A World Ago A Navy Man’s Letters Home (1954−1956)

Having, in my sophomore year at Northern Illinois State Teachers College, [now Northern Illinois University] studied with no little interest the Diary of Samuel Pepys (pronounced “Peeps” though I’ll never know why) and similar works, I have decided to write my own, somewhat modernized, journal. I differ from Mr. Pepys in many ways; one being that I am writing this journal, or diary, with the object of its eventual publication in mind.

I am, at the start of this modest work, twenty years old; the date is August 9^th, 1954. On August 13th, 1954, I shall, I hope, enter the United States Navy for 4 years, wherein I hope to become a pilot.

I plan to make this journal as revealing and honest as possible (it is far easier to make confessions to one’s future than to one’s present), and the reader must bear with my frequent ramblings. I intend to present, not to my own day, but to some future age, a complete picture of myself, my life, and my world. To the future this journal is hopefully dedicated.

August 10, 1954

I have no intention of beginning every other entry with “Up early and to the office….” The first few entries probably needn’t be dated at all, as they shall be taken up with the preliminaries and backgrounds, however sketchy. I am living, at this writing, at 2012 Hutchins Avenue in Rockford, Illinois. It is a two-story, flat-roofed frame building with two-tone siding (bottom half, tarnish-white, top half green). My family is composed of my father, Frank, my mother, Odrae, and our Boxer dog, Stormy (pedigree name: “Storm of Dracrest”). It isn’t a fancy home, and was once a grocery store (which accounts for the flat roof) before being remodeled into two apartments.

You may wonder how I can be so certain, as my manner indicates, that this work will be published. That is very simple—I’m not. However, if it isn’t published, no one will be the wiser, and no one will miss it. If it is published, it will be read, and so to the reader, if any, I address my remarks.

August 14, 1954

My career in the Navy has now officially begun. Yesterday, August 13 (Friday the 13^th—typical of my luck), I reported to Glenview Naval Air Station. I had to get up at 5:00 a.m., which I dreaded, and my parents drove me to Glenview, which is some 86 miles from Rockford. I have not yet been sworn in, though my enlistment started yesterday.

August 15, 1954

Tomorrow I must report back to Glenview (I had the week-end off). I’ll be sworn in and flown by Delta Air Lines to Pensacola, Florida.

August 17, 1954

Life at the Pensacola Naval Air Base begins officially at 5:30 a.m. At that time reveille sounds. At 5:32, everyone must report to the “quarterdeck,” the main hall of the building. At that time, you must be dressed, shaved, and had your bed made and room cleaned. As you may guess, this is a trifle difficult. Therefore, everyone gets up at 5:00. Now, as there are almost no alarm clocks, and no way of being awakened, I keep waking up every ten minutes, wondering if it’s 5:00 yet. It isn’t. After climbing out of bed, washing, making up your bed, and the various and sundry other duties, reveille is sounded by a trumpeter whose closest acquaintance with a musical instrument must have been when he played second triangle in his kindergarten rhythm band. At 5:32 you are informed by the P.A. system that you have exactly twenty seconds to report to the “quarterdeck.” Twenty-one seconds and you must go back and try again.

We (myself and two others from Chicago) reported to Pensacola at “2144” (9:44) last night. My first impressions of Florida were (1) it’s hot, (2) a sign on a Pensacola city bus: “WHITE seat from front to rear of coach. COLORED seat from rear to front of coach.”

The base at Pensacola is huge—we’re so far from the airstrip (there are four or five scattered around) that we very seldom hear the planes. About forty other cadets came in the same night.

The old army adage of “hurry up and wait” certainly is applicable to the Navy Air corps. You don’t walk; you run—and when you’re not running, you’re marching.

The morning began with calisthenics—about fifteen minutes of deep-knee bends and other amusing little exercises, to get the day off to a good start. After calisthenics, we marched back to the dorm (all the buildings, by the way, have numbers—Navcad Induction was 624), located just across the street from the hanger in front of which we went through our ritual. The sun was out in full force, and everyone had miniature Mississippi’s coursing their ways down our faces, necks, bodies, and even running slowly down the inside of our legs. The heat was so great that my watch crystal fogged and the watch stopped soon after. I noticed this morning that it is running again, but will not wind.

August 18, 1954

The second complete day began much as the first, only it was immeasurably more difficult to get out of bed. It is now, at this writing, only about 11:00 (I have no way of knowing for sure, my watch being broken) and it seems I’ve been up for hours. Every time the P.A. system sounds, everyone jumps up and drops whatever they’re doing, expecting to have to dash to the quarterdeck. My legs, on this second day, are killing me—I have a hard time even keeping my balance sometimes.

I am rooming with four other cadets—from California, Boston, Pennsylvania, and Ohio. Every day after lunch you can rest—but not on the beds. They mustn’t be touched from 5:30 a.m. till 9:15 p.m.

I mentioned yesterday that we could almost never hear planes. Well, that was only partly true—directly across from our room is a large hanger, and all about it are wingless planes. Evidently this hanger is where all those planes are repaired. And naturally, to repair them they must run the engines—constantly.

I now have had all my physicals, and all I need do this afternoon is get a haircut. Believe me, the Indians could have taken some healthy pointers from these boys. As I understand, hair must be cut once a week, whether it needs it or not. The fee for haircuts is 55 cents, I believe. Fortunately, the barber shop is located in this building which, by the way, is officially called “Induction Headquarters.” In about two weeks, we will be moved to new barracks with four men to a room, and broken up into Battalions, Platoons, and Squads.

18 August, 1954

Well, here I am, as I said in the post card. I would appreciate it, mom, if you would type these letters up or keep them so I can have a record of them when I get out. Don’t give (or even talk) to Bill Garson [a family acquaintance who worked for the local newspaper] any of my letters. It is against the rules to have anything published about the base unless you get permission from the Commander.

My watch is broken—I sweat so much the crystal fogged up and the watch stopped. It started again today, but when I went to wind it, the knob just turned, but it didn’t wind. I’ll see if there’s someplace around here I can have it fixed. (It’s on now, Wednesday night)

So far, I’ve spent $2.90 for 4 towels (white) and two laundry bags, and 55 cents for a haircut. You should see; everyone looks like they’ve gone through the Ford Dearborn massacre and came out second-best. My eyelashes are longer than the hair left on the top of my head.

I’ve been told that, while in training, we only get off once a year—and that’s at Christmas. I think you should come down here and spend Christmas. Although from all I’ve seen of this balmy Florida weather, they can have it. It gets so hot—not really much hotter than Rockford, I suppose, but it’s so humid that the sweat just pours off everyone. Fortunately, I don’t sweat much, but it’s mighty uncomfortable just the same.

We’re right on the Gulf of Mexico, or awfully close to it. From my window I can see it, if it is the Gulf. In fact, it’s only about a block away. It must be a bay or something, because there is land on the other side.

A bunch of advanced NavCads are marching by my window with rifles. They wear khaki shorts and blue T-shirts. Evidently a new group comes in every week—mine is 33-54. Did I tell you about the buildings? If not, I will—they’re two story, red brick, Southern Colonial with huge, screened-in white porches. I’m in Building 624, which is used for inductions. In a week or two, we’ll move to other barracks. We have the corner room—one side is a porch-side, the other an outside. This gives us plenty of ventilation and its wonderful sleeping, what little sleeping we do.

Someone around here has a distorted sense of humor. Reveille is at 5:30, and by 5:32 you’ve got to be up, dressed, washed, have your bed made, and be standing in formation in the “quarterdeck” (main lobby of the building). You figure it out! The answer is rather apparent—it can’t be done. So we get up at 5:00. And if I hear dad laughing, I’ll kill him! By the time I come home, I’ll be 21 and if I want to sleep till 4:00 p.m. I will and just try to get me up before that.

My legs are killing me! I can’t even keep my balance when I first get up from a chair; stairways (“ladders”) are almost impossible. After meals, you are given fifteen minutes or so to “rest”—but you can’t lay down. “PROCEDURE FOR CARE OF YOUR ROOM…7: Cadets are not allowed to lie on bunks between the hours of 0530 and 2115 (9:15 p.m.). After 2115 cadets may get into their bunks.”

