Pilot's Choice

The big, hot, twin-jet Scorpion interceptor--shiningly fresh from Northrop Aircraft Co.'s assembly line--looked like a purposeful insect as it edged out on to the runway at the Ontario (Calif.) International Airport. Few heads turned as it took off at exactly noon one day last week --it was being flown on a routine production test, as a preliminary to being delivered to the Air Force. But two minutes later the airport tower man strained to watch it; the voice of the Scorpion's pilot had just spoken eight chilling words from a loudspeaker at the field: "Get out the fire equipment. I'm coming back."

The pilot--a dark, level-eyed Alabaman named Eugene W. Townsend --was one of the thousands of young men who were swept into the air by World War II. He seemed to have been born to fly; he was a quiet, controlled fellow who moved with the easy grace of a natural athlete. As a Navy fighter pilot, he fought from the Marshall Islands to the Philippines, shot down six Japanese planes, won the Navy Cross. But like thousands of other young military airmen, he had got away from airplanes fast after V-J day.

The Quiet Life. Gene and his wife, a tiny, dark-haired, brown-eyed girl, opened a little restaurant in Glendale, Calif., prospered moderately, and settled down to savor the quiet life and raise a family. They had two children, Greg, now 3, Robin, now 6. "Townsend," said his pastor, "was one of those sturdy, quietly happy men whom children instinctively love. When he came into the church with them on Sunday morning, it always made me feel good--any pastor with one family like that in his congregation has every reason to be happy."

In the end, however, Gene decided that he had to fly again. Eighteen months ago he went to work for Northrop as a test pilot. He was a good one.

As his Scorpion came howling toward home, he quietly outlined his situation 1) his right engine was on fire, 2) he had the fire under control, 3) the burning engine was delivering no thrust. In the next agonizing minute it became evident that he had other troubles.

"His flaps were still up," said a mechanic who waited. "He was coming in awfully hot. He must have been doing at least 180 in the approach." Though the plane's hydraulic system seemed to have stopped functioning, Townsend finally got his wheels down, apparently by using compressed air from the emergency container. "But even with that much drag," the mechanic noted, "she just wouldn't sit down."

Another Try. The big, shiny interceptor skimmed along at terrific speed just above the east-west runway. At the halfway point, Townsend's wheels seemed to touch--but only for a second. He said over the radio: "I'm going to try another circle." For half a mile the crippled Scorpion labored for altitude. The gamble failed. In one last bid for life, Townsend headed toward an open field. It was bordered by houses, and for a tense second or so, as the plane settled, observers were certain that it would smash through them. Then Townsend nosed down. He had made his choice. The Scorpion crashed head on into a railroad embankment just short of the houses. Pilot Townsend, airborne for only five minutes, was dead when the fire trucks arrived.

Gene Townsend and his wife had planned to take their children out to buy a Christmas tree after he had finished work at the field, and to spend the evening decorating it. His widow and his children did so without him. That night, late, neighbors saw its colored lights glowing behind a front window.

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