One night, quite late, Chuck Woodruff came home from the club very drunk. We were about 18 officers living in this bare Italian house about a half block behind 488th Squadron Operations. Inside the entryway we had a pile of 3” steel pipe, which we planned to use for a basketball backboard. I also had an “Indian” military motorcycle, which had been made up out of junk parts.
Woodruff picked up the pipe, dropped it on the tile floor and yelled, “Flak!” Everyone, at least a dozen guys woke up in a panic — and with one single thought: kill Woodruff.
Since I was from the same hometown as Woody, I was always having to save his butt. I finally pacified the situation by reminding them that nobody should hit a drunk, so they only shouted and shoved him around. Then Woodruff threw a roundhouse punch. He didn't hit anyone but he punctured his forearm on the accelerator lever of the motorcycle. No one cared and they all went back to bed. His arm bled and he turned green and puked.
So it was up to me to take him to the dispensary, which was a long walk across a dark, sleeping town. The medic cleaned up his wound and I walked him home and put him in his sack. It was about 3 A.M.
My bombardier/navigator hung out over at the club, and the next day he came back with this story. He said he was sitting at the bar drinking with the doc (Ben Marino) when in came our group commander, Chapman. The doc said, “Bill, I really have to hand it to those boys of yours. A kid came in during the night, a good 8 hours after the mission, with a flak wound in his forearm. We fixed him up, and he's in for a Purple Heart.”
I know that Woodruff did not receive a Purple Heart for the fiasco, but he ended up doing some amazing things.