An aviation cadet’s letters to his family provide a window on Army Air Forces pilot training during World War II.
I recently came across a series of letters I wrote while training as a flying cadet in the U.S. Army Air Forces. I left my home in Oakland, California, in May 1942 at 19, promising my family I would write, though I don’t think I’d ever written a personal letter before. Fortunately my mother kept my wartime missives through the years, and although a bit yellowed, they are still legible. Following are excerpts from my letters home between May 1942 and September 1943, as I struggled through the Cadet Corps.
Halfway Between Oakland and Texas
I’m sorry you were so sad at me leaving for the Army Air Force Aviation Cadet Program. Mom, you’ve never been a crier, but that afternoon I saw great big tears in your eyes. Dad, I know you are against me flying through the air, as you put it, but if you remember, the only thing I wanted to do since I was about 12 years old was to fly. And now because of the war I might be able to do it. Sis, you as usual were stable and calm and knew I was off to do what I wanted even at the risk of being killed. You just nodded your head as I hugged you goodbye. Thanks.
I was the happiest I’d ever been. I never expected to be called as an Aviation Cadet—nobody had worse grades in high school. When that train engine built up steam and chugged out of the station, I somehow knew it was the beginning of my flying life.
We slept and read and talked and finally passed El Paso, Texas, and within two more days, the Aviation Cadet Center at San Antonio, where we offloaded at 3 o’clock in the morning.
San Antonio
It’s been about a week, and after a slow start things are now humming. But instead of a cadet center it feels more like boot camp. We go from one exam to another. A full flying physical was given us, and some guys didn’t make it.
Following our physicals, we were sent to what they called Psychomotor Testing. The tests, which were kinda fun, were supposed to tell the doctors if we were suited to fly an airplane. One test was a revolving chair they put us in and twirled us around and around. When it stopped we were supposed to get up and try to walk a
straight line. We were all so dizzy we almost fell down. But those of us who didn’t, and could sorta weave our way along a chalk line, passed. Another one was a metal plate like a record player made to wobble in a circle while we tried to keep a stencil in the plate’s center. This was an easy one. Other tests were flash cards on a screen with either German or Jap or American planes, and we were supposed to tell which one we would shoot at. Easy because I had studied every plane from all sides for a long time. With the tests finished, daily classes started on how to be an officer and gentleman. This was more like Beirne Lay’s book I Wanted Wings, and I knew it cold.
Wow! Flying
After six weeks at SACC—orders! We were split up in groups and assigned to various Primary Flight Schools throughout the Southeast Training Command. We were finally going to fly—or try to. I was assigned to Coleman, Texas. The trainer we would use was the Fairchild PT-19, an open-cockpit, low-wing, tandem two-seater with the instructor sitting in the back. The Coleman airport is a pretty little civilian airport with a grass strip. Our quarters are in Spanish-style barracks surrounding a large bubbling kind of bird bath that makes a sweet sound. The instructors are civilian pilots with a lot of flying time but run by the Air Force. The ground school, half a day, is all military, lieutenants or captains. We all know that this is the place where about 50 percent fail. Tomorrow we go for our first flight. Your very nervous son…
First Flight
Well, it’s been almost a week since that first flight, and I now have three more under my belt. I’m the luckiest kid in the world. My flight instructor, Mr. Livingston, is the most patient guy ever. If not, I’d already be on my way to something else in the Air Force besides pilot training. A cadet’s first flight is sort of gratis. Livingston let me take the flight controls for a couple of minutes, but I was a duck out of water. He helped me along, but the PT-19 seemed to have a mind of its own. His words over the one-way comm I’ll never forget: “Mister Dixon, let the plane fly itself. It’s inherently stable if you’ll just let it be. Relax. Fly by pressure, not movements.” I relaxed and what do you know, we began to get along. By my third flight I could actually maneuver the PT in the air—but then came landings. Things seemed okay in the traffic pattern until we got close to the ground and had to ease the nose up and the tail down during the flare. Too fast and you would balloon, too slow and you would stall and whack the ground. But Livingston was always ahead of me and coached me as to the magic approach airspeed I needed. Finally, after following him through at the correct speed and altitude, I more or less got the hang of it.
