Back in July, in the incandescent summer of 1987, I was one of those sweltering souls, staggering along under the endless blue Texas sky, feebly resisting the relentless onslaught of Attila the Sun. I was sucking on an ice cube from the third 32 ounce cup of Mom's Handmade Lemonade when I spotted the cameras. I was working The Hill in the unreserved area, poking through piles of stuff in the 97° pools of shade under the haggard trees. It was about 11:00 in the morning.
From a few feet away, it looked like just another Vest Pocket Kodak, lying face down on top of a closed 3-A, next to a couple of common, now forgotten, black-and-whites. I slowed, stopped, then looked for a moment; debating whether there was anything I didn't already know about a VP Kodak, or a 3-A. But--it had been a slow morning, and the day wasn't shaping up to be anything memorable, except for maybe setting another record for the number of heat strokes in east Texas. I recall reaching for the 3-A, but having to move the VP first. On days like that, instincts and old habits take over from the higher functions, and without thinking I found myself turning the VP over, and starting to pull it open. Damn it! Engraved. In Texas it's almost always a driver's license number, something like TX 9010096, usually scratched right on top of the word "Seiki" or "Wetzlar," but in this case it was a name, neatly lettered on the face-plate just below the lens.
I took off my sunglasses to get a better look, and saw that the engraving was shallow, sort of gothic, but handsome, and obviously done by a professional. And, looking closer, I noticed that the paint didn't exactly look black, but more like a deep, navy blue. I swung around a bit, trying to find a little direct sunlight so I could see the finish better, and sure enough it was blue. Now this was just the usual old, enamel finish, trellis strut VP, not a Series III or anything, and while these cameras sometimes came dressed in leather, they always wore black. I doubted that it was a factory finish, but it was very well done.
Looking at the engraving on the face plate, I began to wonder about the camera I was holding: ENS. D. S. INGALLS. Ensign? Ensign D.S. Ingalls? Well, this was a 1915-1920 camera. World War I. It made sense. These cameras had been advertised as being "the soldier's camera," so why not a sailor's camera?
By now, the dealer figured he had a live one, and he drifted over to see if I needed any encouragement. "So what's the story with the Ingalls' camera?" I asked. I closed up the VP, and handed it over the table to him. He took the camera, glanced at the name, then watched me as I picked up the old 3-A, and performed the manual-of-arms. I popped it open, pulled it out, clicked the shutter, pushed it back, closed it up, and put it down--without ever breaking eye-contact with him. You do that sort of thing a thousand times, and it begins to look like you've done it before. It's good for establishing your credibility since a lot of folks never figure out how to open one of them. He looked like one of those.
He looked at the camera in his hand, turned it over, glanced at the price tag, $22.50, then the name, and handed it back to me. "I picked this up at an estate sale back east." Back east. In most parts of Texas, back east simply means "not from Texas," but if you're west of Abilene, it could also mean Dallas, though never Fort Worth. I guessed from the Michigan plates on the van behind him that he might actually be referring to "back east" in some more traditional way. "Belonged to an Army Air Corps fighter pilot--supposed to be an ace back in World War I." Uh-huh.
"Navy," I said, "Navy ace." I pointed to the rank, but my heart wasn't in it. You do this long enough, and you'll hear it all, all the stories, all the legends: belonged to Brady, San Juan Hill, charge of the Light Brigade. If you're lucky, it'll still have film in it. His story might actually be pretty good, but it was hot, I was already out of ice, and the next Mom's was down by the creek, about half-a-mile, a dozen dusty aisles, and maybe 300 cranky dealers away. "So, how much for the camera?"
"You interested in that other one as well? I could make you a real good deal on the pair."
"No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I've already got a couple of those with black bellows. What do you need for just this little guy?" I hold up the VP just for a moment, just to catch his eye, then as he watches, carefully put it back down on top of the closed 3-A. At this point, you always put the camera back down exactly the way you found it. Then you start fidgeting with your stuff, put your sunglasses back on, haul the backpack up to your shoulder, and then you stand there, waiting, but ready to leave. No one at Canton believes for an instant that you might come back.
