Country and Family: A Life of Service

By John F. Mitchell

Early in 1973 I was flying a normal Variable Stability System (VSS) flight at the Naval Air Test Center, Patuxent River, Maryland. The student in the right seat of the converted B-26 aircraft was Lieutenant Commander George White. He was flying his third consecutive VSS flight. George had successfully completed all his upper air work in the vicinity of 10,000 feet. He commenced making a series of approaches to the active runway, which was oriented northeast/southwest (04/22)1. Each approach was made with a different stability configuration dialed in by me. His task was to fly and for me to evaluate his reaction to increasingly unstable conditions.

As George lined up the B-26 on Runway 04 one could see the beautiful blue waters of the Patuxent River beyond the end of the 10,000-foot runway. When the aircraft had descended to about 50 feet and was ready to be flared for landing I told him I had the airplane and simultaneously disconnected the variable stability system. After clicking off the VSS I raised the landing gear and applied go-around power to both engines. For a few seconds increased power was felt but then the left engine sputtered and completely lost power. The emergency response for such a failure is to immediately “feather” the propeller on the affected engine. The purpose for feathering is to align the propeller blades into the wind stream. This action provides minimum drag from the failed engine. The aircraft would then be more controllable with thrust from the “good” running engine. However, just as I was reaching for the left feathering button the right engine started losing power and it also completely failed.

There was insufficient runway remaining to attempt a so called “dead stick” landing (terminology indicating a landing without power). Plus the landing gear was in the process of retracting into the wheel wells and there was little time to reverse the process and lower the gear back down. My next alternative was to make a belly landing in the waters of the Patuxent River straight ahead.
1. 04/22 refers to the direction of the runway heading. 04 means 040 or 40 degrees from magnetic north; and, 22 means 220, or that number of degrees from magnetic north.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669855422

John F. Mitchell

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Copyright © 2023 by John F. Mitchell. 842435

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Rev. date: 12/31/2022

Contents

1. Early Childhood to 5 Years

2. Trip to Ireland, 1938

3. An Irish Childhood Thrust Upon US

4. Dreary Dublin During WWII

5. Post-WWII Years: Making Lemonade Out of Lemons

6. The Beginnings of An Aeronautical Education

7. Learning About Flying, But I Ain’t Got Wings

8. An Exhilarating Ride Above Farmer’s Fields

9. A Warm Southern Welcome for Aviation Students

10. Re-Learning to Fly Down and Dirty in the Desert

11. Running of the Bulls

12. The Flight to Susan’s Heart

13. Adventures in Specialized Flight Training

14. First Operational Assignment

15. Reflex Operations

16. Love Blossoms in the Motor City

17. Air Force Academic Education

18. Air Force Flight Test Center (AFFTC)

19. Preparation for and Trip to Vietnam

20. Combat Flying in Viet Nam

21. Letters to Mother (Pre and Post War)

22. Flying at Cal (CALSPAN)

23. Variable Stability System B-26

24. Redcap at Calspan and F-101 Endeavors

25. Last Employment – DMA

26. Incident on May 19, 2012

27. Retirement Cancer Death

28. Coordinator for Six Military Reunions

29. Second Marriage in 2017 at SJN in Reston

30. Moved to Ashby Ponds Retirement Community

I would like to dedicate this Memoir to the

members, both living and deceased, of the

USAF Pilot Training Class 56M

Facing Disaster at 200 Feet

Early in 1973 I was flying a normal Variable Stability System (VSS) flight at the Naval Air Test Center, Patuxent River, Maryland. The student in the right seat of the converted B-26 aircraft was Lieutenant Commander Sidney Jones. He was flying his third consecutive VSS flight. Sidney had successfully completed all his upper air work in the vicinity of 10,000 feet. He commenced making a series of approaches to the active runway, which was oriented northeast/southwest (04/22)¹. Each approach was made with a different stability configuration dialed in by me. His task was to fly and for me to evaluate his reaction to increasingly unstable conditions.

As Sidney lined up the B-26 on Runway 04 one could see the beautiful blue waters of the Patuxent River beyond the end of the 10,000-foot runway. When the aircraft had descended to about 50 feet and was ready to be flared for landing I told him I had the airplane and simultaneously disconnected the variable stability system. After clicking off the VSS I raised the landing gear and applied go-around power to both engines. For a few seconds increased power was felt but then the left engine sputtered and completely lost power. The emergency response for such a failure is to immediately feather the propeller on the affected engine. The purpose for feathering is to align the propeller blades into the wind stream. This action provides minimum drag from the failed engine. The aircraft would then be more controllable with thrust from the good running engine. However, just as I was reaching for the left feathering button the right engine started losing power and it also completely failed.

