 Late in 1937, the Army Air Corps prepared six flying fortresses for the famous Good Will flight to South America. Special flying gear for 49 officers and men was inspected for the record-breaking mission. Finally, on February 17, 1938, engines were started and the V-17s began to rev up. Colonel Robert Oles signaled the planes to proceed individually over the route. In charge of the entire V-17 service test program, he devised this flight procedure for crew training. At each day's objective, they engaged in the only formation flying of the trip. In this way, the navigational proficiency of the personnel was fully tested. After visiting Argentina, Chile, and Peru, the bombers returned to the United States and sat down at Langley Field, Virginia. The roster of the Good Will pilot sounds like a roll call of America's World War II air leaders, because among them were Caleb V. Haynes, Harold L. George, and Curtis E. LeMay. Such missions were labeled the Great Expeditions of the First Generation of Human Flight. Later, Secretary of War Harry Woodring led a party of us, including General Zonald and Emmons, to honor the Second Bombardment. For achieving the most outstanding Army Air Corps flight of the year, we awarded them the highly prized Mackay Trophy. All 49 men were saluted for their high degree of skill in pilotage and navigation in accomplishing the 10,000-mile mission. Meanwhile, with the advent of Hitler, the German Air Force came back to life. Glider clubs for Hitler youths were fostered throughout the fatherland. For the bigger boys, flying sports clubs were the attraction. First, Germany's aviation industry was ordered to build only commercial planes, easily convertible for military purposes. Then, ignoring the Versailles Treaty, Hitler gave Air Minister Göring the green light to go into mass production of fighters and bombers. America, the cradle of aviation, soon was outmanned and out-plane. We didn't seem to know that it took one year to train a pilot and five years to design and build a plane. Hermann Göring did. Hitler now had a powerful political weapon, and waxing Nazi aggressive ambition put it to use. Mechanized forces with 400 aircraft began to cross the Austrian border on March 11, 1938. Hitler himself followed the next day and formally swallowed up the Republic of Austria and its small air force, prelude to World War II. As a result, Major General Frank Andrews gave us orders to put the nation's GHQ Air Force on defense maneuvers. In May 1938, the GHQ maneuvers utilized 3,000 officers and men, 217 military planes, and 19 temporary air bases. For a tactical exercise to defend the northeastern section of the U.S. against an air attack by American squadrons assuming the role of an enemy force. To assist General Andrews, we came from bases all over the country, and aided him in planning the biggest show of its kind in the nation's air history. One of the highlights was to be a mock attack on the city of Farmingdale, near Mitchell Field, and a blackout of the area as the first U.S. air defense test. Weather intelligence as well as tower operations were alerted. Taking part was the small fleet of Boeing fortresses commanded by General Krogstad of the Second Wing. A few squadrons of Douglas B-18s, the new bomber favored by Congress and the Army, commanded by General Emmons of the First Wing, and several echelons of stubby P-26 fighters, which stepped down to treat New York skyscrapers to an aerial thrill. Attacking bombers headed for the target Farmingdale, home of the Seversky and Drummond aircraft plants. As night fell, newscasters like Bob Trout helped alert the defending planes of the Third Wing at Mitchell Field, as well as the surrounding Long Island community. The first sound of approaching enemy aircraft Farmingdale responded to the air raid signal with enthusiastic cooperation. But the detector picked up an entire squadron. They dropped flares instead of bombs with blank ammunition the defenders hit back. Realistic air exercises ever held were declared a brilliant success by the defending commander, General Martin, who lost the battle of Farmingdale. September 29, 1938. Hap Arnold became chief of the Army Air Corps. With Andrews, he freaked General Marshall on the airfacts of life. On the day following Arnold's appointment, the Munich agreement was signed. Without firing a shot or dropping a bomb, Hitler's military machine had won for him a great victory. But Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain thought he had achieved peace, peace in our time. The very next day, 500 German aircraft assisted in the invasion of the Sudetenland. By appeasement, Hitler had conquered Czechoslovakia. Six months later, the Czech Republic was dissolved. Munich taught America a great lesson. An international diplomacy is in poker. You can't win if someone else holds all the aces. So in 1939, the air corps began to expand to give the nation minimum air protection. And young Americans came to Texas to learn how to walk in the flight boots of air heroes like Thomas Selfridge, Eddie Rickenbacker and Billy Mitchell. Thus, the