Jack Towers, one of the real pioneers of American aviation, was the acknowledged leader of the younger generation. He had served with distinction in World War I as a member of Admiral Sims’s staff in London, and though some of his contemporaries resented his tendency to adopt English mannerisms, his juniors swore by him. Now he invited some of his department heads, old friends of mine, like Pete Mitscher, Monty Montgomery, and Bobby Moulton, to join us for a bull fest. And hardly had we sat down around the mess table before I found myself in the middle of the big issue of the moment. My personal situation was complicated by the fact that I was a newcomer to aviation and now, by seniority and assignment, in a position of authority over such old-timers as were gathered around the table. No doubt they thought my qualification as naval aviator had been donated by Admiral Moffett, and discounted my flying ability accordingly. With this in mind I had sought to tread softly through the lunch, but the issue now raised must be met head on. It developed that Admiral Reeves held curious notions about carrier tactics. He was insisting that a 500-foot, 10,000-ton vessel like the _Langley_ could earn her salt only by operating sufficient aircraft to make her an effective military instrument. He had mentioned thirty-six planes, or two full fighter squadrons, as the minimum complement. But _Langley_ officers had crystallized the opinion that not more than a third as many, say twelve airplanes, could be flown off the _Langley_ and received on board without hazard to the lives of pilots. That key factor of safety had been argued out in conferences but “Bull” Reeves had stood pat. The _Langley_ officers, now concerned, put the clincher on me. “It’s up to you,” someone said, while the Filipino mess attendants passed the coffee. “How come?” I inquired in some surprise. “As chief of staff,” someone replied, “you’ve got to prevent the admiral making this mistake.” In the silence that followed I realized that on my first day in the Aircraft Squadrons we had already pointed up an issue between the _Langley_ officers and the admiral’s flag. The fat was in the fire. “As I understand my job,” I said, trying to choose the right words, “it is to help the Old Man carry out his program, not hinder him.” After lunch they showed me the slow-motion movies of carrier landings; not the successful ones, but the crack-ups. These ranged from simple landing-gear collapses to rolling off the deck and over the side into the sea. As we broke up, Bobby Moulton came forward with that glint in his eye that characterized the peculiar brand of humor that permeates naval aviation. “We’re qualifying the new class of carrier pilots next week,” he grinned. “You can get yours in before the admiral gets back. Meet me Monday morning down at the West Beach and we’ll put you over the jumps.”