"Well, let's see. I got $22.50 on it. How's 20 bucks sound? Makes it easier on both of us." I pull out my wallet, and fish around a bit, being careful to let him see the single $20 bill that's the only thing I ever carry in there, just for these occasions. Back in those days, lots of cameras carried price tags that implied that they could be had in the $20 range, if you were prepared.
I take out the $20, and ask, "How about $18.50? That'll leave me a buck fifty for another lemonade." He wraps the camera in a piece of newspaper while his wife makes change. "Is it always this hot down here?" he asks. I try to remember summers past as we both mop our brows in unison. "Yup, pretty much, this time of year." I put the camera in my backpack, take my change, and ask if he's got any other camera gear that he hasn't put out yet.
"Nope. Don't deal in that kind of stuff very often." With that, we say our good-byes, and I shuffle off. In 8 years of going to Canton, I had never seen this guy before. In the remaining four years that I spend in Texas, I never see him again.
As it turned out, the VP was the only significant purchase of the day. That evening I brushed the dust off the bellows, cleaned the grime off the body, and put it up on a shelf. I've always liked VPs, and something about this one intrigued me. Still, after a while, from across the room, it began to look just like any other VP. After a couple of months, the infatuation had worn off, and it got put away to make room for something new.
It spent the fall and winter of '87 in cold storage, out in the garage, and probably would have stayed out there had not my older son, Owen, had a homework assignment in April of 1988 that took us both to the Arlington Public Library.
In April of 1988, Owen was in second grade at Butler Elementary, and had a library assignment about flags and Texas history. The Arlington Public Library is a pleasant, modern 2-story building, and back then, the juvenile section was upstairs. It took a couple of minutes to find what we needed in the card catalogs, and then to locate the section, pull out the books, and get settled. There were quite a few books to go through, so while Owen sat on the floor between shelves, browsing for colorful pictures of the six flags that had flown over Texas, I looked around for something to read while waiting.
It's moments like these that make you wonder. There I was, looking for something to read in the juvenile book area, Owen at my feet, and there it was, directly in front of me at eye-level. On a shelf with dozens of books about farm machinery, all arranged on-end, was one book lying on its side, the title right-side up, Flying Aces of World War I. Without much thought, I picked it up, and began to flip through it, then quickly paged back having glimpsed a somehow familiar name--Dave Ingalls, Navy Ace.
I went over to an easy chair at the end of the aisle from where I could see Owen. I sat down, turned on the lamp, and made myself comfortable. For the next few minutes, I read a remarkable little biography about a certified American hero whom I had never heard of except for a chance encounter at an enormous flea market almost a year ago, and whose camera sat wrapped in a paper towel, in a Ziploc sandwich bag, in a box of all, but forgotten cameras, in the back of my garage.
David Sinton Ingalls was born in Cleveland, Ohio, on January 28, 1899, and was attending Yale University when the United States entered World War I in April 1917. At that time, the United States Navy had been involved with naval aviation for only six years, and had a total of 21 planes, and just about the same number of pilots. Patrolling the coast would soon require hundreds of planes and pilots, but the wartime expansion program wouldn't begin to produce results until 1918. The Navy was desperate for experienced pilots.
Interestingly enough, the year before, Ingalls and eleven other young men from fairly wealthy families had formed a flying club at Yale, and eventually took over a flying school with a seaplane and an instructor. Relatives donated two more seaplanes, and by summer vacation of 1916, three of them had soloed. In the fall of 1916, the men formally organized the Yale Aero Club and it proved to be so popular that a second, then later, a third group of young men joined.
In one of those wonderful historical coincidences, the Navy conducted a series of exercises near their flying school, and because there were no Navy planes in the area, the club was asked to participate and to assist as spotters and observers. The flyers performed admirably, and the Navy invited them to assist in several other exercises as well.
