.
The say that aviation- Naval or other- is not an inherently dangerous activity. But it is absolutely unforgiving when something goes wrong. Raven told me once he saw a fellow pilot miss the part on the check-list where you unfold the wings, and lock them with sturdy lugs in the flight configuration. The unfortunate aviator actually managed to get airborne- briefly- with the wings still folded.
I don’t know if he died or not- Raven was talking about the majesty of that mighty aircraft, and probably did not want Big Mama to be reminded that the breadwinner for her growing family was risking his life for a couple flight hours a month.
I am pleased to report that the strike came off well, maximum effort with minimum time over the target. The Spads formed up and headed back north toward Grosse Isle.
Raven was a smoker at the time- I think Luckies, then- and the AD4-J was thoughtfully designed with a cigar lighter and little pull-out metal ashtray on the lower part of the instrument panel. Content with his performance, he decided to reward himself with a victory smoke. He cracked the canopy for ventilation and lit up, drawing the rich smoke deep into his lungs, exulting in the sheer joy of piloting a fast and rugged aircraft painted in the standard ANA 623 Glossy Sea Blue color.
I mentioned the unforgiving part, right? So, when the butt was down to the glowing coal and an inch or two of white tobacco-filled paper. Raven leaned over and flicked the butt out into the slipstream.
It danced there for a moment, and then promptly shot back into the cockpit, between the knees of his flight suit, and into the darkness of the fuselage. I mentioned the Skyraider was a piston-engined aircraft right? Those relics operated on high-octane Aviation Gasoline, not the lower volatility of kerosene Jet Fuel.
Raven knew there would be fumes from the fuel down there in the darkness, and if they touched his smoldering cigarette, he would be transformed into a high-speed Zippo lighter.
He frantically cranked the seat down to see if he could get a flight boot on the glowing ember that lay just out of reach on the main wing spar. He couldn’t reach it and ever millisecond could bring him loser to flaming disaster. He finally decided he had to unstrap, inch himself forward in the seat and then wiggled his way downward where he could crush the danger.
Imagine, for a moment, reaching up to maintain hold of the stick, and still get to the wing spar.
It is a little anti-climatic to say that he managed to do it, grinding his boot on the butt until there was nothing left to burn. Then, all he had to do was pull himself back up while maintaining some kind of control over the mighty blue aircraft.
It is not a long flight from Toldeo back to Grosse Isle, and he had barely got into the seat and straps when it was time to marshal and recover at the field. There is a saying in Naval Aviation that it is better to die than look bad, and this one just happened to work out. He did not mention the near incident in the squadron de-brief, and certainly not to Big Mama, who was concerned enough without knowing how close she had come to being a widow.
It was years later, and being long out of the Reserves that Dad shared the story with me. It was a lazy Michigan summer evening, filled with the sound of insects saying whatever it is they say, I was curious about his time in the War and the cockpit. That is when he got a little pensive and recounted the story. He was smoking Kent filters then, and he stubbed one out in the ashtray.
He looked at me earnestly- “The lesson, Son,” he said with dramatic effect. “Is don’t smoke in the cockpit.”
I nodded vigorously. In fact, I think that is something on which we can all agree.
Copyright 2017 Vic Socotra
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