After a lot of circuits and bumps, I approached the important time of eight hours of dual flying time. I was a nervous wreck because if a cadet didn’t solo by eight hours he was put up for “the Washing Machine Ride,” meaning the end.
I can’t believe what happened. At 7½ hours during landing practice, Mr. Livingston told me to taxi to the wind Tee and stop. I thought he had to pee. He climbed out of his back seat and leaned toward me: “Mister, taxi out, take off and if you don’t crash on your first landing, take it around again and shoot two more. Then pick me up. Got it?”
I just nodded because I couldn’t speak. He jumped off the wing and went to the Tee, squatted down and lit a cigarette. I was petrified but followed orders. During taxi I actually looked back to the now empty seat. But somehow with the trust I’d built up in Livingston for the past almost eight hours, I felt that he or maybe his spirit was still there.
If I’d thought about what I was about to do I would have probably taxied back to the Tee. Anyway, I lined up, shoved the throttle full forward. Tail came up, I steered down the strip and took off. It was then I realized I was alone. I felt like leaving the traffic pattern and climbing to altitude to do some jerking around. But of course I didn’t. I carefully flew the downwind leg and then turned left to base leg. On final approach I watched my airspeed and altitude like Livingston had taught me, and when over the fence, chopped throttle and glided to an almost perfect three-point landing—pure luck. I then went around for another and bounced 50 feet in the air before settling on the ground. That was enough. I taxied back to Livingston and was surprised to see a big grin on his face. I expected a chewing out for my bounce landing, but instead he congratulated me. “Good work,” he said. “Now I know if you get in trouble you can get out of it. And believe it, Mister, those days are coming. Let’s go home.”
I was so puffed up, I almost didn’t fit in the cockpit. I made a half way decent landing at Coleman, and when we got out, Livingston shook my hand and said, “Good work. I’d sure like to be going where you are probably going.”
We marched back to the barracks. But instead of dismissing us as he usually did, our leader kept us in formation and yelled, “Mister Dixon, front and center.” I could hear the fountain bub bling behind us, and then I knew. He went on: “Cadet Dixon, with respect to Army Air Force regulations, number 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5, I hereby order you, because of that raunchy solo you performed today and stayed alive, to be tossed bodily into the fountain. Perhaps the cold water might shrink your swollen head and bring you back to earth.” Two cadets grabbed me and dumped me head first into the cold water while the others clapped and yelled. I had officially soloed an Army Air Force airplane. I’ve never been wetter or felt better. Your very happy son.
Well it’s been two weeks since my dousing, and we’ve really been busy with flying and ground school. I’m flying solo and dual while Livingston gets me ready for the big one—the 20-hour check ride that wipes out a lot of guys.
Ground school is coming along so-so. You know what kind of a student I am—pretty lousy. So far I’m holding passing grades—70 percent.
In the last couple of weeks the flying has been fast and furious. And now the big test has arrived— the 20-hour check ride with a check pilot, not our instructor. Bad luck—I pulled the worst one of the lot. It all started out wrong. I thought I was on time to report to the airplane. But when I arrived, there he was, sitting in the back seat ready to go. He was an enormous pilot with flaming red hair and a face to match. His first words to me were, “Cadet, where in hell have you been? Get your ass in the cockpit and let’s get this over with.”
I mumbled a “Yes, Sir,” and climbed in the front seat while a mech wound up the engine. Fortunately it started right off. The check pilot’s voice boomed through the one-way comm. “Well, Mister, are we gonna watch the prop go round or are we gonna fly a 20-hour check flight?”