So far today we’ve mopped, swept and dusted the entire barracks twice. Oh for some more procedure—you want to go someplace (the only place we can go is to the P.X., and then only between 4:00 and 5:00). You go to the MOD’s (Master of the Deck) office, which is down the passageway and in the main section of the building. You stand at attention in the doorway and knock three times with your right hand, which is at your side while knocking. The MOD says “come in” (it’s an open doorway and he’s seen you all the time, but that’s the way it goes). You walk in, keeping your eyes on the wall to the right and above the MOD’s head, and stop one step from the desk. You say “Cadet Margason, F R., 33-54 requesting permission to go to the P.X.” He says “Permission granted” and you step forward with your right foot, keeping your left in place. You sign out with your right hand, leaving your left at your side. Then you say “Thank you, sir,” take one step backward, do an about face, and leave. (You’ve got to sign in, too.). Well, enough Navy life for now. Write soon.

P.S. I haven’t saluted anybody yet! My address is:
NavCad F. R. Margason U.S.N.R.
Class 33-54
U.S. Naval School, Pre-Flight
NAS, Pensacola, Fla.

August 22, 1954

Currently I am being featured in Technicolor—glorious red. Went swimming in the Gulf yesterday and today—it’s like swimming in one huge gargle glass—that’s exactly what it tastes like. It is nice and warm, though. When I got out of the water the first day and came back to the room, I bent down to put on my pants and about three gallons of water ran out of my nose! The beaches are all white sand; the one we go to is about ¾ mile away—they have an “officers’” and “enlisted men’s” beaches, which are only separated by a rope on the sand and in the water (on the bottom). The sand is white and turns red further inland. I like to just lie in the water and float with the waves. As I neglected to bring a suit, I use my P(hysical) T(raining) shorts.

The Officer’s Club is located just a little back from the beach—it makes any country club I’ve ever seen look sick. It looks like something from Gone with the Wind.

Today is Sunday and the only meal I’ve had all day is breakfast—they don’t serve dinner till 4:00, and no supper. Went to the show this afternoon and saw Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront which started at 3:00. So….

Next week is going to be very rough; probably won’t even have time to breathe. Took some tests yesterday—one they put us in a room (sound-proof) and had us sit at desks with regulation airplane earphones. Then they turned on the four huge amplifiers and sixteen smaller ones at the front of the room to simulate an AT6 flying at 18,000 ft. with the cockpit open. Then someone spoke over the earphones and we had to mark down what we heard.

I sure will be glad when next week is over—then we move to our new barracks, which is about six blocks from everywhere. Start saving your money and talk to your bosses about taking a week off—if I ever graduate (in about 18 months)—and come down to Florida.

Did I tell you I get a 72 hour pass over Labor Day Weekend, I hope—I’m going to New Orleans, I think. ( I am not going to sit around here, that’s for sure!)

Date Unknown

This will be a very short letter, I’m afraid. This week will be the hardest we’ll have (or rather, “we’ve had”) Today we marched for two hours—the sergeant bawled me out four times, grabbed me by the back of the neck once, and twisted my thumb once when I had it extended when it shouldn’t have been. For dad’s question as to how far Mobile is, it’s 50 miles.

August 27, 1954

I don’t remember when I started this letter, but here it is Friday. We had inspection today, and your loving son went down with all hands, colors flying. It seems that the raincoat is hung in back of the pants, not in front. Therefore, “These men (my locker partner and I) are not ready for inspection.” The moral of this little tale is that I am now the proud possessor of at least five demerits and am cordially invited to spend one or more hours on the “Grinder” (affectionate name for the drill field).

Tomorrow we move to Battalion II, which will, I gather, be our home till we graduate. We will all be very sorry to leave our kind, considerate Sergeants Calahan and Jones behind. I told you over the phone of my experiences with these two lovable gentlemen. One day last week, while marching our usual two hours in the outdoor blast furnace called Florida, I wasn’t up to my usual miserable par. Among the Sergeant (Calahan)’s other comments to me were “Lad,” (a name he calls everyone—Jones calls us “son”), “if you don’t keep that damn thumb of yours in, I’m going to break it off.” (This he punctuated by twisting it half out of its socket). “Put your feet together, lad, you remind me of Charlie Chaplin,” and finally “You’re all f---ed up today, aren’t you, boy?” The language employed by Marine sergeants isn’t always, I’m afraid, of the Tea-time-in-the-parlor caliber.

Somewhere in Pensacola there is a very rich man who is getting richer every day. He owns a laundry, which is being supported for the greatest part by innocent NavCads. It has been estimated, and this is a conservative estimate, that the average NavCad spends approximately $20 a month on cleaning bills. Granted, the prices are reasonable, but every day almost everything must be sent to be cleaned.

Dad asked me the other night if I liked it—that is a very hard question to answer. It’s like when the dentist fills your tooth full of Novocain and then asks if you like the drilling—you can’t feel a thing, but you don’t like the principle of it.

I don’t know what life in Bat. II will be like, but I can only hope it will be an improvement over this.

The other day we had a lecture (one of many) on what was expected of us, and how we are graded. They grade 38% on academic work, 28% on military skills (mine are nil) and 44% on Physical Training, at which I am miserable. Those percentages may not be exact, but they’re approximate. So I can expect to be dropped at any time.

I won’t be too terribly unhappy, ‘cause two years is better than four any day.

Well, I have about five letters to write, so I’d better do it while I have the chance.

Don’t forget what I said about notifying the Red Cross in case of emergency! It’s the only way I can get an emergency leave. I hope I never have to have one, but if so, do it right.

Saturday, August 28, 1954

Today we moved into our new “home”—Bat. II, a large, yellow building with all the general appearances, both inside and out, of blowing away the first time a strong wind comes along. In one of our orientation books at Indoctrination, there was a short history of the city of Pensacola I thought was quite interesting, if I can remember it…Pensacola was the first city in America—even before St. Augustine, founded about seven years before by 2000 French (or Spanish) settlers. After two years and a hurricane which blew away the settlement, discord among the people forced them to abandon the place: thus St. Augustine gets all the honors. Well, after a few years it was resettled by the French, who were bombed out by the Spanish fleet, which took over until they were driven out by the French, who lost it to the English, etc. etc. Add to this five or six periodic hurricanes which neatly wiped everything away, and you have the very colorful, if somewhat checkered, history of Pensacola. I’ve been sitting here ever since we first arrived at Indoctrination wishing for a hurricane. I should imagine it would really liven things up.

We won’t even be allowed to go to the movie tonight or tomorrow because we haven’t gotten our tropical uniforms back from the tailors’ yet. When I come home, if I’m still a NavCad, I hope to wear our Blues, which are really sharp. We were issued three sets of uniforms—Khakis, Tropicals, and Blues. The Khakis are exactly like the army and marines, the only difference being that we wear anchors on our shirt collars and on our hats instead of a world-and-anchor like the marines; also we wear black ties—the marines wear khaki-colored ties.

Florida has the weirdest looking trees I have ever seen—the leaves resemble those found on rubber plants. I’ll try to enclose one, if it will fit, to show you what I mean. One thing I’ve noticed about trees down here—they are all comparatively short—they aren’t big and bushy like the trees at home. Of course that’s just the trees on the base here. Also they are the greenest trees I’ve ever seen

Yesterday (Friday) we were issued books and a leather book bag. I’m afraid I’m going to have a devil of a time with navigation—everyone says that is the toughest subject here. And if I live through Physical Training I’ll be surprised. One day last week the sergeant got mad at me, as usual, and had me do fifty push-ups on the quarterdeck. I did about twenty and then couldn’t even get myself off the floor—I just laid there till he told me I could get up. (There were other guys besides myself doing them, so it wasn’t just a personal grudge against me.) For two days after that I could hardly lift my arms and when I did I couldn’t control my hands too well.

Next Tuesday, in P.T., we must take what is called, technically, the “Step Test” (it is called other things by those who have taken it). It consists, as far as I can tell, of stepping up and down (floor to chair or something), in time, for five minutes. Then you must do 47 pushups and a few chin-ups. You have to do this or else! So if I come home for Christmas in a blue sailor suit, don’t be surprised.

We won’t get another leave between this Christmas and next, either. Well, enough for now.

