Chapter 4: ►

_Excitement and Frustration_

“You might as well try a rocket flight,” Joe Vensel said.

We were sitting in his office, which faced the NACA hangar workshop. His tone lacked enthusiasm. His whole attention seemed focused on the pencil he was twirling between his fingers.

It was the day after Christmas, twenty days since my first X-4 flight. The Chinese Communists had entered the Korean War, splitting and decimating our armies on the peninsula. The President had declared a state of national emergency. In the Pentagon the economizing Secretary of Defense, Louis Johnson, had been replaced by General George Marshall. The aviation industry, now overwhelmed with money, was gearing for a future freighted with uncertainty, perhaps a global war with the Soviet Union. Its engineers desperately needed data. Wind-tunnel results from scale models of the newly designed, supersonic, Century Series jet fighters--the F-100, the F-101, F-102, and F-104--had foreshadowed critical instability at high speed. Every man at NACA was anxious to press ahead.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll tell them to get 945 ready.”

The number 945 was our mundane designation for the Douglas D-558-II Skyrocket, a research airplane with an impressive background and a sensational future.

It requires much time and planning to prepare a rocket plane for a test flight. This was especially true in those pioneering days. Rocket engines are complicated and temperamental, something like the engines of expensive high-speed racing cars. They burn a powerful, dangerous fuel combination of liquid oxygen (Lox) and water-alcohol, and sometimes even more exotic fuels, which eat into the pipes and fittings, corroding or unsealing joints. The fuel is pumped into the engine through a complex maze of plumbing, which forever leaks and loses pressure. The liquid oxygen is very cold, approaching minus 300 degrees Fahrenheit. This intense cold forms a coating of ice on the outside of the tanks and the plane, and permeates everything, sometimes freezing systems not designed for extreme temperatures. The preparation of a rocket engine for flight was always an adventure for our mechanics.

I made my way into the hangar to pass on the word to Eddy Layne, our crew chief on 945.

“How about it, Eddy?” I said. “Can we fly tomorrow?” The skin of 945 lay about the hangar floor. The bare skeleton was under siege by half a dozen mechanics, who appeared to be devouring the plane like so many piranha fishes. It hardly seemed possible that it could all be reassembled in one day.

“Sure thing, Scotty,” Eddy said. “Got a leaky regulator in the fuel tank, but we’ll get it squared away in a while. Go ahead and plan on it. Is this a speed run?”

“No, just a check-flight,” I said.

“I think Bridgeman and the Douglas people will be flying 943 in the morning. You might want to touch base with them.”

“Right,” I said. It was obvious that I had not yet scored among the mechanics. What Eddy meant was that I had better check with Bridgeman and find out how to fly the 945. I had already done that.

I remained in the hangar for some time, looking over the ship and recalling the plane’s history.

In late 1944, when the Air Force and NACA launched the X-1, the Navy, as part of the overall research airplane program, began a separate project of its own, referred to as the D-558. (In the Navy’s hopelessly confusing aircraft terminology, the “D” stands for Douglas, the manufacturer.) The D-558 “Skystreak” was similar to the X-1 in shape; the main difference was that the plane was powered by a jet instead of a rocket engine. The X-1, which was intended to be launched in the air from a mother plane, would fly fast in brief bursts. The D-558, which was designed to take off conventionally from a runway, was slower, but it could stay aloft longer. Between the two designs, it was thought, the aerodynamics in the trouble area at, or just below, the speed of sound could be thoroughly blanketed.

Three of the original jet-powered D-558 Skystreaks were built. In August, 1947, a couple of months before Yeager flew the X-1 through the sound barrier, Navy Commander Turner Caldwell, flying the first D-558, set a speed record of 640.7 miles an hour. Five days later Marine Major Marion Carl pushed the same plane to 650.6 miles an hour, a speed considered sensational at that time. In May, 1948, the “time bomb” engine in one D-558 blew up on take-off, killing NACA test pilot Howard Lilly. The second airplane became a Hangar Queen and was cannibalized for parts. The third Skystreak was still at NACA gathering data. I had flown it before my first hop in the X-4.