There was insufficient runway remaining to attempt a so called dead stick landing (terminology indicating a landing without power). Plus the landing gear was in the process of retracting into the wheel wells and there was little time to reverse the process and lower the gear back down. My next alternative was to make a belly landing in the waters of the Patuxent River straight ahead.

(Endnotes)

1 04/22 refers to the direction of the runway heading. 04 means 040 or 40 degrees from magnetic north; and, 22 means 220, or that number of degrees from magnetic north.

1. Early Childhood to 5 Years

I am a first generation American due to the fact my mother and father were both born in foreign countries. My mother Margaret Mary Kelly was born in 1894 in Kilrush, Count Clare, Ireland and my father Robert Jacob Machel was born in 1888 in Lublin, Poland, which at the time was part of Germany. My mother was the eldest of nine children and my father was the eighth of twelve children. He immigrated to the US along with his family when he was just six years of age. Whereas, my mother came by herself when she was in her early 20s.

I was born John Francis Machel (later I will explain about the name change to Mitchell) on February 2, 1933 in Oak Park, Illinois, which is a suburb of Chicago. Subsequently, in life when I was asked for my birth date for example at doctor’s offices, etc. I could always say two two three three. Obviously it was very easy to remember and I was able to say it without even thinking about the response.

Not surprisingly, I remember little about my early childhood to five years of age except for a few anecdotal events. I had two older brothers born in 1930 and 1931, respectively and a younger brother born less than two years after myself. We lived at 320 Ridgeland Avenue, Oak Park in a multiple unit apartment complex. My mother was quite busy with four boys and managing the household. So, when my older brothers started school, she would put me out in the common backyard by myself while she was taking care of the baby and the necessary chores inside the house. The enclosed backyard was quite large because it served the many families that lived in the building.

The backyard had a single unlocked gate to allow the residents passage out to work or other doings. It was supposed to be kept closed except when a person was going to or from the alley. I was too young to know how it could be unlatched. However, invariably someone who was in a hurry to get to work or some other activity would not close the gate properly. I would spot the opening and pass through to the alley and walk down to the sidewalk of a rather busy street. Next I would continue for a block or so until I was at a viaduct. There I would stand and look up at the passing elevated trains of Chicago’s public transportation system. I was fascinated as the trains went back and forth to downtown Chicago. I was mesmerized by the noise and action of the trains. Meanwhile my mother occasionally would look out in the backyard to check on me. When she couldn’t see me anymore she knew exactly what had happened – someone had left the gate open. After a few escapes she knew exactly where to look for me – down by the nearby viaduct, of course.

So my mom came up with a plan. She had our address 320 Ridgeland Avenue written on a piece of cardboard with instructions to anyone who came across this child. She fastened it with some string and placed it over my head with the writing in back so anyone could read the message. I was supposed to be turned around and told to return home. Or I could be taken by the hand and brought back to the backyard of our apartment complex. How long this went on I have no idea. Can one imagine if parents did something like that nowadays? They might be tried for child abuse. Worst case scenario I might have been kidnapped. Remember Charles Lindberg’s baby was kidnapped less than a year before I was born. However, there was little chance of meeting the same fate as my family was extremely poor because of the ongoing Great Depression.

I have few other recollections of my earlier years. There was a family that lived in an apartment above us. All five members played different musical instruments. I loved being taken up there to listen to them perform while they were practicing. I learned later they were sympathetic to our poor style of living and helped us with food and possibly monetary contributions. Another memory was when I was five years old, prior to visiting relatives in Ireland with our mother and two older brothers. We had to get the necessary medical shots before traveling overseas. I was petrified of needles and still am to this day. To me, this was a traumatic experience and I didn’t like the entire operation. I remember there happened to be an emergency across the street from the doctor’s office and watching the flashing red lights of the fire truck distracted me somewhat. In addition, the doctor had a rifle hanging in its rack on the wall. He took the rifle down and let me hold it as a further distraction. Eventually he was successful and I endured the multiple needle pricks without further incidents.