September 1, 1954

Today is Sept. 1, 1954. It is a memorable date for two reasons. The main one is that today is the day the flies came to Pensacola. It seems they have been up in the swamps somewhere, breeding with mosquitoes. This afternoon they descended in force upon us while we were, appropriately, dressed in nothing but our PT shorts and shirts. Naturally, they would wait until we were standing at attention; one drew blood, which trickled down my leg. Up until today, the local fly population has been conspicuous in its absence. I can’t recall seeing any at all since I’ve been down here. Of course, I hadn’t given it too much thought previously, my mind being occupied with other things than the absence of our little winged friends.

The animal (or rather insect) population around here is fortunately sparse. But one variety is present in abundance. What they lack in quality they more than make up for in quantity. These little beasties are to be found under, around, in, over, and on food in the mess hall. If sold by the pound, they would bring someone a tidy profit. But there doesn’t see, to be much of a market for cockroaches this season. — I got paid today! Hooray!!

For the past two days we have been engaged in PT class in doing two solid hours of calisthenics. Not of the old “1-2-3” variety. We also then must run around two hangers (two large hangers) twice in a figure 8.

Sept. 3, 1954

I mentioned running—today we have to run three miles to an obstacle course! I only hope I make it. And after we complete the obstacle course, we must run back again. Then we get haircuts and then we can go on liberty.

(Later) Got your letter today and one yesterday—Me? Discouraged? Don’t be silly—I think the whole thing is hysterically funny (with the emphasis on hysterical). I especially enjoy little things like we did today. We ran out to the obstacle course as I said we were going to. It is located roughly three miles from anywhere, near a bay (across which can be seen a town—it may be Pensacola, but is more likely Washington, DC). The average time for the obstacle course is 1 minute and 36 seconds. The ground is sand, which makes running almost impossible. Two men start out at a time, at twenty-second intervals. You run about fifty feet, jump over (you may use your hands) a five foot fence—about seventy-five feet from that is a maze accommodating two men—for each man there is only one way in and one way out. About two hundred feet from the maze is a twenty-foot-long ladder-wall over which you must climb; fifty feet from that is a series of five log-fence-like obstructions; under one, over the next, under the next, etc. Then comes a large low place under which you’ve got to crawl. Next comes two comparatively short hurdles (3 ft.). Now there is a clear curve, which brings you back in the direction you started; it goes slightly down-hill for about three hundred feet. At the bottom is a twelve-foot water hole (you’re supposed to jump over it, but by this time you’re lucky if you get within six feet of the outer edge). Now you’re almost back—only two more obstructions. As it is uphill, there are two straight stretches with a step-like effect to climb over (or crawl, as the case may be) A hundred foot stretch, and you’re through.

Your little boy fell flat on his face after crossing the finish line and was almost sick. At that I fared better than a lot of guys, some of whom really got sick. I made it in 207 seconds—the average for our class being 206. It is days like this that make me wish I were dead and not in Uncle Sam’s Navy. Don’t get me wrong, though—I’m not discouraged—just tired.

On the way back we walked—no one was in any condition to run, and I, to keep moving, made minute observations of the local flora and fauna. I shall never again be able to sit through a movie short in which the glories and virtues of Florida plant life is extolled. Well, enough of that. My uniforms—I was issued three of them. Tropical, Blues and Greens. Also I got (earlier last week) six khaki shirts and four khaki pants. In addition to these, my entire wardrobe consists of two khaki fore-and-aft (overseas) caps, one bridge cap (something vaguely like dad’s old sheriff’s office hat) with four different covers (blue, khaki, white, and tropical). Tropicals, incidentally, are almost the same color as khaki, only lighter and of a lighter material. They are the kind with the shoulder-boards. I had my picture taken in it the other day—if they turn out good (which I doubt) I’ll order a big one. My blue is for winter. It is heavy Navy blue with all the shiny buttons. I only hope I’m in the program long enough to wear it home for Xmas.

I should, providing I don’t get dropped out, be through with pre-flight in early December. I wish you could come down if I graduate, but I won’t get my wings for another 14 months.

Well, enough of everything for now. I’ll send you a card from New Orleans (if I ever get there).

P.S. I also got two pairs of shoes (black and brown) which must glisten in the sun. Kiss Stormy for me and don’t forget to send my camera (loaded).

Date unknown

I broke my old long-standing rule of never taking sightseeing busses; New Orleans being an exception in that I figured that if I didn’t take a tour, I couldn’t possibly see all the things I wanted—also, I didn’t know what to look for or where to go to find it. It was really very interesting. This card, or rather the picture on the back <Le Petit Theatre du Vieux Carre> is the only place we didn’t go.

I’m sending you a recording I made at the local amusement park. I got a big kick today in a dept. store when two kids asked if I was a general.

Spent the day roaming around—bumped into quite a few NavCads—none I knew though. Unfortunately, the Mardi Gras crowds had rather thinned out by the time I got here (Mardi Gras is in February). Canal St., so named because it supposedly has a canal under it is billed as the widest main street in the world. It doesn’t have many (or hardly any) dept. stores; mostly just large shops. All the men’s stores are on one side of the street, and all the women’s are on the other Also, streets change names here. On one side is the “old city” with French and Spanish names, and on the other side it’s American.

The local cemeteries are fascinating. Ninety-five percent of all the dead are buried above ground; the five percent exceptions being the Jewish, who don’t permit it, and those in “potters field” who can’t afford to “rent” a vault. The way things go down here is—you rent a space from the church for $5 a year. Conditions around here completely decompose a body with one year and a day. At the end of that time, the old body’s remains are pushed back into a hole at the end of the vault, and it’s all ready for a new one.

Sounds like fun, doesn’t it? Some of these things have sunk three feet into the ground.

In Jackson park there are real live banana trees with real bananas. On one side of the park is The Cabildo, where the papers were signed giving the U.S. the Louisiana territory. The park is flanked by America’s first apartment buildings, built to keep people from moving out of the old city into the new. All the buildings are built as close to the street as possible for some reason, with beautiful patios on the inside. The cathedral is very pretty, being all wood on the inside. First time I’d ever been in a Catholic church. Beautiful stained glass windows and paintings on the ceilings. At the moment of writing this, I am sitting in the Union Depot, waiting to get the heck out of this place. I plan to go to Mobile, if I ever get there. Well, I’m here—by bus, not train. I walked back to town and got the next bus out. I’m awfully sorry I couldn’t afford to buy you some better souvenirs than these little cards, but….

And here I am back in Pensacola, just before going to P.T. class. God! How I loathe that class. Talk about Hell on Earth. We do pushups—that is, everybody else does pushups. After just so many my arms won’t lift me off the floor. And tomorrow I’ve got to go through that Step Test again. I don’t know what they’ll do if I flunk it again. I’ll probably end up in the regular Navy.

September 11, 1954

This is the first opportunity I have had in a week to write, so I shall start a letter, not knowing if I will get to finish or not. Before I forget it—if I don’t get put back, I will graduate in December—about the seventh or eighth or somewhere around there.

There is so very much to tell that I don’t know where to begin—I think I’ll start with yesterday and work my way back to anything I missed about New Orleans plus my journalistic outlooks on “the old South.”

To begin, I’d better explain that though today is Saturday, we had to go to class to make up for last Monday; we don’t have P.T. today, though—thank God!

Yesterday, at 11:30 (we start at 7:00), we were marched back from Building 633, the academic building, and were told on arriving back at Bat II that we had to go at once to Building 625, the Dispensary, for shots. So back we went, past 633 for about a block, and stood in line for our shots. Now, as you know, I am not overly joyed at the thought of needles, in any way, shape, or form. As long as I don’t look at them, I’m all right. So there I stood, staring at the ceiling or out the window, trying not to appear obvious, while those directly ahead of me were injected. Then it was my turn. A Wave gave me a shot in my left arm, which didn’t hurt too badly; and then a sailor plunged another one into my right arm. I was afraid he was going straight through.

Well, we then came back to Bat II and changed into our P.T. gear. As we were late for P.T., we had to double-time all the way to Bldg. 45 (a reconverted hanger) with rifles, a distance of about five blocks. Of course, one of our exercises was to run twice around the two hangers.