I was sure that I’d already gotten a thumbs-down, but I taxied to the head of the takeoff strip. There I carefully checked the magnetos, left and right, moved the controls through their entire motion and again waited for orders. His voice boomed again, “Mister, whenever you think you’re ready, why in hell don’t we take off.” I pointed the nose down the takeoff strip and shoved up full throttle. Fortunately the wind was down the runway, so I didn’t have to dance on the rudder pedals. I had no idea what was coming as I climbed the trainer and awaited orders, which came in a hurry. “Climb to two thousand and let’s go to the practice area.” Nothing out of the ordinary came from the back seat. Climbs and glides to specific headings, slow flight at just above the stall speed and then another climb to 3,000 feet.
The reason for 3,000 had to be spins, so I was ready for the screaming redhead. I picked a small cloud on the horizon for a reference point when he said, “Give me a three-turn spin to the left.” With my nose smack on the cloud and hoping it wouldn’t move, I throttled back and held altitude until the stall. When we shook and rattled at the stall, I shoved in full left rudder pedal and held the stick back in my gut. The left wing dropped and around we went, nose to the ground and airspeed at practically zero. As we rotated, I waited for that little cloud. Thank God it was still there. I should have picked something solid on the ground. A few degrees before the cloud came around for the third time, I pounced on the right rudder pedal and dumped the stick full forward. He came over the comm, “Jesus Christ, you don’t have to break the airplane!” But I was just following my instructor’s advice to make sure the stall was broken, and I’m sure Mr. Red Face knew it. When we stopped spinning, my little cloud was right in front of the propeller where it should be.
I then expected more maneuvers, but instead he closed the throttle and yelled, “Forced landing, Mister. Your engine just quit.” We were now at 1,500 feet, and I had no idea where. I should have kept in mind an emergency landing field, but I didn’t. Not knowing what else to do, I snapped the left wing down like I knew what I was doing. And there, God took over. Directly below us was a perfect forced landing field—a close-cropped alfalfa field with a low fence around it. I wondered if the check pilot knew that I knew it was there? It was made to order. I slowly turned to the left to a downwind leg, slowed to approach speed, turned base leg and then turned to final approach right on speed. I’d have given anything to see Mr. Red Head’s face as I crossed the fence and began to flare for landing. And then I heard those sweet words: “Mister, I got better things to do than screw around with you up here. Let’s go home.” Wonder of wonders, I knew the correct heading for Coleman airport. The noisy guy in back never uttered another word until we had parked at the flight line. He clambered out of his seat, mumbled an “Okay” to me along with a thumbs up. Mr. Livingston was behind him and shook my hand with gusto.
Perrin Field, Texas
Well, as you can see, my address has changed. We completed our 65 hours of primary without any fanfare and had no idea where we were going. It’s the military way of always keeping you in the dark. We were told to pack our gear, strip our bunks and roll up our mattresses for the next class and to fall out at 0600. We were tired from celebrating the night before but happy that we were on our way to Basic Flight Training—somewhere.
Into another six-wheeler where the driver wasn’t allowed to tell us our destination. But it didn’t take long to squeeze out of him that we were on our way to Sherman, Texas, and Perrin Army Air Field. Perrin was no Coleman—military all the way. We were told that any mistakes or showing up late for formations or not obeying an upperclassman’s orders meant we would pay with “gigs” (demerits), which meant many marches at attention around the parade field with full pack with a rifle over our shoulder.
The military routine has sunk in. For some reason I kinda liked it. You knew where you are and where you would go next. A standard day was as before—half-day classroom and half flying. Ground school was extra tough for your dumb son. My fellow cadets helped me through it at night in the latrine after lights out in the barracks. I was able to again squeeze through with 70 percent grades.