2. Trip to Ireland, 1938

In early 1938 when I was 5 years old, my mother decided to visit her relatives in Kilrush, County Clare, Ireland. She hadn’t seen or talked with any of her siblings or other relatives since she left her homeland fifteen years previously. In addition, she wanted to show off her four boys. So we left Chicago by train bound for New York City prior to sailing overseas. My mother did not have the wherewithal to afford such a trip so one of her prosperous siblings back in Ireland financed the travel for the five of us (my mom had a total of nine brothers and sisters including a set of twins who died shortly after birth). Meanwhile, my Dad remained behind working in the windy city.

The trip to New York was uneventful. However, prior to boarding the ship for the three-day voyage to Ireland I contracted measles. What could my mother do? She definitely didn’t want to abort the trip and upset all the detailed plans. So once more, my mother came up with a devious plan. She would essentially hide me from the ship’s personnel when we strolled up the gangplank. She had my three brothers, Pat, Al and Dan walk before her and had me trailing close behind her so no one was aware of the obvious evidence of measles on my face. My Mom must have had her heart in her throat all the while hoping that the subterfuge would succeed. Indeed her scheme worked! As soon as we were on board we very quickly went to our designated cabin. Immediately I was put to bed.

The ship taking us across the Atlantic was called the SS Columbus, a German registered ship that was completed in 1922. During World War II, Hitler had it and all his other passenger ships converted to troop carrier configurations. We learned later that the Columbus was torpedoed, badly disabled, scuttled, and sunk at the command of the captain sometime during that conflict.

I remained in my bunk bed for a day or so after boarding. On the second day of the voyage my mother and my brothers were out of our cabin perhaps eating a meal or something else. Apparently, I started crying soon after they departed due to loneliness or the effects of the disease. One of the ship’s personnel passing by in the corridor heard my sobbing and entered the cabin. Immediately, he ascertained the situation, tried to console me, and waited for my family to return. My mother was then interrogated. The result was all of us were quarantined in the ship’s sick bay for the remainder of the voyage.

The ship finally docked in Cobh¹, County Cork, the most southern port of entry for Ireland. We then proceeded by train to Dublin and stayed with one of my Mom’s youngest sisters, Lena Lee. Her family consisted of her husband Jack, a police officer, two sons Fred and John and a young daughter Catherine who was my age. We would get to know them extremely well. Little did we realize at the time that my two older brothers and myself would spend eight successive summers with them until World War II had ended.

Our mother left all four of us for a few days with the Lees while she took a train to the west coast of Ireland where she grew up in Kilrush, County Clare. Her mother was quite elderly but in relatively in good health. Her husband had passed away the previous year. Soon after mom returned to Dublin she learned her mother took a turn for the worst and died unexpectedly. So we all went to Kilrush for the funeral and stayed with mom’s oldest sibling, Uncle Angie. We had a great time in western Ireland for some little time.

One adventure I will always remember was an outing with a bunch of greyhounds. My brothers Pat, Al and myself were each in control of a sleek looking dog on a leash. We walked down a road to an open field to chase rabbits. The greyhounds were very docile until they scented a rabbit. Then they took off! I wasn’t told what to do when they acted so ferociously. I was supposed to release my grip on the leash and let the dog run freely so it could catch the rabbit. Instead I held on with all my might. The next thing I knew I was flat on my belly being dragged on the ground by the restrained greyhound. Eventually I did release my grip on the leash but it was too late. The pursued rabbit escaped into one of the many rabbit holes in the field. Everyone had a great laugh over my predicament but I didn’t think it was very funny at all!

Soon we returned to Dublin and Mom explained to Pat, Al and myself that we would be staying in Ireland for one year. She would return with Dan to the states because he was too young to go to school. The plan was for the three of us to attend boarding school from September to June and stay with the Lees during the summer of 1939 before returning home to America. Well, World War II commenced on 1 September and there was no way we could return home without an adult escort who had to be able to get back to Ireland. As the world war progressed all ships transiting the Atlantic were assigned to military duties. Consequently, it wasn’t until well after the cessation of hostilities in March 1946 did the three of us return home.

While in Ireland our only communication with our parents was through the medium of letter writing. There was never ever a telephone call of even the shortest duration. We never spoke with our mother or father for eight straight years!