Comes the afternoon, and I got to march in my first parade. Every Friday a class graduates, and all the cadets (825) hold competitive drill. It is a long and tedious affair, through the entire length of which you must stand at Parade Rest. So there we stood, one hundred men of our section (Dog), in the blazing sun (which, fortunately, would be cast over by a cloud every so often). I said one hundred men at Parade Rest (which isn’t as stiff as Attention, but just as grueling)—I should have said ninety-nine; Pete Roberts (who used to room with me in Indoctrination) was casually surveying the countryside while everyone else stood rigidly with eyes front. After about twenty minutes, everyone was sweating like mad, and the guy next to me began weaving back and forth. A Sergeant came up and told him to stand up straight, which he did. In about two minutes, he was weaving again. The sergeant saw he was sick and told him to squat down; our section leader, in the row ahead and five men to the right, fell forward like a tree, flat on his face. They hauled both of them away, and we went on standing at Parade Rest. Several men were sick last night and today, but no more collapsed during the parade. As I always say, life may not be much fun around here, but it certainly is never dull. I dread P.T. It is my personal hell on earth. The thing I really loathe are push-ups. I simply cannot do them (the average during a P.T. period is forty). We have been marching back and forth to P.T. with rifles lately, which is a minor torture in itself. To keep going, I write Mental letters—it may sound odd, but it helps.

Monday we get to run the obstacle course again—then we begin swimming class. I have tacked a huge mental note in the back of my mind—it is one of those framed, embroidered expressions like Grandma has on her walls (“Be it ever so humble…,” etc.) Mine says “ALL THIS, TOO, SHALL PASS.”

Every morning at 6:35 we muster out in back of the Bat to march to classes. We carry all of our books in our book-bags, which resemble large briefcases. In the main hall entranceway of Bldg. 633, they have a huge (about 20 feet) plastic aircraft carrier model, which is an exact replica of the Essex. You can see every room, compartment, and passageway in it. It stands in a giant glass case, and when I leave Pensacola, I intend to take it with me—I’ll put it in the basement of my new house.

If you would care to see something hilariously funny, you should stand in 633 while classes are changing. Everyone marches from one class to another, in columns of two. You march at a half-step; eyes straight ahead, book-bags in your right hand. The effect is that of little tin wind-up soldiers, and Chinese coolies with rickshaws. And the halls are filled with them—some going one way and some going another. And all you hear is “shuffle-shuffle-shuffle-shuffle.” Then, supposing you were marching down the right side of the hall, and your classroom was on the left. The column halts when the first two men come abreast of the door; you wait until the way is clear, and then you “left-step,” which is just what it says—the whole column marches sideways until they get to the other side of the corridor. I never get tired of watching. Oh, by the way, there is a picture of the U.S.S. Rockford hanging on one of the corridor walls.

I never sleep with a pillow anymore. Every day we have a room inspection, and the beds must be made just so. Therefore, everyone sleeps on top of the sheets to keep them from getting too messed up. I put my pillow carefully on the dresser every night so as not to get it wrinkled.

I’ve met a very interesting character down south. His name is Jim Crow. He is a barefooted little girl, an old man in coveralls, a well-dressed man in a business suit. I had a nodding acquaintance with him the first day I arrived in Pensacola and rode a city bus. A sign says “WHITE seat from front to rear of coach—colored seat from rear to front of coach—Florida Law.” He is so quiet at times, you are scarcely aware he exists. At other times, he is a vicious, despicable animal.

As I said, at times you aren’t even aware he is around, until suddenly it dawns on you that he is conspicuous in his absence. It came to me in a drugstore, when two well-dressed women came to the fountain. Though there were plenty of empty seats, they stood at the end of the counter and asked for two milkshakes, which the counterman made and gave to them in covered paper cartons. They disappeared then—I don’t know where they went, but they were gone.

It was then I began noticing—the bus, trains, and plane depots with their “Colored Waiting Room,” the restaurants, the theaters (“Colored Entrance” via an outside fire escape to the balcony), the “For Colored Only” taverns (in the slum parts of town, of course). It is most apparent, however, on the transportation systems. Coming back to downtown New Orleans from the amusement park, Pontchatrain Beach, I was almost the only person on the bus as it started back from the end of its run. I sat, as I usually do, about even with the back door. The silver hand-rails along the back of each seat, I noticed, had two holes drilled in the top. I gave it no notice until six Negro teen-aged boys got on the bus. They came to the rear and picked up a wooden sign from the back seat and placed it on the hand rail of the seat across from me. It said “For Colored Only.”

On the bus from Mobile to Pensacola, I sat alone in a seat for two while five Negroes stood in the aisles. A mother and three small children got on the bus; the kids were cute as only colored children can be. One was a little girl about three, in bare feet, carrying a huge handbag. She came grinning down the aisle with her two brothers, who were carrying large bags of groceries. After a few minutes, the little girl, who hadn’t yet learned that Negroes must stand if whites sit, started to crawl up onto the seat next to me. The mother scolded her and started to pull her off the seat, but I said if she wanted to sit there, she was perfectly welcome to. The mother was evidently surprised, and said “thank you,” and the little girl sat clutching the handbag and grinned at me as the bus roared on….

Back in Pensacola, a Negro Marine was the only colored person on the bus back to the base. He sat in one of the side seats like we have at home. Five or six white kids, about ten to fifteen, got on and stood clustered up around the back door. There were a lot of empty seats—the side seat opposite the Marine, and the entire back seat. The bus driver stopped the bus and said “Would you colored folks mind sitting in the back so these people can sit down.”

I pity the Negro sailors, marines and Navcads stationed here. They can live with use, eat with us, and sleep with us, but they cannot ride a public bus with us.

September 19, 1955 Started at 6.35 p.m.

I have a very few minutes before I must begin “hitting the books” again, so I’ll take this time to write you. I didn’t get a chance to write Friday night and here it is Sunday already. The week goes too slowly, and the weekends go too fast.

Before I forget, there is one thing I neglected to mention about New Orleans that I thought was odd—almost every single-unit house is narrow, one-storied, and has three floor-length windows and a door, which is usually on the left side. Most of these also all have shutters which are generally closed. And they invariably all have pillared porches.

This week in P.T. we’ve been having swimming, as I may have mentioned. Friday we all jumped off a twelve-foot platform into twenty feet of water. It was so much fun I sneaked back in line and jumped again. We also got a chance to see the “Dilbert Dunker” in action. At the far end of the pool there is a steep ramp made of what appear to be two railroad ties or I beams. About twelve or fifteen feet up is the “Dunker.” It is an actual airplane cockpit, cut off just in back of the engine. It sits atop the ramp, with pulleys keeping it up. I’ll bet you can’t guess what it’s for, so I’ll tell you. A few weeks before graduating, you get all dressed up in flight gear, which includes parachute and all accessories; you climb up and get in the cockpit. They strap you in, as in a real flight. Then when you’re all nice and cozy, they pull a lever which releases the dunker and you go roaring down the ramp to smash into twenty feet of water. To make things interesting, when it hits the water, it overturns. Now all you have to do is get out of there. They give you one minute and then they come under and get you. Doesn’t it sound like jolly-good, all-around, rip-snorting fun? I can hardly wait (but I’ll try).

Today I wandered over to the Survival Training Building, which is just ahead of the swimming pool. In front of the building is a crashed Corsair. Inside are all sorts of Survival exhibits, from one-man life rafts to an entire PBY (large water-plane). The building is literally built around this plane; one half is inside and the other is out (it is the oddest effect from the outside—the building runs right down the middle of the airplane). The plane is cut away so that you can see its entire interior—they have dummies at the controls and at the various stations throughout the plane. There are exhibits for survival in the sea, in the arctic, and in the jungle. Attached to the building is a greenhouse, wherein grow as many jungle plants and trees as they can fit in, including two banana trees. And out in back, in a large cage, is a six-foot alligator named Herman.

I really wish you could come down and see this place. Which reminds me—I’m going to have a devil of a time getting home Xmas—for one thing, I don’t know when I’ll be getting off, and for another, I don’t know where I’ll be. By December, I should be through with pre-flight (I hope, I hope, I hope) and when pre-flight is completed, they send you to any one of five bases located between here and Mobile, Ala. And I’ll have to have reservations ahead of time, because around Xmas everything that moves, crawls, or flies will be jammed with servicemen.

Well, it seems as how this is my week to be room captain, a nasty job with entails cleaning up everyone else’s mess. If anything is wrong in the room, no matter who did it, the room captain is put on report.

So, with your kind permission, I shall answer the call of the doorknobs. Until next time I am

P.S. Enclosed is a hymn the NavCad choir sings in church every Sunday. It is much prettier with the music, but I thought you might like it, so I tore it out of the hymnal and am sending it home.