From the outset the D-558 program grew into a second generation of airplanes. To distinguish these from the earlier models, we called the later ones “Phase Two” airplanes, which was short for D-558-II. The plane was popularly called the “Skyrocket.” Three Phase Two airplanes were built, all with the new swept wing. In 1946 there was then much controversy, but little swept-wing flight data except those which we had obtained from the Nazis. In each of the Phase Two airplanes, the power-plant or launch scheme was deliberately varied to cover a wide range of research possibilities. The first Phase Two model was, like the 558-I, powered by a single jet engine. Designed to take off conventionally, it was fitted with two small jettisonable rocket bottles (JATO) to help boost it into the sky. The second model, also intended for conventional ground take-off, was powered by a jet engine _and_ a rocket engine, similar to the rocket engine in the X-1. The third model (945), built to be dropped from a mother plane like the X-1, was also equipped with a jet and rocket-engine combination. Its maximum speed was about Mach 1.2, somewhat slower than the X-1’s top of Mach 1.4.

Douglas test pilots John Martin and Gene May first flew these tricky Phase Two’s, taking off from the ground, burning the rocket barrel, the jet engine, or both at once. The adventures they logged would make a book in themselves. Ex-Navy pilot Bill Bridgeman of Douglas was later recruited to make the Phase Two air-launched demonstrations. By the time I arrived at NACA, the Phase Two Skyrocket was a familiar sight on the Edwards runway, and Bill Bridgeman was on his way to the Hall of Fame.

Bridgeman flew the jet-rocket ground take-off version of the plane fairly regularly at Edwards. The jet-only JATO-boosted version never really panned out. The Navy ordered it shipped back to the factory for changeover to an all-rocket version, designed for an air-launch (causing even more model confusion). It was this plane that Walt Williams, in our first interview, hinted might reach Mach 2 and 100,000 feet. NACA--I, to be specific--would get a crack at it after Bridgeman had worked out the bugs. The third Phase Two airplane, the air-launched jet-rocket combination, had been delivered to NACA in the fall of 1950, after Bridgeman had made three test air-launches. No NACA pilot had yet flown this model. This was ship number 945, my next challenge. In the long run it turned out to be a very useful and worthy research airplane in the trans-sonic zone, a work horse as well as a race horse.

On the following day, when I reported to the flight line, lugging my parachute and crash helmet, the ground crews were ready. The Skyrocket had already been “mated”--snugged up like a bomb in its special nesting place in the belly of the B-29 mother plane. The Skyrocket’s fuel tanks, for both the jet and the rocket engine, were brimming. The B-29 mother-plane pilot was George Jansen, a top man for Douglas, and experienced in air-launch. Douglas intended to keep the mother plane until Bridgeman had checked out the all-rocket version of the Skyrocket.

I spotted the tanned bald dome of Bill Bridgeman towering above the knot of men clustered near the boarding ladder of the B-29. He was dressed in a flying suit. A crash helmet dangled loosely from his right hand. I walked over.

“You going along, Bill?”

“Yeah. Might be able to help out a little,” he said with that wonderful friendliness that was his hallmark.

“Fine. Fine.”

We climbed aboard and made our way back to the bomb-bay compartment, into which the top of the Skyrocket fuselage protruded. The Skyrocket cockpit canopy was erect. A maze of wires and tubes--the umbilical cords--was plugged into the back of the Skyrocket, supplying power from the B-29 en route to the launch point. At the proper time I had only to climb into the cockpit, close the hatch, and fall away.

Jansen lost no time. Through my earphones in the bomb-bay compartment, I heard him contact Edwards tower, and the two chase pilots, Fitzhugh Fulton and John Konrad, both Air Force types. In the following years, Fulton became something of a legend at Edwards. I think he must have spent three or four tours at the base, specializing in mother-plane operations. He launched most of the rocket pilots and was back again in 1959 to launch me in the X-15.

Soon we were airborne, straining for altitude. I sat beside Bridgeman on a bench, going through the long pre-flight check-list. At 10,000 feet the crew went on oxygen and I started to board the Skyrocket.

I climbed down into the tiny cockpit, connecting my oxygen hose to the supply inside the Skyrocket. As Bridgeman towered over me, helping to cinch up my shoulder harness straps, I wondered how that long drink of water had ever managed to squeeze into the Skyrocket cockpit. Bridgeman and the launch operator slammed the canopy shut. The floodlights inside the bomb-bay compartment spilled through my windshields, affording enough light for me to see the instrument panel. At twenty minutes prior to launch, Jansen called the time. Following an item on the check-list, I lit off the jet engine. This added thrust would help the B-29 through the thin air and provide the Skyrocket with flying speed when I dropped.