(Endnotes)

1 Cobh is a town in Ireland, on an island in Cork city’s harbour. It’s known as the Titanic’s last port of call in 1912.

3. An Irish Childhood Thrust Upon US

Pat, Al and myself commenced our Irish education at the Mount Sackville Convent a boarding school located near Phoenix Park on the outskirts of Dublin. The Sisters of St Joseph de Cluny operated the school. It was composed of a large segregated section for girls and a much smaller building for young boys. The girls were educated all the way through the equivalent of high school. The curriculum for the boys was restricted to the age of twelve. Most of the pupils, girls and boys were boarding students. We had only one or two day students in the boys’ school.

Our daily routine started by rising in the dormitory at 7:00 a.m. if we were assigned to serving the daily Mass for the nuns in the attached church. We would put on a soutane, similar to a black robe that extended to the tops of our shoes. Over that we wore a white surplice¹ that only went down to the waist. We assisted the priest at the altar and all the responses were in Latin. Obviously we first had to learn the phrases in that dead language. If we couldn’t remember a response because we were only half awake or whatever, we would just mumble a few words until we had caught up with the proper terminology. That was good enough so that the priest would continue with the prayers. Never do I remember being rebuked after Mass by a priest for not following the proper Latin dialogue.

If we didn’t serve Mass we got to sleep in for an extra hour. At 8 o’clock we arose, dressed and proceeded downstairs to the refectory. Breakfast always consisted of two slices of fried bread – no cereal, juice, milk, or anything else. The food was brought over from the girls’ side of the school, and invariably it was cold and hard when it got to our plates. Occasionally, we were given some additional fried bread, - these additional servings were most welcome as the bread was a little warm, soft and much more edible.

The subjects in grade school taught with the English language were the usual math, religion, history, geography, etc., but with the addition of Irish, or Gaelic. We learned to converse and to write original compositions in Irish. I must admit that I did not take to this endeavor very readily; in fact, I hated writing in Irish especially when I had to perform that task for an examination at the end of a term.

All three of us, as well as the other boys, loved sport activities. We played some cricket and rugby but mostly soccer. Naturally we ran around a lot and got flushed and overheated. This situation upset the nuns, and in particular Mother Michael, who worried we would catch cold or something worse. To alleviate the condition so we would not be grounded (that term was never used back then), we would occasionally come inside and run cold water on our wrists for a few minutes. Whether that worked in reducing the flush from our faces, I don’t really know. But we thought it worked.

Once per week after regular school we had special sessions of elocution², singing and gymnastics. I’ll always remember the diction instructor: a tiny lady who had a very difficult job in teaching us how to enunciate and speak properly, and in particular trying to get us to say words correctly which started with the letters th. Each week, when she entered the hall where we had gathered she stood before us and said, Hello boys. Our response was always Good afternoon, Miss Burke, with emphasis placed on after and Burke.

I learned to sing quite well from the singing lessons, and even now in church my kids say I should be in the choir. The gym teacher’s name was Mr. Gillespie. He had us do various exercises on a large mat, including the usual pushups and the like, but he also had us do a special run: Mr. Gillespie placed a number of ordinary wooden chairs across the hall in the middle, and a number of us would line up to race. When we reached the chair, we would have to crawl on our bellies through the legs, and get up and continue to the far end of the gym. Then, we touched the wall and ran the reverse course to see who arrived at the starting point first.

Later on most afternoons following supper and homework assignments we would have a little free time to run in a recess area of the school. And run we did! So much that my brother Al crashed into another boy who had his mouth open: the result was Al received a nasty cut just below his left eye and blood was squirting all over the floor. He was taken away, and had a number of sutures applied to his face. Al bore a scar for the rest of his life, although it had diminished somewhat by the time of his death at the age of 83.

There were a number of chestnut trees that bordered the soccer field, and we loved to collect the nuts that had fallen in the autumn. We’d punch a hole in the center of the nut and put it on the end of a string. Then, we would challenge another boy with a similar instrument and take turns hitting one chestnut against another. After a few hits, one chestnut would break apart and fall off the string. The winner would have one kill more and could start another challenge. When a boy had had a number of kills and another broke his, then he would be credited with all the kills amassed by the defeated boy. Of course, boys being boys, we thought it great fun to throw chestnuts at one another. Inevitably, the expected happened to my brother Pat: he got struck in an eye. It was a very serious injury, and it took an extremely long time before he recovered his normal sight. The nuns were very upset and over reacted, in my opinion. An edict was issued: No more playing with chestnuts. We weren’t even allowed to touch them or pick them up off the ground. That was a harsh penalty for us to accept.

One of the workmen at the adjoining Mount Sackville