Undated and unknown: part of a letter? Just notes to me?

One instance I always remember about this time—it was a favorite pastime of the kids in my neighborhood to lay in the back yard and look up at the clouds. There is nothing so wonderful as a child’s imagination—it is relatively “untouched by human hands,” and possesses a true magic; nothing is impossible. The clouds are elephants and ships and trees and dogs—anything. One afternoon, all the other kids were called in to lunch—I stayed in the yard, watching the clouds. To the Northeast was a large, billowy cloud. Suddenly, the cloud split down the middle and parted. There in the center of the rift, surrounded by blue sky and the broken cloud, was a face. I can still see it—I am positive I did not imagine it, and it could not possibly have been part of the cloud. He, whoever it was, had a black curly beard, and very rosy cheeks—his eyes, I think, were blue—he was smiling. He wasn’t looking in my direction; his gaze was to the Southwest—slowly his eyes moved, and at last he looked directly down on me. I can never forget—he stopped smiling; the cloud came together, and he was gone.

September 28, 1954

Today I got the opportunity to play the role of a daring adventurer one always reads and hears about, when I went clamoring about the ruins of Fort Barrancas, one of the three Spanish forts in existence in America. It was first built in the early 1700s by the Spaniards to guard the entrance to Pensacola Bay. Subsequently, it has been held and/or razed at various times by various foreign powers and, most recently, by the Confederate States of America. It is a real “movie-type” fort, complete with a moat and rusty cannon all over the place. It stands atop and in a hill which I’m sure must have been man-made, as Florida is very hard put for hills. The elevation of the station here is approximately eight or nine feet above sea level (Rockford is 834 or somewhere along in there); the first breastwork of the fort, or rather the moat, is at an elevation of seventeen feet. Even on top of the fort there is a large mound of earth, which if located elsewhere than in Florida would appear that the fort had been carved out of the hill—here, however, it looks like the hill was built around the fort. How the cannon ever fired anything for a distance of more than three feet is a mystery to me; and how they could possibly hit anything with those iron bowling balls completely escapes me. There are two major types of cannon, one of which intrigued me; the majority were the regulation 18^th-century type, but the other looks more like a witches’ brewing kettle tipped slightly to one side. One of these monstrosities must have weighed two tons and seemed practically immobile. No wonder it was captured so often

I’m going to take some pictures of it, if the sun ever comes out long enough. I don’t know why, but it blazes like mad during the week and hides behind the clouds on weekends.

On my wanderings along the beach before I stumbled on the fort (which is about a half-mile to a mile from the barracks and set back about two blocks from the water) I had a nodding acquaintance with two crabs and a jellyfish (approximate diameter—l ½ inches). One of the crabs was a plain old brown one which some sailors had managed to chase on shore. The other was white, almost the color of the sand, and practically scared the wits out of me when it went scurrying for the water a few feet ahead of me. It went charging along sideways on its rear claws and at the same time was reared up with its two front snappers up, ready to snap off a toe if I got in its way.

Yesterday was my last day of swimming for a while, and they celebrated the event by making us swim for forty minutes. About ten minutes before we stopped, I got terrific cramps in my calves and couldn’t move my legs on the last laps—I just floated on my back and went about with my arms. They still hurt me today.

This morning, I went to a “sub-swimming” class to try to pass on underwater swimming test I hadn’t passed before. I didn’t pass it today, either. I can’t hold my breath under water.

Well, tempus fudget as it always does, and two days—one really—have gone by. It is now Sunday night—I have just put down a fascinating little text entitled “Aerology for Naval Aviators.” Then, between sentences, I toddled out to my “cleaning detail.”

Unfortunately, the weekends just aren’t long enough. Today turned out pretty well after all, and I got to take all the movies. I sure hope they turn out good—I got a bunch of shots of Florida flora (no fauna this time), took you on a guided tour of Fort Barrancas, showed you where I live (Bat. II), where I used to live (Indoctrination). Then, as a crowning glory, I take you to the waterfront, where we see a destroyer (the first one I’ve ever seen); and then “TA-DA!!” we go on board an aircraft carrier!! I got the biggest charge out of that—I guess I’m still just the same little boy who used to love to go and watch the trains come in—only this time it’s ships.

Well, I’ve got so very much to do and so very little time to do it, I must close now. Until later, I am

P.S. A couple of the guys’ parents have come down to see them—I keep hoping for a grey and white Oldsmobile. Ah, well….

October 2, 1954

This letter was begun on Thursday, and much of the “news” in it will probably be long-past history by the time it is completed. I just went down (this is four hours later) and signed another demerit slip and noticed my handwriting was shaky. That’s what P.T. and military drill will do for you.

People have a habit of looking forward to their tomorrows with mixed and varying emotions. My particular tomorrow is viewed with a vague dread and a too-conspicuous nothingness. The reason is fairly obvious—at least to me. All week in P.T. we have been having boxing. As you probably know by this time, I have a natural, deep-seated aversion to anything that might cause the slightest physical discomfort (which includes most sports—a trait for which dad has never completely forgiven me—and especially fighting). I suppose it all goes back to my broken leg and appendicitis bouts and my various trips to the hospital; from which I’ve developed an intense desire to keep from being hurt. Well, anyhow, tomorrow we’ve got to box competitively, and I’m not wild about the idea.

Now don’t get me wrong—I’m not discouraged or anything like that—and I’ll box (one does a lot of things in the service that wouldn’t be dreamed of in civilian life), but I won’t like it.

However, tomorrows have a habit of becoming today with exacting regularity; my “tomorrow” has come and is now almost gone. I had my boxing class, and I didn’t like it, but I did it. Happily, I did not come out the bloody and battered mess I had envisioned myself—many of my classmates weren’t as lucky. We marched to P.T. with twenty-eight men, and returned with twenty-three.

You know (if you will permit me to get philosophical for a moment) I have always been irritated by the relativity of time. Take this letter, for an example; 36 hours have passed since I started it—yet to you reading it, only five (or less) minutes have gone by. Between two paragraphs are twenty-four hours of worry, and yet they are only two seconds apart on paper. Oh, well.

Monday is moving day for the battalion—I’ve told you before that everyone has been placing odds on whether a hurricane (or any strong wind) would take it down before a fire did. It is one of those cases where you hurry up and repair one wing while the rest of the building sags in the middle, and then repair the middle while both wings sag. Finally, I guess they got tired of stumbling over cadets all the time, and so they’re going to move us down the street two blocks (away from everything) while they patch up this place. Then we’ll move back.

Do you realize that next week is the 8^th week in this hellhole? Pre-flight is already half over (thank God)! Just been thinking, though—we’ll start flying just about in the middle of winter—and it gets mighty cold way up there.

Enclosed is a picture of the Monterey and a little bit of the dock portion of the base. In the background is a little destroyer escort. The helicopters were fluttering over our heads during Friday’s parade and everyone in the parade was far more interested in watching them than in standing at parade-rest. As far as getting any news down here is concerned, I hadn’t even known there was a flood in British Honduras; and, should the South secede tomorrow, the only knowledge I would have of it would be on hearing the guns of Fort Barrancas opening fire on the U.S. fleet.

Well, I think I’d better close now and do some studying. If you would arrange it, mom, I’d like to get the Rockford paper down here—I think they might have special rates for servicemen.

Being in the NavCad band was a wonderful experience, and gave me opportunities to travel the country I’d never have had otherwise.

Wednesday, October 13, 1954

Today we saw a movie in P.T. on How to Survive in the Tundra (semi-arctic regions). It was one of those “how to survive on a broken compass and old fish heads” things. I thought it was terrifically funny (though it wasn’t supposed to be). Of course there were, among the six marooned men, several familiar characters. There was a George Washington Carver who could whip up a tasty dish out of a bunch of rock lichen; a Daniel Boone type, who could (and did) trap everything from a lemming (a glorified field mouse—they are delicious) to a caribou which, unfortunately, they missed—they had set up an ingenious device with two twigs and a 90-lb piece of sod, but the caribou outsmarted them (not a difficult task, I assure you); and, of course, there was the General-All-Around-Genius who could make more things out of one lousy parachute than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio. This latter genius also, in his spare time, made a dandy kite (out of the parachute, of course) for attracting airplanes—I expected at any moment to see him attach a key to it and discover electricity, but he never got around to it.

