Fleet Problem 12

(See front cover)

Three weeks ago David Sinton ("Dave") Ingalls, 32-year-old Assistant Secretary of the Navy for Air, bounced out of his Washington swivel chair, climbed into a high-speed naval plane, went streaking away to another great war which commanded his intense and invariably enthusiastic attention last week. In 1917 this same active, able scion of a rich Ohio family had left his freshman class at Yale to join the U. S. Naval Air Service. Attached to the British near Dunkerque on the Channel, he downed six German planes, won three prized medals for bravery. He came home a boy of 19 and the U. S. Navy's one and only ace. The "war" to which he flew this year was the Navy's annual game off Panama in the Pacific.

What interested Assistant Secretary Ingalls in this mimic sea battle, what made his swivel chair doubly uncomfortable in the Navy Department, was the fact that for the first time Naval strategists had so arranged their war problem that the full defensive power of aircraft would be truly tested. One side was made top-heavy with sea armament; the other's strength was in the air. At stake was everything "Dave" Ingalls had worked and talked and planned for during his two years in office.

As he flew down Florida, hopped to Jamaica, crossed the Caribbean to the Canal Zone--everywhere the favorite guest at most important dinners--the Navy's forces were converging in the tropics. Before them was Fleet Problem 12. Eastward across the Pacific steamed a supposedly hostile fleet composed of nine battleships, an aircraft carrier (U.S.S. Langley) with 40 planes, three "treaty" cruisers, swarms of miscellaneous craft. With them were coming transports bearing 50,000 soldiers, hundreds of crated airplanes. Their aim-- was to effect a landing on the Central American coast, set up their planes, smash the Panama Canal. Sharp eyes could easily have identified Rear-Admiral Frank Herman Schofield aboard the battleship California as the commander of this Black enemy fleet.

At Balboa lay the Blue defensive squadron under Vice Admiral Arthur Lee Willard aboard the Arkansas, only battleship in the line. To him had been assigned seven light cruisers, 22 destroyers, the giant aircraft carriers Lexington and Saratoga, a flock of submarines, the dirigible Los Angeles (used for the first time by international consent in war games). To drive the Black fleet back from a 1,000-mile jungle-fringed coast line Admiral Willard relied chiefly on a force of 225 battle planes.

Assistant Secretary Ingalls' immediate interest was the part as an air scout to be played by the Los Angeles which he boarded to observe the maneuvers. In her performance he saw a vital experiment which would influence the Navy's whole policy on lighter-than-aircraft development. Said he: "We know the Los Angeles will never be effective as a war instrument. If she does not show up very well we won't be surprised but if she is able to do anything, we'll be tickled to death."

One midnight last week the battle was on when Washington flashed a "state of war" warning to the Blue fleet. With lights out and radio silent it moved across the Gulf of Panama in search of the enemy. The Blue's eagle-eyed destroyers were in the lead, the Los Angeles overhead and flagship Arkansas in the rear. Fanwise the Blue spread itself out protectively up and down the coast. At sunrise 36 hours later, scouting planes made their first con tact with the Black fleet moving shoreward in two sections. The old Arkansas, with the heat 133DEG in her engine room, vainly chased three hostile cruisers who shipped out of range at 32 knots. At dusk another heavy Black column was sighted and viciously attacked by light sea craft in a night engagement. They completely demolished the flying deck of the Black's Langley, thus gaining for the Blues undisputed air control. Thereafter, fighting re solved itself into a series of disjointed engagements.

Just after the Los Angeles with Assistant Secretary Ingalls aboard had made an important "spot," a dozen Black planes whizzed down upon her, riddled her silvery sides. "You're sunk! Pleasant voyages," flashed the umpire's crisp radio to the dirigible which thereafter was forced out of the game. In theory the Hoover Cabinet had lost its most gallant junior member in the wastes of the Pacific.

As the four-day battle was ending by prearrangement the Arkansas was hit by a torpedo and went to the bottom. Sinking, Admiral Willard flashed command of the Blue fleet to Admiral Reeves aboard the Saratoga.

With not one of the 140 ships engaged lost and not one of the 35,900 officers and men scratched, the fleets returned to Pan ama for a post-mortem of their encounter. A final verdict had still to be rendered by Admiral Jehu Valentine Chase, Commander-in-Chief of all U. S. fleets, who, aboard the flagship Texas, umpired the war game with the assistance of a score of rear-admirals.

Unwilling to await the Navy's decision, lay observers awarded the victory to the Blue forces whose aircraft had so damaged the Black ships that no effective landing was possible. Admiral Schofield's transports had been cut to bits; the decks of his battleships were shambles from air-bombs; his cruisers were barely afloat.

David Ingalls was overjoyed. His aircraft had beaten off battleships, saved the Canal, proved their worth. The performance of the Los Angeles so exceeded his expectations that he enthusiastically radioed the Navy Department in Washington that the necessity for continued development of lighter-than-aircraft had been conclusively proved. He contended that the "spot" the dirigible had made was important enough to justify her-- and his--sacrifice.

David Sinton Ingalls has a genius for environment--its selection and exploitation. He began by being born well, in Cleveland. His mother was the daughter of the late rich Charles Phelps Taft of Cincinnati and the niece of the late Chief Justice. His father is a vice president of New York Central R. R. He proceeded to St. Paul's School, Concord, N. H., where he quickly developed a dashing stellar proficiency in hockey, a major St. Paul's sport. Here first his squinty smile, his shock of dark hair and high-pitched Taftian chuckle began to add up to that most imponderable of qualities, "Popularity."

Home from the War, he immersed himself in Yale and emerged a campus idol. Yale done, he went to Harvard, studied harder than he had ever previously found necessary and emerged a sufficiently learned lawyer. Thence to his native Cleveland where he lived as if no other city existed. He had by this time married Louise Harkness (Standard Oil heiress) who has borne him three daughters. A clerk in the famed law firm of Squire, Sanders & Dempsey, he argued small jury cases in court as intensely as if they had been national issues. With great personal enthusiasm he invested in various local enterprises and took with grave responsibility a big local bank directorship. He bought a modest estate in green, pretty, outlying Chagrin Valley and took to horse --polo-wise (foxhunting was a trifle slow). For years he never touched airplane. Nor did it occur to him to travel to Europe. There was plenty of work, fun, people in Cleveland.

But his environment did widen. First it was the State of Ohio when he went to the Legislature. Something had to be done about aviation, now a public matter. So David Ingalls took once more to the air. The State adopted his aviation code in one magnificent sweep. Next, it was the Nation, when, in the first fortnight of the Hoover Administration he was called to be Assistant Secretary of the Navy for Air. More exactly, this new environment is the Nation's Navy, for David Ingalls does not scatter his attention. All the force of his irresistible enthusiasm is given to the particular team he is playing on. Believing that Army Aviation (directed by his Yale and Wartime friend, Frederick Trubee Davison) had received more than its share of public support, he immediately set out to equal the score.

He traveled about the country making speeches. He sent a great airfleet to demonstrate over New York and New England last year. He went before Congress, won its favor, got larger appropriations for his service. He pushed the Navy's technical development, argued for more dirigibles. Result: Naval aeronautics todays stands higher, in efficiency, effectiveness and popular esteem, than ever before.

Anything David Ingalls does must be done much better than the average. He does not always come up to this standard. He plays first-class bridge, but has to acknowledge with a touch of pain that his chess is not so good.

Intense desire to excel plus artless popularity is a rare combination. With it and with much besides, Assistant Secretary Ingalls is regarded by Elder Republicans as the kind of energetic, intelligent young man of whom the G. O. P. can make good use in years to come.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.