 November 11th, 1918. Everyone celebrated the armistice in the time squares of the world. While victory flags still waved, America cut the Army Air Service 95%, making it a skeleton force. In France, our airmen had earned the admiration of the Allies, but economy only permitted a handful to rejoin the post-war ranks. Fortunately, among them were Mitchell, Brereton, Spots, Arnold and other future Air Force leaders. Many airmen, such as Captain Eddie Rickenbacker, left the service and adjusted themselves to the rigors of civilian life. A fuel became world-famous, like Air Captain Theo Reva LaGuardia. For those who stayed in, there was immediate need for their activities. To inaugurate the US Air Mail Service, which was pioneered by the Army, President Wilson escorted the First Lady. The Postmaster General picked one of us Army pilots to be the first to fly the mail. With the benefit of the Red Cross, the President had addressed a letter to the Postmaster of New York City. Witnesses watched the famous First Air Mail letter being posted. Lack of instruments and navigation maps made flying tough, but we hope jobs like this would increase public confidence in our ability. After the mail sacked up and ready to go, Wilson and the pilot discussed the proposed flight. Meanwhile, the four mail sacks were stashed away in the open cockpit under the President's friendly gaze. Then the pilot climbed aboard, little dreaming that less than 22 miles from Washington he'd get lost. Later, the First Air Mail was delivered by another pilot who followed the railroad tracks to New York. Another Army assignment for men who stayed in uniform was forest fire patrol. Quick detection brought about important savings in the nation's timber. But in those days, the one who most often captured the public's eye was the war-trained flyer who took up barnstorming. With a $50 surplus trainer and a complete disregard for the law of gravity, he worked in a drafty office only a few seconds a day. Tile cats like Howard Hawkes, Roscoe Turner, and Stinson goes much credit for introducing America to the sky. Even the obsolete pusher condemned by the Army before the war helped popularize aviation, develop airfields, and add to the knowledge of flying. The crowds loved to watch the daredevils outdo each other with spectacular stunts. Steady flying, easy to handle, Jenny, standard Army trainer was the barnstormer's favorite perch. Although some of the more reckless civilian flyers gave aviation a black eye, most of them helped America lead the world toward the air age. Wherever there was business enough, the gypsy flyer settled down. He bought a bigger plane, ran at a larger cow pasture, and often gave free rides, especially to the ladies. Rides with every modern convenience. Eventually, there grew up the private intercity taxi services which flew millions of miles. Direct ancestors of today's big commercial lines. After the war, Congress set up the air service as a permanent combat element and permitted training to start again. We studied aerial photography. As the eyes of the Army, one of the air service's primary missions was reconnaissance. The main tool was a high-speed aerial camera. After the pictures were taken, the glass plates were developed. Then a lab man made contact prints. Finally, these overlapping pictures were cut up and pasted down as a mosaic. Some of us were briefed for our first mission, strafing maneuvers. This strafing mission was against ground troops armed with anti-aircraft. With the help of the ground crews, we started the take-offs. Still based on wartime practices, the training program was in three parts. Primary, basic, advanced. In advanced, we specialized in bombardment, observation, pursuit, or attack. When they heard our engines roar, the troops ran for cover. Flying through their anti-aircraft fire, we strafed the enemy. A mule-drawn AK-GAC blazed away. The Army maintained an active, though limited, interest in a light-up-and-air program. At a school in Scottfield, Illinois, men trained for work with free as well as semi-rigid balloons. AEF success with observation blimps inspired Army interest in non-rigid and semi-rigid airships for 20 years into the future. Air Service Chief General Charles Meneher took pride in showing flight training to General Reed, Commandant, Fifth Army Corps. Together, they watched Major Carl Spott signal 18 pursuit crews to prepare for a mass graduation review. This was the big moment after more than a year of the toughest training in the world. As the newest members of the Air Service, they took off to do their part in building America's early air power. It was a magnificent sight to see these squadrons take possession of the air. Flying safety was a constant goal. A development of a life-saving parachute, which the early birds could trust, was high on the list of equipment being researched. This test called for jumping off the wing backwards. Another method was having the slipstream open the chute and yank a man off the