Now, to answer dad’s questions—I want just my one suitcase, so that when I come home Xmas I’ll have something larger than my duffle bag to pack my things in. Send them (or rather it) any time you want, just so it’s fairly soon. Yes, the band instruments are furnished, and I hope to stay on after moving to Corry or Whiting (which I’ll do on or about Nov. 26).

I surely am glad I joined the band! I told you, I think, all about what we may get to do. November 20 we are going to the Duke-South Carolina game (the Duke-Georgia Tech game would be too soon for us to be ready). We will all be flown to Durham, North Carolina for it. Last Saturday night we played for the Admiral at a football game, and he liked us so well he’s planned a “surprise” for us (which, it is rumored, may be a trip to the Army-Navy game!). Miami is still pending. Nov. 11 we’re to lead a parade in Pensacola. Four days before Xmas vacation, if all goes well, we will be flown to New York City to appear on “Toast of the Town”; then we’ll fly home from there if we want. God, I’d give my life’s blood to get to New York for four days!!

Haven’t been doing much of anything lately except study—haven’t even gone to a show in two weeks! Saturday morning we have band practice, but Saturday afternoon I hope to get downtown to pick up my picture. I hope you like it—it will have to be hung as it is too large to put atop the record cabinet.

Did the movies come? Have you looked at them yet? The large blank space at the beginning is where I had written “Welcome to Florida” in the white sand, but it was evidently too bright. Well, I’d better close for now. I would appreciate your sending some money for new film. (Note—this is the first time I’ve ever written home for money! I’ve gotten $15 from you all the time I’ve been here, and that’s pretty inexpensive if you ask me).

P.S. The paper is coming regularly now—thanks. Did you get any of Chicago’s floods?

Undated, but still in the 8^th week of Pre-flight. Probably begun on the 15^th and finished Friday, Oct. 22^nd, 1954

It is now about 8:45 p.m. on Friday night, and I think I will go to bed—it will be the safest place for me. Tonite has been one of “those” nights; any blue smudges you may notice on the paper are from the stenciling ink I have all over my fingers. It got there when I tried to get the ink I spilled all over the table. In my frantic attempts to blot it up and make sure it wouldn’t stain the table, I rubbed some of the paint off the tabletop. I have a legitimate excuse, though—it was all caused by this darned ringing in my ears, which sounds like a cricket convention in an Iowa field some warm summer night.

The cause of all this trouble was our jaunt this afternoon to the pistol range. The trusting souls who put loaded revolvers into the hands of that group of trigger-happy NavCads were far more naive than sensible. I guess we didn’t do so bad, though. We each fired forty rounds at a ten-inch square target fifty feet in front of us. I hit it a grand total of sixteen times, and haven’t been able to hear ever since. Of course, today being Friday, there was the inevitable parade; this one being a special affair complete with Admiral, top brass, and instructors. If you have ever tried playing a clarinet when you can’t even hear the rest of the band, you can get a vague idea of what it was like.

Yesterday afternoon, or morning rather, I started my very first airplane engine. Unfortunately, the engine was not attached to an airplane at the time. Early (7:00) in the morning we were trundled onto a station bus and driven a mile or two (a real treat—we usually march) to what they call the Test Stand. It is a long, narrow building divided into about seven partitions. Two of these are classrooms, and the other five are engine rooms. These engine rooms are open on both sides of the building; an engine is mounted on the east side of the room, divided by a strong wire fencing. On the west side is a small, partitioned control room. First of all, you go to the classroom, where you’re briefed on starting the engine: Battery switch on, Throttle ½ to ¾ inches forward, Mixture Control lever on Full Rich, Pitch adjuster in High; check wobble pump—emergency hand fuel pump. Prime engine with three or four strokes of primer valve; get all clear signal, and turn on the ignition switch. When the engine starts running, watch your oil pressure gage—you must have at least 40 lbs. pressure in 30 seconds. When oil pressure is up to 50 lbs., set pitch in low (pitch is the angle of the propeller as it turns). Push throttle up till you get 1000 R.P.M., pull it back to 600–700 R.P.M. and make an ignition safety check (to make sure your electrical system is working properly). Increase R.P.M. to 1000 again, watch cylinder head temperature gage for temperature of 100 and oil pressure of 40. Check fuel system (to make sure you’ve got gas in both tanks). Increase throttle to 1800 R.P.M., and make a pitch check, move from low pitch to high…. Well, you can see how it goes.

Speaking of going, almost a week has elapsed since I began this letter—I’ve started the engine once more and played with it three times—loads of fun.

Just returned to the Bat after seeing “Rear Window” to receive the cheery news that a cadet was killed today in boxing class: jolly good sport, boxing. He fought this afternoon, put his gloves away, passed out, and died early tonight. I imagine his parents will be very happy that he joined the program. Thus far, I have survived ten weeks of Navy life; only five more to go. Tomorrow I have an MOD (Mate of the Deck) watch from 12 midnight till 4 a.m., and Sunday from 12 noon till 4 p.m. I go on duty tomorrow afternoon at 4:30 and just sit around till 12.

Next week is what is affectionately known as “The Bloody Ninth.” It is our ninth week of study, and all final exams are held. That means I have a Navigation phase quiz (given once a week) on Monday, a Naval Orientation final also on Monday, an Engines phase quiz on Monday or Tuesday, and an Engines Final on Wed. or Thurs. I don’t know when our Aerology final is.

Bought some film at the Gedunk (Navy Exchange—whey they ever call it Gedunk I’ll never know) tonite and I’ll take it tomorrow. Did you see the other yet? If not, get hot and see them—that’s what I took them for, you know; not to sit around and gather dust. Or, you can hold them till I get home, and I’ll give you a narrated tour.

Took my 40 minute, ½ mile swim today (fully clothed) and almost didn’t make it. My legs have a nasty habit of getting cramps in them about ten minutes before the period ends.

Did I tell you I’m planning on going to Atlanta for Thanksgiving? Whether I do or not depends on several things: a) if I can afford it; b) how long a liberty we have, and c) whether I can afford it.

Hear tell there isn’t going to be an Armistice Day anymore—it’s to be changed to Veteran’s Day (I like Armistice Day better). Wore my dress Blues last weekend on liberty—they really look good—in this Naval District, we wear white cap-covers with our Blues, but in Rockford’s district, I’ll have to wear my blue cover.

Please send some (a lot of) three cent stamps—I’ll try to scrape up enough to mail the picture tomorrow. I was really overwhelmed at your generosity--$5 whole dollars, all my very own (film is $3.25). This morning I plunked out $3.95 for laundry, so don’t ask me where all my money goes. I got the brownies a long time ago and ate them at once—they were very good, but crumbly. Enclosed (maybe, if I remember it) is a letter the band received from the Admiral--and to get a letter from a real live Admiral is really an accomplishment. We received the music to St. Louis Blues March today, and will play it tomorrow.

Well, I’d better close now. Write soon (I haven’t gotten a letter in two days—take that back—got one from Ann Margason yesterday.)

HEADQUARTERS ne2:403:gba
NAVAL AIR BASIC TRAINING COMMAND
U.S. NAVAL AIR STATION
PENSACOLA, FLORIDA 14 October 1954

1. The Chief of Naval Air Basic Training was most pleased with the quick and timely formation of the Naval Aviation Cadet Band and the fine performance on the evening of 9 October 1954 at the Camp Lejeune-Goshawks football game.

2. It is realized that only five days lapsed from the time the band instruments were received at this command and the band made its first public appearance. Ensign L.G. Barnes and members of the band are to be commended for devoting much of their free time to practice and in providing excellent entertainment not only for the personnel of this command and civilians from the local area, but for the guests of the Secretary of Defense who were aboard for a visit in a Joint Civilian Orientation Conference.

Sunday, October 24, 1954

The time is approximately 2:25 a.m. on a pleasant Sunday morning. I am sitting in the BSOOD’s (Battalion Student Officer of the Day’s) office with my tongue stuck out, staring at the reflection of the overhead fluorescent tubes mirrored in the glass desk top. I’ve just finished eating two unbuttered bologna sandwiches (brought in earlier this evening by an RMESS (Regimental Messenger). The sandwiches were washed down with a small carton of milk from a newly-installed vending machine.