training to build a manpower pool of reserve pilots began. Cadet requirements were rigid and the course was tough. In fact, only 50% of each class made the grade. Within a few hours after his arrival, Mr. Cadet drew his uniforms, including white gloves, and was given a room, army blankets, and a rifle, which he learned to care for like a baby. Stern faced and serious upperclassmen received their orders to guide the new flying cadets, whom they called dodos, through the intensive ground and aerial courses. Before the dodos learned to fly, they became soldiers. In one year, they had to absorb the army's long tradition of service, honor, loyalty, and discipline, so that later they would know how to command. For the cadet was more than a prospective aviator. He was a potential officer in the Army Air Corps. For the academic phase of the life at Randolph Field, the Department of Ground Training provided the new cadet in the primary stage with intensive studies in meteorology, navigation, radio, and air regulations. In fact, all the knowledge necessary to become the best darn pilot in the world. When we marched into the mess hall, we were anxious to hear the orders of the day. Classes which were promoted into basic training were announced by the Cadet Adjutant. The next morning, my new officer instructor was waiting for me when my class reported for duty. Those of us who weren't washed out thought we were pretty hot pilots, but soon after breaking ranks, we realized we had a lot to learn when we met a real flyer. We were about to spend a lot of time with this man and our new basic training plane, and we liked them both from the start. After flying primary trainers, the slick BT-9s looked like push button flying jobs. We still didn't have to worry about retractable landing gear or armament, but now we did have to work flaps, trim tabs, operate radio, and other new devices. There was so much aerial activity at Randolph Field that some joker figured we used to fly three times around the earth each day. Flying formations in cross country, we covered more square miles than there are in the state of Texas. Although we had more instruments to watch, more complicated equipment to handle, flying was no longer a chore. It was fun, sport, excitement. And with every flight and every landing, the feeling grew. We talked and ate and slept flying. They say it cost thousands of dollars to train a pilot. Frankly, we should have paid the army for the chance. Instead, we got 75 bucks a month and the opportunity of a lifetime. After counting our pay, we got ready for weekend leaves. Life at Randolph wasn't all work. I'll never forget the big times in San Antonio where we rushed Cadet Widows, the name we gave to the local girls, for the spiritual and moral side of the student's character, the city of Wings had one of the most beautiful chapels in the army. And to build his body, there were more than enough sports to choose from. One thing I bet none of us will ever forget was the calisthenics with rifles before breakfast. For advanced training, we sent the fledgling flyer to nearby Kelly Field. There, he flew an AT-6. In 1939, Aviator was America's number one idol. No longer was he a one-man show. That ended in 1918. Teamwork was the keynote for training, just as each cadet learned that it was the basis of all flying. The leader and his wingmen were a team. Pilot and air crew, flyer and ground crew. Because in this business, every man's life was always in the hands of a team. The Germans had their secret weapons. We had some ourselves. But the most valuable weapon in our entire arsenal was the self-reliant, resourceful American soldier. Accordingly, our cadets have always received more actual flying hours than any other nation. When the cadet brought his ship in for the last time, he was ready for graduation. With simple ceremonies, the cadets were sworn in and commissioned as second lieutenants in the reserve corps. Later, the graduates received their certificates and silver wings. Rigid and careful training had converted raw recruits into men, mentally, morally and physically fit to help defend the nation. Surrounded by their admiring families and friends, the cadets learned there were many rewards, personal as well as patriotic, for the best-darned pilots in the world. Keeping pace with a big national defense effort, the other Army Air Corps training programs were marching forward to create air preparedness. When the new expansion program was finally put into operation during this prelude to war, the few hundred graduates of 1939 were but the vanguard of a great army of Americans learning to fly in defense of the United States. The goal of the Air Arm has not been to create a large standing army of service flyers, but rather to build up a reserve of trained personnel upon which it could call in times of national emergency. As we shall see in later chapters, 1939 was the birth of the belief that a strong air force would not only go a long way toward keeping America out of war, a strong air force would be absolutely vital in keeping war out of America.