Now all hands in the air kept a sharp watch for signs of danger. They could come from a hundred points. At that time we had not yet lost a rocket-powered airplane, either in the air or on the ground. But it could happen at any moment--and did, in later months. The B-29s were something of a problem, too. They were fire-prone.

A few minutes before drop I primed the rocket engines. Chase pilots Fulton and Konrad, who were flying alongside the B-29 beyond my view, reported routinely:

“Prime looks good.”

As we bore down over the dry lake at 35,000 feet, seconds before launch, I glanced one last time at the instrument panels and made ready. Launching a rocket plane and lighting off the engine properly is an exacting task. Improper observation of the numerous gauges and their reactions, or a small mistake in their analysis, can bring failure, possibly fatal. To gain maximum performance from the engines--the basic purpose of any research airplane flight--they should be touched off before the plane has dropped too far into the thick atmosphere. The plane must also be maintained at a precise angle of attack. If it noses down too steeply, precious rocket fuel is expended regaining lost altitude. If the plane is overly nose-high, the increased drag consumes fuel needlessly.

In theory, the jet-rocket Skyrocket gave the pilot a nice edge. He could launch with the jet engine going full blast. This would help him maintain the plane’s equilibrium during the rocket-engine light-off.

The next sixty seconds were crowded with excitement and frustration. Jansen, keying his radio mike, droned a brief countdown: “Five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... DROP.”

I heard a rattle as the two bomb shackles holding the Skyrocket in its metallic perch were disengaged. Suddenly, then, brilliant sunlight poured into the Skyrocket cockpit, blinding me. I was falling like an elevator and flying!

I pulled the nose up and climbed; there was not much time. The jet engine, fed by scoops that were far too small and inefficient, would soon starve for want of air. My fingers had flicked across the separate switches for the four rocket barrels. I felt a gentle forward surge, indicating a successful light-off. Chase pilot Fulton drawled on the radio:

“All four going.”

I glanced momentarily at the rocket pressure-gauges. They were in the green--I think. My eyes were still adjusting to the glare of the sunlight.

Five ... ten ... fifteen seconds. My Mach meter and altimeter seemed to be running a clock-like race. Speed: Mach .9 and increasing. Altitude: 40,000 feet and increasing. My chase planes were far behind, left in a cloud of rocket dust. Altitude: 43,000 feet.

In the next second, fifteen events--all of them bad--took place simultaneously. In the first brief instant, I was suddenly thrown forward against my shoulder straps, almost to the face of the instrument panel. I heard the jet engines popping crazily, then the rockets burned out, followed by eerie silence. I knew what had happened: the balky jet had flamed out; the sudden loss of thrust had sloshed the rocket fuel forward in the tanks, shutting down all four barrels. Suddenly my chest felt as though it were supporting the weight of a platoon of soldiers. The engines were out; cabin pressure was seeping off. The battery, which should have supplied ship’s power in the event of engine failure, responded slowly. Everything was out: radios and electrical instruments.

In that particular airplane, the windshield defogging system was hooked directly into the electrical system. With no power to supply defogging air to the windshield, a coat of ice quickly formed, shutting off my vision. Now the emergency was complete; no power, no instruments, no cabin pressure, iced-over windshields. Breathing heavily under the strain of the decompression, I leveled the plane and then banked until the sun beamed directly on the windshield. I knew, at least, that I was pointed in the general direction of the lake, which lay to the west of my position.

By strange coincidence, it happened that the same critical sequence of events had taken place on Bridgeman’s Skyrocket flight that morning. When I suddenly left the radio circuit, he guessed immediately what must be taking place in the Skyrocket cockpit. He yelled on the radio for chase pilots Fulton and Konrad to pull up and lock wingtips with my plane--to guide me, if possible, back to the landing area.

My battery came on the line at last and began to pump power. To conserve it, I switched off all but the most important instruments. As I descended, the ice began to thaw and the breathing became easier. I reached up and scratched a small hole on both sides of the windshield. Now I could see Fulton and Konrad sitting on my wingtips. They flew formation on me until 10,000 feet, where the ice became so slushy that I could brush it off with my hand. I never wore gloves. Flying a sensitive airplane with gloves is like playing a piano with gloves.

I brought the Skyrocket in dead-stick and made a normal landing on Rogers Dry Lake. The mechanics towed the powerless craft to the NACA hangar with a tractor.

“Scotty,” Walt Williams said later, “if we can just get you through these first check-out flights, I think we’ve got it made.”