I went to bed at 7:30 last night, and got up at 11:00; I don’t know how much more sleep I’ll be able to get today—I go off watch at 4:00 a.m., and come back on at noon. Because Monday is a test day, I really ought to be doing all sorts of studying, but somehow, at 2:30 in the morning, my heart just isn’t in it.

Today, in the three hours I had free Band practice from 8-10, Extra Academic Instruction from 10–12, lunch till 1, on duty at 4. I took another roll of film. I most certainly hope they come out better than the last ones. This time I took pictures of all sorts (2) of airplanes, the two corrugated-iron hangers around which I’ve run about 30 times, a few scattered bits of flora, a passing schooner, the Monterey (again—this time I didn’t go aboard), a destroyer, and some odd looking ship I’d never seen before. Some porpoises were playing just off the edge of one of the slips (wharf or dock) but I didn’t get a chance to photograph them. Oh, yes, I also got about five feet of a blue jay in a palm tree, which will be very pretty if it turns out. And then there is about two feet of some friends (the one on the left is from Chicago and came in when I did—Jim Oakey) and about three inches of me. If I ever get a splicer when I get home I’ll have a production that will put Cecil B. Demille to shame. Also I got a shot or two of what I usually have to go through Saturday afternoons—“extra military instruction.” (I especially hope those shots turned out, though they don’t last long.)

Called last night and made reservations on the Dec 17^th plane (7:45 p.m.) to Chicago. Round trip will cost me $95.00, and I’ve got to have it in by December 3^rd. So the sooner you can get it down to me, the better it will be—as I said, there will be 825 cadets scrambling to get home that night, and so I’d best get my “order” in soon.

Speaking of the carrier (as I was about two minutes ago), we will be going out on a trip on it a week from Wed. or Thurs. That ought to be fun. I want to buy some fore film for that occasion. (HINT)

Band got “St. Louis Blues March” and “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” today—they sound good, though the “Blues” is awfully hard. It is the exact arrangement that we have at home, so just listen to it and you’ll know what we sound like…well, maybe not quite that good, but almost. Well, I guess I’ve just about talked myself out for now. Regards to Grandpa, and kiss Stormy for me.

P.S. Are you saving my letters like a good little girl, mother. Also, thanks for the stamps, but I could still use some more. Poppa could try pushing a pen a little more frequently.

Friday, October 29, 1954

Well, here it is Friday night again; the “Bloody Ninth” is over, and I am to be listed as one of those missing in action. I was last seen going down on the slanting decks of the U.S.S. Navigation.

As a result, I went today before the Academic Director, along with about ten other members of my class. I was granted one week of extra instruction, at the end of which I shall take another test and, if I pass it, be placed in the ranks of Class 34. Extra instruction means, in this case, eight hours a day of navigation for five days, to be given in the Black Hole of Pensacola—a windowless, airless room in Building 633 for village idiots like myself.

I really don’t mind going back except for the fact that I’ll feel bad about leaving good old 33 Dog. That and the week farther away my wings will be placed. I won’t be moving from Batt II until late next week, at any rate.

I’m quite proud of myself as far as P.T. goes, though. This morning I swam one mile, which is no mean accomplishment, I can assure you.

Tomorrow I have a 24 hour pass, which will be spent in Pensacola. If I can afford it, I’ll get a room in town tomorrow night and sleep all day Sunday. Also tomorrow I’ve got to check on my plane reservation and see about that other picture.

Speaking of pictures—I’m glad you liked the one I already sent. You said last night that you thought I’d changed—I have.

Actually, my life—the old one—ended abruptly the morning I stood on the porch and said goodbye. I don’t even surprise myself anymore—I have, for instance, grown accustomed to picking wee beasties out of my food and continue eating—with much less gusto, I’ll admit, but the mere fact that I do it would have revolted the old me no end. However, when I come home, don’t attempt to flavor my food with such delicacies. I rather miss the old me—the new one is too blasé (spelling?)—I’m no longer quite the wide-eyed little boy I used to be; it has its advantages and disadvantages, I suppose, just as everything else.

I have come to the conclusion that whatever life is—it’s real; and this is quite disillusioning to an old romanticist like myself. When you learn that your fairy castles are made of cold stone and that the roof leaks and the fairy princess has a lousy temper and the prince charming is allergic to horses, things just lose some of their sparkle.

The reason for this lengthy and perhaps confusing dissertation can be traced to a trait of mine (and I consider it a good one) to be able to be put into a mood by music—I used to do it at school all the time—if I wanted a studying mood, I’d play one kind of music; if I wanted to be silly or happy, I’d play another. Well, the guy across the hall has a phonograph and has been playing Ravel’s “Bolero” (another record I want) and other, more reflective music.

Besides, I like to ramble on every now and then, just for kicks. Trouble is, the only one who understands me is me. Oh, well…. Got back another (the other) roll of film—it turned out even better than I’d expected. There are only three or four spots ruined by the sun, and the others are excellent, if I must say so myself. You should see me when I take pictures—I’ll wander around something for five minutes sometimes before I take a picture of it, looking for what I think is the best angle. Still think I should have been a photographer. The shot of the sign “vehicles prohibited…” was a little off. That sign is right in back of where I live, and it shows the “grinder.” It was taken Saturday afternoon, and you can see the poor souls who got demerits marching them off. The building at the very far end of the grinder is Indoctrination. Unfortunately, the camera acts as a sort of telescope-in-reverse, and things I take fairly close up look far away. The shot of the waterfront and the “Fish at your own risk” sign is supposed to show a passing schooner, but it looks small on the film. Sure, I have no doubts that they would send the film home if I asked them, but I want to see it, too, and I don’t want to wait till Xmas.

Monday, November 1, 1954

This isn’t going to be a pleasant letter—at least not the first part of it—mainly because it deals with a very unpleasant subject.

In class 25, which graduated about four weeks ago, I got to know several guys; one of them our platoon leader—a quiet guy from California named Franson. He was Norwegian and reminded me vaguely of Zane.

Today, at Corey Field, he and his instructor were taking off—Franson was at the controls. Something happened and he got “shook” as we say; he pulled the nose up sharply—it began to stall—he got more nervous and pulled back on the stick as hard as he could….

The instructor is still alive--Franson resembled a department store dummy that had been hit by a truck.

Death comes in many forms, and is unpleasant in any of them—it can be remote, where someone dies in some futile little war in a nameless country; or it can be personal—like Uncle Buck. Franson was a third type—a vague mixture of the two others. He was no great friend, and yet again, he wasn’t a statistic in the newspapers.

Everyone, I am told, has an intense desire to live—that is one habit or trait I have acquired, and is very deep-rooted. Truthfully, I don’t see how the world could get along without me.

The guy across the hall is playing bop, and I loathe bop! To me, music is something you can hum or whistle; bop is like a surrealistic painting done by a lunatic.

Sorry if I sound morbid—I didn’t mean to, but I get “shook” when it comes to things like that. Death, like life, is also very real, and I suppose I must learn to accept that idea. Tomorrow, no doubt, on the commanding officer’s desk at Corey will be five or six letters requesting permission to D.O.R. (Drop On Request). It always happens when a serious accident occurs.

The command is always very unhappy when someone is inconsiderate enough to go and kill themselves; especially around the holidays; for then guys get to thinking about their families and girls and things, and decide that two years of rough Navy life is better than five months of glory that will end in flames at the end of a runway. Don’t worry, dad; I’m not considering DORing—but should I ever, it won’t be because I disliked the idea of dying—rather that I loved life more (a paraphrase from “Julius Caesar”—Act II, Scene V; I think). Anyhow, which would you rather have—a dead hero or a live nobody?

Well, now if I’ve made everyone perfectly miserable, I feel a bit better. And I’m not discouraged—just a wee bit suspicious of the workings of this old world. Cheer up—I have.

P.S. Remember how I used to be when I was smaller; get all broke up any time I’d see a dead cat or dog? Well, I’ve put on the hardened shell of growing up; but I think I leak a little here and there….

Hope to mail the picture tomorrow. I’ll write more when I can;, and in a much less serious mood, I hope.

P.P.S. Plane lands Chicago Midway airport 6:35 a.m. Dec. 18, 1954; I’ll have to leave Jan. 1.