The great side of Basic Flight was the airplane—a Vultee BT-13, which I fell in love with right off the bat. The first time I climbed in the cockpit I knew I belonged there. My flight instructor, a newly minted second lieutenant, my age, was quiet and friendly. He showed me around the plane and then took his seat in the back. He made the first takeoff, and I followed him through on the controls. His only words were, “Got it?” I answered, “Yes, Sir.” We had two-way communications. Next he said, “Take it, Mister and let’s go around for a landing.” I did it and felt perfectly at home in the spacious cockpit. It had a wide fixed landing gear and a two-position prop selector—takeoff and climb and cruise. We came around for two landings and takeoffs, and then he ordered a climb to 3,000 feet. We did a few stalls, and then he said, “This machine has a few quirks, and one of them is spins.” He throttled back and hauled us up to a stall. Then he kicked in full rudder with the stick full back, and away we went. I thought the poor plane was coming apart with all the vibrating and shaking. After he pulled out he said, “That’s why they call it the Vultee Vibrator.” Back to Perrin we went, where I landed, three points, and taxied to the flight line. We climbed out and the second lieutenant said, “You’re okay for solo.” I couldn’t have been more surprised.
From then on, it was a race to get things done. Mostly solo flying in formation and the introduction to instrument flying. And then there was night flying. It was one of those black, over cast, moonless nights, and I was second for takeoff, solo. The BT-13 ahead of me took position on the runway, and I heard the tower give him takeoff clearance. But he didn’t get very far. The plane accelerated down the runway, and suddenly veered up at a terrible angle. It stalled and crashed back down in an explosion of flames. Night operations ceased for about an hour until the runway was cleared and then resumed as if nothing had happened. This was wartime training, and death was part of it. A later investigation showed that the elevator trim was in full nose up position, so it went down as pilot error. I guess he missed the trim check before takeoff. Your very careful son.
It’s been weeks since my last letter—no time to write. Basic flight training keeps us super busy. If it isn’t ground school and flying, it’s instrument training in a Link Trainer [see “Link to the Future,” May 2014 issue]. A sergeant runs the thing from his desk, where a pointed ink-filled stylus device marks where you are and where you’re heading—usually in the wrong direction. The sergeant seems to hate all cadets (probably because we’re destined to become officers), so they do what they can to confuse us. The Link didn’t seem to bother me too much, and I somehow got through the course. The flying part of Basic for me was a cinch and a pleasure. EXCEPT for one very dark night during a cross-country flight, where I came close to leaving this world.
I was northeast bound at cruise altitude toward a checkpoint in Oklahoma, flying in cloud on instruments. I crossed my checkpoint and then rolled to the right to pick up my next leg. I was carefully watching my flight instruments, but in the roll the seat of my pants told me something different. A typical example of vertigo. Instead of obeying my instruments, I tried to fly by feel—a mistake. My turn increased, and I was soon in a “graveyard spiral” heading for the ground. Thank God my training kicked in and I reverted to my flight instruments as I should have. I pulled out pretty low and climbed back to cruise altitude, hoping nobody ever heard of my dumb escapade.
My instructor gave me a short course on aerobatics that I loved. We even did snap rolls where it felt like the plane was breaking apart—but it didn’t. Vultee makes them tough. Basic came to an end with my buddies getting me through ground school—barely. I must have the thickest head in the cadet corps. What saved me was my good flying grades from my instructor. Then a major decision. I held my breath as I looked over the list of those destined for either fighters or multi-engine advanced flying school. Wow! I made the fighter list.
Another New Address
Again we piled into a six-wheeler. There weren’t as many of us this time because two-thirds of Basic grads went to multiengine advanced flying school. And most weren’t happy about it.
We drove south and east, to Moore Field Single Engine Flying School near McAllen, Texas, near the Mexican border. I sensed that here we were a little more respected. The Uppers were all over us the next day, but nowhere near as much as at Basic. Maybe because we were all close to becoming officers—maybe. Of course we had to memorize some stupid answers to dumb questions while standing at attention—chin in, shoulders back, chest out with thumbs alongside the seams of our pants. But this was nothing new, and the Uppers were almost friendly. I can’t remember collecting even one demerit.
