Jimmy Doolittle

 

He was an aviation pioneer, a brilliant MIT graduate who became an expert in the development of more efficient aviation fuel, an air racing champion, an engineer who helped develop instrument flying, a war hero and much more. The name James H. "Jimmy Doolittle" is synonymous with the brand of American hero who has it all – guts, brains and, above all, character.

Born in 1896 in Alameda California, Jimmy Doolittle was a 33° Scottish Rite Mason who was raised in Hollenbeck Lodge 319 in Los Angeles on August 16, 1918. When his high school class attended an air show on a field trip in 1910, Doolittle saw his first airplane and developed a lifetime interest in flying. At the age of 21, he took a leave of absence from his studies at the University of California in Berkley and enlisted in the Signal Corps Reserve as a Flying Cadet, being commissioned as a second lieutenant the following year. He served as a flight instructor during World War I, where his performance led to a commission as a first lieutenant in the Air Service. In 1922, he made one of the first cross-country flights, for which he earned the Distinguished Flying Cross, a ticket to the Air Service Engineering School and eventually a scholarship to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

In the 1030s, Doolittle was Aviation Manager for Shell Oil company where he was instrumental in developing a 100 Octane fuel that, at the time, no aircraft needed. The fuel was expensive and some of the Shell employees called the project "Doolittle's million-dollar blunder."

He returned to active military service in 1940 and, after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, was chosen to plan a retaliatory attack. Subsequently he personally volunteered to lead that attack, taking off from the USS Hornet with several targets in Japan. The Japanese learned of the Hornet's position, forcing the Americans to initiate the attack from a location farther from Japan and jeopardizing the plane's capabilities to travel that far.

On April 18, 1942, Doolittle led sixteen B-25s to Tokyo and other Japanese cities in what is now known as the Doolittle Raid. The raid accomplished its purpose in destroying targets without doing much harm to the Japanese civilian population, but more than that, it put the Japanese on notice that the US was capable of such long-range raids and it greatly boosted US morale.

Critically low on fuel, the B-25s limped onto the Chinese mainland where most landed safely behind friendly lines. Doolittle's heroic action in leading the raid earned him a promotion to General, the Congressional Medal of Honor, and later, the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

The added distance the planes had to fly in the successful Doolittle Raid put many lives in jeopardy, and it became clear the raid would never have been successful except for the fact they carried that 100 Octane fuel Brother Doolittle had himself developed a decade earlier, before any aircraft required it, and without knowing what a significant effect it would have on his and his crews lives many years later. In the end, it seems "Doolittle's million-dollar blunder" paid off after all.

Respect

Years ago, I was working on installing a system in a large metropolitan bank's safekeeping department. The executive offices there were glass-walled and I saw a group inside one standing around something a customer had brought in for storage. I went over for a closer look and saw they were inspecting a violin — a Stradivarius violin. To date myself, this was back when employees could smoke in offices; and there stood one of the execs leaning over the priceless instrument with a lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Not only that, the butt had a long trail of ashes on the front which, predictably, dropped onto the violin. He brushed the ashes off and the gang continued gawking. I was stunned they could treat such an incredible piece so carelessly.

Over the years I've had occasion to see some pretty significant Masonic memorabilia. Many times when I've had "hands-on" access I think of that little scenario in the bank and remind myself to take the utmost care with the item.

I've seen many such items at the Truman Library in Independence, Missouri. The staff there "bends over backwards" to dig out documents and artifacts for researchers. White gloves are the order of the day as researchers go through the precious treasure trove of Brother Truman's life.

On one occasion I was there researching the well-documented account of the President's visit to Beech Grove Lodge in Indiana. While on his Whistle-Stop tour in 1948, Truman evaded the press and much of his traveling party to attend a meeting at that Lodge and raise a Brother who worked for him. At the close of the meeting he asked if he could keep the apron he had worn as a souvenir.

As the staff at the Truman Library gathered items relating to that visit, one of the artifacts turned out to be that apron. I was mesmerized as I looked at it. I felt as if I was in the presence of the President himself. Unable to resist, I broke one of the Library's rules. I slipped off my glove and…

I touched it.

I probably shouldn't have done it, but something inside me just wanted that connection with the historic apron. I don't think I hurt it at all. It didn't seem the same as dumping a pile of cremated tobacco onto a Stradivarius. What's more, I'm not sorry. I would do it again — guilty as charged. I didn't do it maliciously.

I did it out of respect.