SPEEDY FIGHTER

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume 77, 3 September 1942, Page 3

SPEEDY FIGHTER

KITTYHAWK JOINS R.N.Z.A.F.

POPULAR WITH PILOTS Auckland, Sept. 1. Latest product of a factory that has an honoured place in American aviation. the Curtiss Kittyhawk. slim single-seater warplane, is a valuable addition to the strength of the Royal New Zealand Air Force. Fast, manoeuvrable, and hard-hitting, the Kitty- ; hawk has already proved itself more ; than a match for the best machines of . Germany's Luftwaffe and Italy’s Regia i Aeronautica, and has won the esteem ■ of Allied pilots who have flown it. . Known already to New Zealand j pilots by a nickname—a good sign in- j cheating a popular machine—the Kitty- i hawk has become unofficially the “Cat- ; hawk.” Pilots not given to exaggera- j tion say that the little monoplane is a j delight to handle, and express quiet j confidence in the Kittyhawk’s ability ! to give an excellent account of itself j should the time come when all its | speed and power are needed to help defend New Zealand. Men who have j flown Britain’s finest warplanes do not . consider that America's new fighter I suffers by comparison, a fact that ! speaks volumes. 1000 HORSEPOWER ENGINE Because the Kittyhawk is still on the secret list, no details may be quoted either of the machine’s performance or of its armament. Suffice it to say that no modern fighter has a chance of success unless it can exceed' 300 miles an hour by a comfortable margin, carries a battery of guns, has adequate armour protection for the pilot, and can cross the sky like a shooting star —and experts consider that the Kittyhawk has every chance. The Allison engine, American rival to Britain’s famous Rolls-Royce Merlin, delivers well over 1000 horse-power, to propel the tiny single-seater, and looks big enough to drive a machine of twice the size. To see a Kittyhawk under test is a revelation to a New Zealander who knows modern fighters only by repute. Not much bigger than the übiquitous Moth, the monoplane, drab in its war camouflage of brown and green above, and pale green below, seems to waddle awkwardly from the tarmac to the far end of the runway. Manifestly, the earth is not its element, for it moves clumsily, drops a wing a little as the pilot turns into the wind, and stands quivering against the airscrew’s thrust as the motor is run up. Suddenly it begins to move, seems somehow to leap down the runway, and take the air in a single happy stride. The undercarriage folds away neatly, and the Kittyhawk is gone while the wind of its passing still flattens the grass of the field. A slim pencil-line against the sky. extremely difficult to distinguish at any great distance, the machine takes momentary shape as it passes across the face of a cloud. And then it is directly overhead, looking amazingly like a wild duck, with long neck outstretched and streamlined body cutting an effortless path through the air. There is little engine noise, for the aeroplane is cruising easily on a fraction of its maximum power, but men run and gaze skyward when the drone becomes a scream, for they know what is coming. The pilot has decided on a “beat-up.” a combination of superb flying and youthful enthusiasm. HE COMES, HE GOES Dropping like a bird shot in full flight, the Kittyhawk points her sharp nose downward and charges at the ground. Barely has the eye distinguished the beautifully streamlined shape when the ear is assailed by a screaming whine, as over 1000 horse-power, controlled by one man’s left hand, drives the fighter high above her normal maximum speed for level flight. There is a confused smudge of brown and green, a sudden drop of a full octave in the exhaust note, and the merest glimpse of a helmeted head, before those who watch have to twist their heads to focus swiftly on a fast-dimin-ishing speck in the skv. It i s a perfect example of "Here he comes: there he goes,” for only the fastest camera can stop the Kittyhawk’s superb flight. With a few thousand feet safely below him the test pilot proceeds to put his mount through its paces. The monoplane slides up into a loop, seems to change its mind and rolls off the top. picking up height all the time. Shoot- ! ing in and out of cloud cover, it becomes an elusive noise in the sky. j always heard, but hard to locate, so fast does it move. Out of the sun’s bright eye, the Kittyhawk comes in to land. The perfect streamline is ruined as ugly but essential flaps drop to cut down the speed, and the undercarriage unfolds its ungainly legs and fat wheels. The Kittyhawk’s grace is gone, and it comes sulkily in, the big motor muttering angrily as if it resented the closed throttle. In sure hands.- it touches down, is held firmly against any rebellious tendency to rise, and rolls to a halt, earthbound again. As fast as they reach New Zealand from the United States, the Dominion’s new fighters are uncrated, assembled, tested and flown away to their operational stations. At fighter aerodromes throughout the country. KittyWawks now stand guard, their slim, pointed noses tilted eagerly skyward as they wait for any invader who may send Ins warplanes against New Zealand. The Kittyhawks may yet be to New Zealand what the Spitfires and Hurricanes were to Britain in the dread summer of 1940. a sure shield and a biting sword.