Every generation of every nationality
requires a hero. It finds one or makes one. In earliest times, he
was mythical. A little later, he was some great warrior or explorer.
But some man has always been set apart from this fellows and
accorded the adulation of the multitude...then along came the
spectacular flights. At this juncture, America was search its
collective soul for a new hero, and it seized upon these
unsuspecting fliers. So the toga was handed about, falling in turn
upon each succeeding ocean spanner or record breaker.
Strangely enough, with all the shouting that has been done, all the
medals which have been struck, the right man in this flying business
has yet to be picked.
Human flight was a comparatively new art. For thousands of years,
man had longed to soar among the clouds. It was not unnatural then
that some member of the flying fraternity should fill the national
need for a hero.
For some reason the pilot was selected. He it was whose will
directed these new machines of flight, whos courage permitted
performance of such feats of daring high above the earth.
So, selected he was. And each small boy decided not to be a
policeman, fireman or railroad engineer, but envisioned himself a
flier when he grew to man's estate.
So we pulled a parade, waved flags, made medals, played the band and
greeted like a Viking arriving at Valhalla each new pilot who flew a
little higher, or a little longer, or a little faster.
Why not? Your airman wore proudly the symbols of his profession. He
was a striking figure in this new industry. Small wonder that the
little lads foreswore old models and changed their boyhood dreams.
But we made a great mistake, as multitudes often do. The fellows who
make airplanes fly, and make records fall, and who drive 10,000
airplanes 50 million miles a year, were not the pilots. They were
the mechanics.
Let me tell you about this fellow as I have come to know him...and
see if you don't agree with me.
Most men work for reward. There are various forms of reward-cheers
and commendations of onlookers, money, pleasure, self-expression,
self-satisfaction. The pilots get all of these in some degree.
What does the mechanic get...his hands are cut and black from
contact with greasy engines. He can't keep
that-skin-you-love-to-touch and maintain any intimacy with an
airplane power plant...Don't ask me why or what kind of man would
elect such a role, such a life. Rather, tell me why there is a
hermit, wizard, nurse, nun or saint. I don't know! There is no
accounting for occupational tastes, but every time I fly I thank
fate for a good mechanic.
He's no dunce, either. To learn all he knows would give many a
college professor an awful headache. He gets his invaluable training
over a long period of years. The school of hard knocks is his.
Truly, he learns to do by doing.
The modern airplane engine is no simple mechanism. It has more parts
than has the human body, and more ailments. A divine providence has
fashioned your own mechanism more smoothly, coordinated your organs
better than man has built this engine. But the good engine mech
knows every part, every symptom, every malfunction, as well as any
doctor knows the cases of and remedies for you aches and pains.
Some years ago, I was assigned a plane for flight. I started to
climb in and the mech said, "Lieutenant, I wouldn't take that
ship up. The engine doesn't sound right to me." I ran it up and
it delivered full power. It hit on both switches, accelerating
promptly, and I couldn't detect any indication of trouble. I called
for the engineering officer. He ran it up and marked it OK, but the
mechanic still shook his head.
I took off and joined a practice formation and soon forgot the
warning of my mechanic as we flew over San Diego Bay, past Point
Loma.
Twenty minutes later, the engine quit cold without warning. I set
her down in the sea. Being a land plane, she soon sank.
While swimming around, waiting for a rescue boat, I made one resolve
that has remained with me through the years. When a good mechanic
says an engine's bad, I don't fly that plane. He's the doctor.
Those mechanics are versatile, too. Mine was on that rescue boat. He
has never to this day said, "I told you so," but couldn't
rest until we had fished that plane off the ocean floor.
Then he displayed one of his rare "human weaknesses" by
spending his Sunday holiday taking it apart to see what had failed.
His expression never changed as he showed me the cause.
So you see, the airplane mechanic is human. In fact, he has the
instincts, training and mental ability of a surgeon.
One of the characteristics that we always like to associate with
heroes is courage. Here your mech is not found wanting. He'll fly
with any pilot, any time, and that's something I won't do. It takes
more courage to ride than to pilot the plane yourself. You always
know what you are going to do. He never does...I have known some
pilots to get cold feet. Yet, I have never known a mechanic to
decline to fly.
One of my best men who had cared for the special plane of high
officials in Washington for some years, once came to me and asked to
be relieved from those duties and assigned to routine work. He said
that the tremendous responsibility he carried was undermining his
health.
I know another mechanic who spent his last dollar to buy a
flashlight so that he could better see to make his inspection in
closed hangars on dark winter days.
Examine the rolls of the airmen dead and you'll find mechanics as
well as pilots. Yet, their names are forgotten. Others get the
adulation, the praise, but the medals and the commendations...but I
say, "My hat's off to you mechanics. You may be ragged grease
monkeys to some, but to me you're the guardian angels of this flying
business."
This tribute to mechanics first appeared in print in April 1931.
The author was Capt. Ira C. Eaker, later LTGen. Ira C. Eaker, Chief
of Air Staff, USAF, who retired in 1947.