As U.S. involvement in the war appeared inevitable, the original members of the Aero Club offered to begin training for active naval duty. However, since the Navy could not take over a civilian group, their offer had to be refused. So, in March 1917, 28 young men from the Aero Club's first group, including David Sinton Ingalls, joined the Naval Reserve. They left school, and went to Palm Beach, Florida, where they continued their privately financed training program full-time. In April, the United States entered the war, and as soon as the men completed their training, they were ordered to active duty. Ensign D.S. Ingalls, at the age of 18, became Naval Aviator #85.
Ingalls' went to France in September 1917 and trained in a variety of aircraft, but particularly enjoyed the Sopwith Camel. In March 1918, he was assigned to the American naval air station in Dunkirk just as the Germans began a huge spring offensive. The Americans had not been assigned a mission, however, so Ingalls and three others offered their services to the British, who accepted. Ingalls served with the 213th Squadron of the Royal Air Force, flying sea patrol which he found boring.
He returned to the American base after the German offensive had been checked, and chafed at the lack of activity. Meanwhile, the 213th had been reorganized as an active fighter squadron, and Ingalls asked to be reassigned to it. His request was granted, and that summer Lieutenant Ingalls found his calling. Between August 11 and September 24, 1918, Ingalls shot down five German aircraft, an observation balloon, and bombed a number of German airfields. He became the only American Naval Ace of the war while flying voluntarily for the RAF.
For his efforts, he received the British Distinguished Flying Cross, the French Legion of Honor, and the United States Navy's Distinguished Service Medal for his "brilliant and courageous" work with the 213th. After his tour with the RAF, he returned to duty with the US Navy, and after the war, apparently finished school, and began to practice law.
As the war clouds of WW II began to gather, Ingalls again volunteered his services, and the outbreak of hostilities found him ferrying bombers to Russia and the middle east. When the US entered the war, he was recalled to sea duty as a Commander, and at the end of 1942, he became the Chief of Staff for Naval Air Operations in the Air Center on Guadalcanal. He served for three years, and received the Navy's Bronze Star and Legion of Merit. At the end of the war, he retired as a Rear Admiral at the age of 46, and served as the Assistant Secretary of the Navy for a time
Shortly after reentering civilian life, he became president of Pan American Airlines. Ingalls was with Pan Am until 1954 when he resigned to become the publisher and president of the Times Star newspapers. He held that position until 1958, when at the age of 59, he retired, and returned to his law practice. He was active until the age 86, when he died in his home state of Ohio in October 1985.
And I had his camera tucked away in a box in my garage. It deserved better. When we got home, I dug it out, opened it up, and proudly put it back on top of my camera cabinet in the dining room next to my treasured Chadwick and Lancaster cameras. I poured a shot of Benchmark into my favorite old-fashioned glass, and paid a respectful tribute to this token of a remarkable man. There is a poem written by another pilot that begins:
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of Sun-split clouds--and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of--
Ingalls could truthfully have said those same lines without bragging.
A short time later, I told this story to one of my closest friends, Geary Hufstedler. He shared in my wonder at the way the universe seems to work, and how some paths seem destined to cross, and how those occasions arise under the most exquisitely subtle circumstances. There is a saying in the Orient that I'm fond of because it is both profound and simple, and on occasions such as these often comes to mind, "What is was meant to be."
Later that year Geary's daughter, Andrea, would graduate from pilot training with her instrument rating, and multi-engine commercial pilot's license. Geary and I agreed that the little navy blue VP would be an appropriate and fitting graduation present. For the past six years, Ensign D.S. Ingalls' camera has graced the mantel of another aviator who currently resides in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
Author's Notes: The biographical details are extracted from two books about WWI flyers: Flying Aces of World War I, by Gene Gurney. Random House, New York. 1965 (in photo with camera)
Over The Front, by Norman Franks and Frank Bailey. Grub Street Press, London. 1992 The excerpt is from a favorite poem, High Flight, by John Gillespie Magee, Jr. I believe Magee flew with the RCAF.