After breakfast, as we marched to ground school, we saw out of the corner of our eyes a line of parked North American AT-6s, our next hurdle. It was almost a fighter airplane, with a 650-hp engine, tandem seats and retractable landing gear and even a .30-caliber machine gun mounted on one wing. It looked somewhat like the BT-13 but a lot more wicked.
Ground school was more to my liking. Of course a class was given on our new plane, the AT-6, which I almost knew by heart. The best news was that ground school stopped in two weeks. You can’t teach a guy to fly a fighter from a book. Flying was the name of the game, and fly we did. I loved each minute in the air.
After a two-hour lecture on how to be a second lieutenant, we had lunch and then reported to our respective flight instructors— five students to an instructor. In Basic I lucked out with my young lieutenant instructor. Here was the opposite. First Lieutenant McCurdy was all spit and polish [and his] main purpose seemed to be to beat the other flights. I didn’t like him from the start, and the feeling was mutual. I appreciated his detailed lecture on what exactly we would be doing before climbing into our planes. But something about his nitpicking got to me. He soloed me in three hours but with a warning that one slip would send me packing—no second chance. I got the message.
Flying and Shooting
Well, our ground school has finished, thank God, and we’re now fully concentrating on each new flight maneuver. We fly twice a day, which I love. The AT-6 is a wonderful flying machine and has to be just a step away from a full-blown fighter. Our instructor led us through just about every fighter maneuver that exists. During debriefing, McCurdy never seemed satisfied no matter how we performed for him. It was never good enough.
Next was aerial gunnery practice. First was flying a Link Trainer with the top removed and a BB gun installed on the centerline. About 20 feet in front was a large screen where a model plane was sent flying across the screen. We were supposed to shoot at it with the BB gun with the trigger on the control stick. The enemy planes were Jap Zeros, German Me-109s, Focke-Wulf 190s and Stuka dive bombers. I think I hit about one in 20, and my cohorts didn’t do much better. We hadn’t been told much about taking lead on a moving target. McCurdy was disgusted with all of us.
Then came actual gunnery. We were shipped to Matagorda Island in the Gulf of Mexico for a week, where we had daily air-to-air shooting at a towed sleeve target. We each had different – colored bullets. Nobody did very good, and McCurdy made sure we knew about it. We also shot at ground targets, where McCurdy was able to calm down a little. Your not very good shooter son.
This letter is the scariest I’ve ever written. It was only two weeks to graduation when I returned from a solo mission. I approached the field with apparently everything normal. A gusty crosswind was blowing across the runway from left to right, but nothing really bad. We usually land our AT-6s on three points, but with gusty crosswinds we were told to land first on the two mains for better control. So I did just that. It was a normal landing, and as I slowed some, I lowered the tail wheel. Then I got the surprise of my life. As soon as the tail wheel touched the runway, my plane swerved viciously to the right. I tried everything I could with opposite rudder and brake, but it was out of my control.
We left the runway and plowed into the mud. When the wheels dug in, the plane flipped tail up and the propeller dug a big muddy hole. I immediately flicked all electric switches off in case of fire and then jumped to the ground, almost hanging myself on my radio connections.
When an ambulance showed up, the medics pushed me inside and off we went to the dispensary. I was in sort of a daze, not knowing what happened. The only thing in my mind was that I had ground looped like a beginner—and two weeks from graduation. I was sure I was finished as a cadet. The dispensary released me right away, and I slowly went to my instructor’s office. There I heard what I expected. He told me to pack my gear, clean out my barracks and await further orders. No cadet in the corps was lower than me. I cleaned up my bunk space and folded my mattress GI style, and then just sat there wondering why I couldn’t handle the plane. I didn’t even think about where I’d be sent or what I’d be doing.
