where the rule was laid down. In that I believe you will find the greatest hope for America’s future.
—William S. Knudsen
ON AUGUST 17 , 1943, a U.S. Army Air Force plane was making its way from Brisbane, Australia, to Port Moresby, New Guinea. It was Lieutenant General Bill Knudsen’s longest trip yet as head of the Army war production effort, covering more than 9,000 miles from Washingtonand Los Angeles, to New Guinea, headquarters of General Douglas MacArthur’s command.
Knudsen had no windows to catch a glance of the Pacific’s azure waters as they began their descent to Port Moresby, and the incessant roar of the plane’s four engines made conversation with his companion, Assistant War Secretary Bob Patterson, almost impossible. Flying in Air Force bombers had taken some getting used to. It meant lots of noise, no pressurization, and icy cold at cruising altitude even here in the steamy South Pacific. Knudsen had flown in his first when he was on the Defense Advisory Committee and made a field trip out to the airplane factories on the West Coast. 1 That was almost three years ago, he realized, when everyone wondered if America could produce a thousand airplanes, let alone fifty thousand. They had left those numbers far behind. Now, at Secretary Patterson’s invitation, he was going to see how those planes and other weapons they were producing at such prodigious rates were being used on the battlefield.
As they touched down on the tarmac, the tropical jungle heat rose up to embrace them. Knudsen stripped off the coat he had been wearing and tucked it under his arm as General Douglas MacArthur and an array of generals and admirals stepped forward to greet their two distinguished visitors. Under MacArthur, Americans had just scored two significant victories, first at Buna and then in the battle of the Bismarck Sea, securing a foothold in Japanese-occupied New Guinea. The general gestured the way toward Government House, where he intended to explain to Patterson and Knudsen his plan for victory on the island, and then his strategy for the ultimate goal: the liberation of the Philippines.
In the crowd Knudsen picked out a familiar face. It was a long, rather cynical face that someone might have mistaken for that of film actor Humphrey Bogart, sitting atop a tall lean figure in an Air Force general’s uniform. It was MacArthur’s air chief and commander of the Fifth Air Force, General George Kenney. Knudsen had met him in Washington a year ago when he was still settling into being head of Army production and had to help Kenney get the planes, equipment, and spare parts he would need for his new South Pacific command.
George Kenney was tough, charismatic, outspoken. When MacArthur’s chief of staff tried to protest how Kenney was handling his airplanes and crews, Kenney had grabbed a piece of paper and drew a pencil dot. “The blank area represents what I know about air matters,” he growled. “The dot represents what
you
know.” 2
Kenney respected few men in or out of his profession, but one of them was Bill Knudsen. “His expertise in his field was unquestionable,” he remembered after the war, and Kenney was drawn to Knudsen’s simple, straightforward patriotism and wry sense of humor. Once Knudsen came out of a long Munitions Building meeting where no decision had been reached, shaking his head with a weary smile. Suddenly Knudsen said, “George, do you know what a conference is?”
Kenney said no.
“A conference is a gathering of guys that
singly
can do nothing and
together
decide nothing can be done.” Knudsen also gave him his succinct translation of
status quo
. “That’s Latin for what a hell of a fix we’re in.” 3
Now Knudsen found himself standing next to Kenney. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly six o’clock. “If you can give me dinner,” Knudsen whispered to Kenney, “I’d like to get away from all the brass hats and talk airplanes.”
And so they did.
Their dinner
—William S. Knudsen
ON AUGUST 17 , 1943, a U.S. Army Air Force plane was making its way from Brisbane, Australia, to Port Moresby, New Guinea. It was Lieutenant General Bill Knudsen’s longest trip yet as head of the Army war production effort, covering more than 9,000 miles from Washingtonand Los Angeles, to New Guinea, headquarters of General Douglas MacArthur’s command.
Knudsen had no windows to catch a glance of the Pacific’s azure waters as they began their descent to Port Moresby, and the incessant roar of the plane’s four engines made conversation with his companion, Assistant War Secretary Bob Patterson, almost impossible. Flying in Air Force bombers had taken some getting used to. It meant lots of noise, no pressurization, and icy cold at cruising altitude even here in the steamy South Pacific. Knudsen had flown in his first when he was on the Defense Advisory Committee and made a field trip out to the airplane factories on the West Coast. 1 That was almost three years ago, he realized, when everyone wondered if America could produce a thousand airplanes, let alone fifty thousand. They had left those numbers far behind. Now, at Secretary Patterson’s invitation, he was going to see how those planes and other weapons they were producing at such prodigious rates were being used on the battlefield.
As they touched down on the tarmac, the tropical jungle heat rose up to embrace them. Knudsen stripped off the coat he had been wearing and tucked it under his arm as General Douglas MacArthur and an array of generals and admirals stepped forward to greet their two distinguished visitors. Under MacArthur, Americans had just scored two significant victories, first at Buna and then in the battle of the Bismarck Sea, securing a foothold in Japanese-occupied New Guinea. The general gestured the way toward Government House, where he intended to explain to Patterson and Knudsen his plan for victory on the island, and then his strategy for the ultimate goal: the liberation of the Philippines.
In the crowd Knudsen picked out a familiar face. It was a long, rather cynical face that someone might have mistaken for that of film actor Humphrey Bogart, sitting atop a tall lean figure in an Air Force general’s uniform. It was MacArthur’s air chief and commander of the Fifth Air Force, General George Kenney. Knudsen had met him in Washington a year ago when he was still settling into being head of Army production and had to help Kenney get the planes, equipment, and spare parts he would need for his new South Pacific command.
George Kenney was tough, charismatic, outspoken. When MacArthur’s chief of staff tried to protest how Kenney was handling his airplanes and crews, Kenney had grabbed a piece of paper and drew a pencil dot. “The blank area represents what I know about air matters,” he growled. “The dot represents what
you
know.” 2
Kenney respected few men in or out of his profession, but one of them was Bill Knudsen. “His expertise in his field was unquestionable,” he remembered after the war, and Kenney was drawn to Knudsen’s simple, straightforward patriotism and wry sense of humor. Once Knudsen came out of a long Munitions Building meeting where no decision had been reached, shaking his head with a weary smile. Suddenly Knudsen said, “George, do you know what a conference is?”
Kenney said no.
“A conference is a gathering of guys that
singly
can do nothing and
together
decide nothing can be done.” Knudsen also gave him his succinct translation of
status quo
. “That’s Latin for what a hell of a fix we’re in.” 3
Now Knudsen found himself standing next to Kenney. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly six o’clock. “If you can give me dinner,” Knudsen whispered to Kenney, “I’d like to get away from all the brass hats and talk airplanes.”
And so they did.
Their dinner
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