SB2C-4 SB2C-4 In retrospect, a youthful mind is frightening to behold— Utter trust in what it reads—believes what it is told. Really not a mystery that fighting men are young-- Guys they need who question not—as into a breech they’re flung. A case in point (involving me) comes sheepishly to mind. [Navy planners surely be—the most perceptive kind]— (Would never replace the SBD, unless with a better plane). That newest from Curtiss they’re building now—must really be a gain! The fact that these are tested—not far from where I’m based— Rides in them are possible--(as acceptance squawks are chased). To me it’s strictly pleasure; (flight skins are not a quest)— Whether or not a gunner’s aboard—not a factor in the test. The wide stance of the landing gear—the big four bladed prop: The jutting of the cannons—bomb doors that hide the “drop”. The rear-seat—twin machine guns—the frame from which they aim, Give a look of “strictly business” to this latest battle plane. Non-com’s arriving Saturdays (if early in the day), Might get chosen for a “hop”, (while tests are under way). Quizzical looks from assignors, could raise a bit of doubt, As if by volunteering-your brain might not be stout! I just thought them jealous as they “flew” their office space, And knew I really had it made, when seat-packs left their case. Glad was I to make my climb, to that rear-most gunner’s seat. And tighten up the various straps that would hold me in –complete. The briefings by the pilots were very blunt and terse; “If I say our condition’s RED!—bail-out before its worse”! Clearly, I’d be on my own –to conquer any fear, No one was going to stick around—make sure I don’t stay here! All hops I had were thrills for me—glad to been in the steed— Like the time we dived on ‘Flying Forts’-their gunners practiced “lead”. And our split-ess into a bombing dive—to see if our dive brakes serve, And the many G’s that shoved me down, as we rounded out the curve. And the thunderous surge of “pick-up” as the big prop hit the air, Coupled with the brake release—flung me backward in my “chair”. The numb of cold at altitude, when my gunners fairing failed, And the spiraling, biting slipstream—my hands and face—assailed. There was a point that troubled me, and left a lingering ‘thing’. It had to do with that seat pack ‘chute, and the twin gun’s mounting ring. ‘Cause when the flights were over and we are safely back at base— Far too long for me to egress—get my ‘chute up through the space. I wonder what would have happened—with not a second to spare— If I had to do that red thing—get quickly out of there? Slack in the seat pack risers, let the pack fall back and away. Larger, now than the hole in the ring—was why it tried to stay. There should have been instruction—from someone who knew how— Spell out the proper sequence a chance for escape—allow. Some seeds of doubt were planted about the candor of the “brass”— (If officer ranks rode that gunners seat—be a plan to save their ass)! Another confidence shake-up, was when I came to learn— That the SB2C bomber didn’t easily take its turn! There’d been so many problems—‘bout using it with the fleet- The SBD soldiered on and on—though their status—obsolete. There is a way with pilots (and the nick-names they provide)— “Slow but deadly” (for the SBD) shows respect for what they ride. But the SB2C Curtiss had different names—and paired— Sometimes simply called The Beast—or the “Son of a bitch that’s squared”! So a long time after all risks had flown—I came to realize— Naval planning [not above mistakes] and boys have starry eyes. I was lucky no emergency cut short my glory days; For wisdom was sadly lacking in those “not required” forays. Bill Woodall