Well, I couldn’t put it off any longer, so I reported back to Lt. McCurdy. It was all I could do to enter his office. I saluted and said, “Cadet Dixon reporting as ordered, Sir.” Instead of bellowing at me, he quietly said, “Mister, you’re one lucky aviation cadet.” “Sir?” I asked.
“Mister,” he said, “you can unpack your gear and report here for regular flying tomorrow morning. Maintenance section has determined that during takeoff your tail wheel had somehow become jammed at a 90-degree angle, and there was no way the airplane could have been held straight with the tail wheel on the runway. That means you’re off the hook and back to normal routine.”
I wasn’t sure I was hearing correctly. I stood there with my mouth hanging open. McCurdy didn’t seem at all happy about the situation. In fact he seemed disappointed that he couldn’t cashier me out of the cadets. I didn’t say a word.
“You got a question, Mister?” he snarled.
I woke up. “No, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” saluted again, about-faced and got out of there as fast as possible.
My world was turned upside down. How could a guy’s emotions be so low one minute and high as the moon the next? Folks, you can’t imagine how happy I was that the accident wasn’t my fault and I was back in cadets. Your very relieved son.
Flying Again
The next day I think I flew the best formation I’ve ever flown. And there was no way to wipe a big grin off my face. That was my last flight in the AT-6.
At the end of training and before graduation we each got 10 hours in a real fighter—old war-weary Curtiss P-40s. Actually maybe it was good that they were old and weary. It kept us on our toes just keeping the old crates going. With only one seat, the check-out was simple. The P-40 instructor walked us around the plane, giving us tips. In the cockpit we had to memorize where everything was, and then we were given a blindfold test to touch things called out by the instructor. Then it was a pat on the back and “good luck.”
The first time I started a 40’s engine I thought it exploded. That Allison inline engine way out front popped and banged to get the three-bladed propeller turning. But somehow I adjusted to the racket and began taxiing. The long nose made me S turn to see where I was going.
On my first flight I didn’t do much more than fly straight and level, with a few shallow banked turns thrown in. The flight controls were truck-like compared to the AT-6. But as they say, give a pilot some time in a new type airplane and he’ll get used to anything. At 10 hours we were chasing each other across the skies, rolling and looping like we knew what we were doing.
And then, finally, the big day arrived. Dressed in our brand-new officer uniforms (green blouse, pink slacks and spit-shined jodhpurs), but still without any insignias of rank, we assembled in the base theater sitting alphabetically. Everybody had a wide grin on their freshly shaved faces. As our names were called, we stiffened and marched to the stage, standing at attention in front of a major. If the cadet had a mother or sweetheart there, she would pin a gold bar on each cadet’s shoulder and silver wings over his left breast pocket. If not, the bars and wings were simply handed to the new lieutenant. Mom, I would have given anything to have you there to pin on my rank and wings. But I know it’s a very long trip from Oakland to Mission, and you’re not feeling too well. Anyway, with my head two sizes larger, I carried my stuff back to my seat and sat in glory. We helped each other attach the bars and wings. A record played “Stars and Stripes,” and we marched out. In a matter of minutes we were suddenly Officers and Gentlemen. Outside some enlisted men were waiting. It’s tradition that when you receive your first salute you pay one dollar. I would have paid 100. Your very happy second lieutenant son.
Hadley “Dix” Dixon was assigned to the 31st Fighter Squadron, briefly flying Bell P-39s in Panama before the squadron helped form the first U.S. jet fighter unit, testing Bell P-59s in Nebraska. He subsequently trained on P-51 Mustangs in Florida, and shipped out to Burma as part of the Second Air Commando Group. Dixon provided close air support for British troops moving on Rangoon, and was credited with shooting down a Japanese Ki.43 “Oscar.” Following the war he worked as a test pilot for Douglas Aircraft, then spent 16 years as a captain with Iberia Airlines in Spain.
Originally published in the September 2014 issue of Aviation History. To subscribe, click here.
