Loaded with fuel, the ship was four thousand pounds heavier than the X-1, and I would fly it using a control stick rather than a wheel. Jack Ridley would still be with me when I got aboard, but this time I would not have to face the ordeal of climbing down a ladder into a blast of slipstream. Instead, I stepped down into an open cockpit. Then Jack would lower the canopy and bolt it into place. This time we also had more support personnel, even a flight surgeon to help me into my T-l pressure suit-vital life support flying at such extreme altitudes. The damned thing squeezed me like a vise, cut off circulation to my arms and legs, soaked me in sweat, and caused me to walk like a mechanical soldier. The helmet fit pressure-tight to maintain its seal, pressing the sides of my face so much that I could barely talk. But that suit had already saved a couple of lives, so I didn't complain too much about the extreme discomfort, although I could hardly stand wearing it for more than an hour.
The X-1A was a lot better airplane than the X-1, although it wasn't pleasant being locked into a dangerous rocket airplane. So, I prepared for these flights knowing that my life depended on learning about every bolt and switch. Jack and I discussed the potential hazards and emergencies. We both knew I was pressing my luck because there were situations that no amount of piloting skill could overcome. An engine fire, for example. What do I do? Turn off the engine, jettison remaining fuel, and pray that the volatile liquid sprays out the back and not into burned-out fuel lines, causing an explosion. In a bad fire the only hope was to jump for it. Jack joked: "We'll give you a can opener and line your route with mattresses." Heh-heh-heh. If the ship caught fire, my pals would drive to work on Yeager Boulevard.
After umpteen hours of research flying, I became a fatalist. I was damned aware of the dangers, but I didn't dwell on them or let them spook me. Taking risks was my job, and if I were destined to be blown to pieces on the next flight, there probably wasn't a whole helluva lot I could do to prevent it from happening. All I could do was what I always had done: fly carefully and stay alert, counting on my experience and instincts to pull me through. I never took any airplane for granted, not even a Piper Cub. In a high-risk program like the X-1A, I thoroughly prepared myself, tried to cover all contingencies in planning the flight profiles, and finally just said, "Well, screw it. Let's get this goddamn program over with."
But my first flight on November 21, 1953, was beautiful, and I landed feeling much better about what I was doing. The B-50 dropped me at 25,000 feet, and I accelerated out to 1.3 Mach on three rocket chambers. The ship flew exactly like the X-1, and I felt right at home. It was only a familiarization flight, and at 45,000 feet, I ran out of fuel and glided back down to the lakebed. I told Jack, "She flew nice. Just as pretty as could be." We decided that on the second flight I would go out to 1.5 Mach, which is as fast as I had flown the X-1.
By now these rocket research flights were so routine that Jack and I were on our own, pretty well free to do our own planning and flight profiles with neither NACA nor the Air Force looking over our shoulders. General Boyd, for example, was back at Wright, taking charge of a missile development program. And the NACA guys now had their own test flight program and could care less about ours. But Ridley and Yeager had their eyes on NACA. The day before my first ride in the X-1A, Crossfield had flown NACA's Skyrocket up to 72,000, nosed into a shallow dive, and registered two on his Mach meter. Jack and I decided to sneak up on NACA and whip them in the X-1A. The Bell engineers told us that the X-1A, because of its small tail, would probably lose stability going any faster than 2.3 Mach. We figured the ship couldn't go beyond 2.3, anyway. But that was enough to better Crossfield's record.
Ridley went to work with his slide rule and figured out a flight profile that would take me out to 2.2 or 2.3 by the fourth powered flight of the X-1A. I would climb to 45,000 feet on three rocket chambers then light the fourth, providing the thrust to go supersonic. I'd climb at a forty-degree angle to 50,000 at 1.3 Mach, reach 1.5 at 55,000, and continue climbing to 60,000, where I'd push down the nose (in pilot jargon called "push-over"), reaching the top of the arc at 72,000 feet. There, I'd level off, doing 1.8 Mach, and take it on out until I ran out of fuel. By then, I'd really be streaking because the ship weighed only five thousand pounds empty, but its powerful rockets had six thousand pounds of thrust propelling me in the thin atmosphere, where there was little drag or wind resistance. Jack calculated a 2.3 Mach flight and chuckled with excitement. We nicknamed our secret plan "Operation NACA Weep" because those guys were really crowing about Scotty's record.
December 17 would be the fiftieth anniversary of the Wright brothers' first powered flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, and the television networks had scheduled special programs about Crossfield and his Mach 2 flight. Jack said, "Aw, shit. All that fuss for a guy who's gonna be the second fastest by the seventeenth." Our plan was to smash Scotty's record on December 12.
My next two flights were perfect. On December 2, I went out to 1.5 Mach, and six days later, I flew out to 1.9. I had told our crew chief, Jack Russell, "Hey, you sumbitch, if I get a fire warning light, I'm gonna strap you in my lap on the next ride and let you deal with it." Jack and his guys knew the stakes and kept those rocket chambers so damned clean that they claimed they were germ-free. I had a few complaints, though. The control stick wasn't hydraulically boosted, and you needed real muscle to move it back and forth at high speeds. I bitched about the visor in my pressure helmet because it screwed up my sharp eyesight. The visor contained filament wires to keep it from fogging, which obscured my vision. And when the sun reflected off that visor, everything became milky white-like flying snow-blind. The ship, though, was really behaving herself. I was actually enjoying these flights.
FOURTH POWERED FLIGHT DECEMBER 12, 1953
I was up and out before dawn to get in a couple of hours of duck hunting before going to work. I drove out in the Model A to the base Rod and Gun club. The sun was just peeking over the far mountains when I reached the blind. There were three or four guys already in there. By eight, I was over at the base firehouse having a sweet roll and a cup of coffee with the firemen. The fire chief was an old hunting buddy and kept my brace ot ducks in his refrigerator. By eight-thirty I was dressing for work in front of my locker in the operations building. My pressure suit needed minor repairs, which gave me time to clean my shotgun. Several of us kept our guns in our lockers, because being so damned busy, we took to hunting during a few spare hours here and there. A few days earlier, I was landing on the lakebed and spotted a gaggle of Canadian geese just sitting out there. A few of us drove out in a convertible, coming in on them in narrowing circles, so that by the time they spooked and took wing we were right under them. Man, the sky rained honkers.
By nine-fifteen, I was up front in the B-50 mother ship as she rumbled down the runway. It was a cold crisp morning, perfect weather for speed flying. I felt real good. Ridley was flying low chase this day, keeping a sharp eye on my exhaust when I fired up. Maj. Kit Murray was high chase, going up to about 40,000 feet ahead, to give me an aiming point. Both those guys would take off in their Sabres in about twenty minutes, as we approached altitude in the mother ship. We planned the drop for 30,000 feet.