wing. Although parachutes had been offered by the service of supply for some time, our men didn't use them. To prove that the equipment worked, many of the test jumps were made by the inventors themselves. Despite budget setbacks, the Air Service continued to make aviation history with record-breaking flights. Lieutenant's Kelly and McCready won congratulations from the Dean of All Flyers, Orville Wright, for setting several duration and distance records in the famous T2, a hot ship. For the first nonstop coast-to-coast flight, the Air Service modified a giant commercial transport with special tanks in the wings. This was the third try by the same men in the same plane. Two previous west-to-east hops had failed. In preparing the plane, 780 gallons of gas were pumped aboard. By flying from east to west, they hoped to use up most of the gas load before climbing the Rockies. This was not a stunt. John McCready and Oakley Kelly were part of a larger army program to develop better planes, engines and navigation, and to advance flying techniques. As the prop was spun, history took note of May 2, 1923 as a memorable day. One of the tensest moments was the take-off. Would the monoplane, now weighing 10,000 pounds, clear the Curtis hangars at the far end of the field? It did! Throughout the 2,250-mile route, the pilots took turns at the controls. Average speed, 94 miles an hour. Less than 27 hours later, the T2 arrived over Rockwell Field, San Diego. After spanning a continent, the huge plane and its two-man crew settled down to Earth. And the single Liberty engine now taxied the T2 on California soil toward the excited crowds. By covering the greatest distance ever made in a single cross-country flight, Kelly and McCready proved that eventually, in a national emergency, troops could be transported from one coast to another in little more than a day. In the early 20s, chief proponent for the value of air power was Brigadier General Mitchell. Since his return from France, he had insisted that an airplane could sink any surface ship. And when he argued that one half the cost of a single new battle wagon could supply the planes to make the warship obsolete, Congress insisted he get the chance to prove it. For the tests, Billy Mitchell hastily assembled a force including some Navy flyers which he trained at Langley Field, Virginia. He taught them the same bombing techniques which he had learned in World War I. Engines were started and the first provisional air brigade took off for a mission which was to test the future of military aviation. Fast pursuits and heavy bombers accompanied by auxiliary planes with cameras and observers headed for the latest target, a U.S. battleship. By new tests conducted on the obsolete Alabama, Mitchell tried to clinch his claims. Through the use of phosphorus bombs, he demonstrated the fine art of precision bombing. Perfect hit! This was expert pinpoint bombing. Heavier bombs were now prepared by the armors of the air brigade and the SS Schommet radio orders for the new takeoffs. Power men signaled the heavy bombers and again they displayed the same remarkable precision. But the joint board was still unconvinced even when more bombs finally sank the Alabama. Two years later, Billy Mitchell and his men prepared for a new series of battleship bombing tests. This time against the obsolete battle wagons, New Jersey and Virginia. On the deck of the San Mejil were General Pershing, Admiral Shoemaker, Assistant Secretary of War Davis and the new Air Chief, General Patrick. The 1923 tests attracted even more widespread public and official attention. The target sat and waited for a 2,000 pound bomb to be dropped from 10,000 feet. The air service was learning that a near miss was the body blow that weakened the hull, setting up a target for the knockout punch. Mitchell's air brigade was becoming more and more expert and could lay those eggs anywhere. A photo plane recorded everything on film. The beginning of the end of a mighty warship victim of precision bombing. A direct bomb strike had cleared the decks and armor plate buckled like a tin can. By showing her keel, the Virginia proved she's had enough. And she's on her way to join the other test victims, German sub U-117, destroyer G-102, light cruiser Frankfurt and battleship Ostfriesland, as well as US battleships, Alabama and New Jersey. Air power versus sea power. The tests were a brilliant success even if many years were to go by before their significance was fully appreciated. For 10 years after the armistice, the job handed America's air service was a secondary one, support of the ground forces. Although later chapters in the Air Force story show that growth of the nation's air arm was inevitable, skeptics persisted in trying to stop progress. Thus it was a slow and difficult climb to be allowed a more positive role in national defense and eventually to prove like Billy Mitchell did, the power punch of strategic bombardment and the peace power of the United States Air Force.