Wednesday, November 3, 1954

Just read your letter and thought I’d better take some time off to answer it right away. First of all, poppa, don’t get shook. I’d like to play a little game with you called “Simple Mathematics for Fathers of Struggling Navcads.” Now—we get $50 every 16 days—that figures out to be about $2.85 a day (and believe me, we earn every penny of it). Laundry averages about $1.25 per day (you’ve got to get everything washed after its first wearing—a clean outfit every day). That neatly cuts my daily wages down to $1.60 per day. Figure in other little items (.50 a day for personal stuff—shoe laces, food, etc.). Now we’re left with $1.19 per day clear (AAAAAALMOST!) Then we throw out $10 for one picture, $7 for another, $4 for a band party, etc. See what I mean? Also, Christmas is coming up. Sure, I could have paid my own way home--and gotten you both a penny stick of bubble gum hand-wrapped in some old newspaper.

My “trip” to Pensacola (distance five miles) was fabulous, and I spent gobs of money on two shows and a room at the YMCA so that I could sleep Sunday morning (a shocking extravagance, I will admit).

And if you are under the fond illusion that I am going to spend the four day Thanksgiving holiday cooped up in this scenic spot, you can think again. It’s like you going down to work on a Sunday, just to sit by your machine and twiddle your thumbs.

In conclusion, I shall sum up my case thusly—I’m not saving money hand over fist because I haven’t got it to save; secondly, I feel that on those very rare moments when they let me out of the grist mill, I like to stretch my legs (just for a moment, though).

Now, about my “extra administrative time” fiasco—don’t worry, it happens to the best of NavCads. Most of my instructors have spent several of their happiest Pre-Flight days in extra-time classes. First, you go to the Academic director, who automatically gives you a week or two. Then, if you flunk again, you go before the Speedy Board, which can give you two weeks more; finally, you go before the Admiral who, if he wants, can keep you here till 1997, or till you pass. Clear? Good.

The suitcase arrived—at least it’s in Pensacola. They can’t deliver it to the base (afraid of smuggled A-bombs and Russian spies, evidently). So I have to go down and pick it up. However, we’ll be working for the next three Saturdays to make up for Thanksgiving.

Sorry, mom, if I sounded “quite cynical”—but that’s just the way I am. By the way, be sure you keep track of all my letters—not just the sweetness-and-light parts.

Well, I think I’d better get over to supper and then to some more “extra instruction” (eight hours a day and two hours a night—fun?!?!?!).

Enough now—I’ll write more later. Also sorry if I sounded gruesome last time, but I still have a nasty habit of feeling things.

Friday, November 6, 1954

And so another Friday sinks slowly behind the horizon, leaving your humble son two weeks behind, but not much the wiser. Took my Nav. Test again today—missed passing by one point. So I went before the Academic Director again (he’s getting to be a familiar face in my routine); was given the chance for an immediate re-exam, which I took. The final returns aren’t all in yet, but it looks like I’ll be spending another week in Navigation. And next time, I’m afraid I’ve “had the course” as we say. It seems that the Powers-That-Be are being urged by the Powers-Above-Them to put the screws on anyone with a low average. It is one of those perennial crusades wherein many heads will roll to appease the angry gods. They dislike losing as many planes as they have been lately, they claim, to low academic averages in Pre-Flight. Pilots they don’t mind losing, but planes are expensive.

(The above paragraph is what might be called the softening up process before the final blow falls. If you see me coming home in a blue bell-bottomed sailor suit and a white hat, you won’t be too surprised.)

Called tonite to make reservations for Rockford. God, I could practically walk home in the time it’s going to take me to fly—a four hour layover in Atlanta and two hours in Chicago. I’ll get into Rockford about 8:20 Saturday morning, Dec. 18. You will meet me at the airport, won’t you; or should I take a cab home?

Happy news hour—a guy in our class (Charlie company) got his neck broken today in wrestling! The cold wind of misfortune seems to be blowing strongly around here, getting uncomfortably close to yours truly. As you may have guessed in the twenty-odd years of our acquaintance, I am one of those unfortunate people who is classified as “accident prone” (scientifically proven that some individuals are actually more likely to have accidents than others). Also unfortunately, many of the accidents are of a “permanent” nature. You’ve heard of the old trick question of what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? I’ll be something of a living example of this should something happen—what happens when something that wants to kill someone meets someone who refuses to die? Sorry—I seem to be ranging on the rim of morbidity lately. Well, it isn’t morbidity—it’s realism.

Enclosed is a cut-out of the base paper showing some of our beloved sergeants. I have had every one of them except the one in picture 5. These photographs are really quite remarkable—I’ve always been under the impression that ghouls, werewolves, vampires, and sergeants do not photograph. Picture 1 shows my two buddies, sergeants Calahan and Jones enjoying their favorite pastime—chewing some poor devil to shreds. Picture 2 was taken in the Batt Watch Office where I wrote that letter at 3 a.m. or so. The sergeant at the left is the one I dumped a water fire-extinguisher on. Well, I’d better close now—tomorrow is a full working day, and I’ve got to get to work, and bed.

P.S. I don’t have access to a projector to view my films. I use the old “unravel and squint” technique.

November 14–25 1954

Though I really can’t afford the time, I can’t let such an “important occasion” as my twenty-first birthday go by without any comment.

I don’t know what I expected—what sort of metamorphosis or symbiosis would take place—perhaps I didn’t at all. The day passed, as do most days around here, frantically and without distinction--I took in a movie (White Christmas—Bing Crosby, Rosemary Cloony, etc.) which was very good and proceeded to make me briefly very homesick. Homesickness is something that does me no good, so I never let it bother me (with exceptions such as the above).

Tomorrow the First Lord of the British Admiralty is arriving—perhaps with the Queen Mother, which is just scuttlebutt so far, but it is possible.

Enough for now—I’ll write more when I get the chance—I just had to say something on my 21^st birthday—Goodnight, sweet Prince—may flights of angles guide thee to thy rest….

This letter was begun, obviously, on November 14. It is now November 24—Thanksgiving. I’ve never eaten Thanksgiving dinner off a metal tray before, and I can’t say as I would care to make it a regular holiday habit. I’ve got the menu, which I’ll bring home with me—we had shrimp cocktail, ham, turkey, potatoes, fruit cake, mince meat pie, etc. It was quite good, considering.

Well, as of today, my military career has lasted exactly three months, one week, and four days.

By changing civilians into soldiers, sailors, and NavCads, they have been very effective and methodical to try and root out any traces of individuality one may have, the end result being a well-oiled machine that has all the freedom of a Mark VIII computer, if not the intelligence.

Ann Zubas said to me before I left “Don’t let them change you” and I assured her no-one could. However, they’re trying their best. I must say I don’t care for it—at all. I may not have been perfect, but darn it, I liked me that way. Now I don’t know what I am. I only hope you can recognize me.

Well, it won’t be long now—only three weeks or so. And I don’t mind saying I’ll be mighty glad to get home. Only two more finals to take—I’m right on the borderline in one of them (Principles of Flight); I hope I pass it. Florida weather isn’t bad, but I have nothing to compare it with, so I can’t tell if it’s warm or not. Usually in the morning it is cool enough for a jacket, but it warms up in the afternoon so that you can run around in shirt sleeves (though it isn’t hot by a long shot).

Did I ever tell you our daily routine? Probably, but I’ll tell you again. Reveille is at 0530; everyone hops out of bed the minute it sounds. Because you can never tell when the RDO (Regimental Duty Officer—a Captain (marine) or Lieutenant (Navy usually) may come around, and if he catches anyone in bed, they go on report; which means twenty demerits and four hours on the grinder. Up, wash, and get dressed in P.T. outfits (khaki shorts, blue and gold reversible shirt; sweat gear is of thick grey cotton material (I think it’s cotton)—this is worn over the shorts and shirt, naturally). Beds have to be made by 0600—as I seldom sleep under my sheets anyway this doesn’t take me too long. The room has to be cleaned every day before morning formation (0630); swept, dusted, brass polished, sink and mirrors cleaned, waste basket emptied, etc. You can see why I haven’t eaten breakfast since I moved into the Fourth Battalion. At 0625 the five minute warning for formation goes down, and we all muster on the grinder. Two days a week they hold inspections, where you must stand like automatons while class and regimental student officers go up and down each rank, straightening hats (the caps must not have “dips” in them, but must be highly starched so that they don’t sag) and putting various people on report for not having brass polished, shoe laces dirty, shoes not shined, collar anchors on upside down (the loops on the anchors must be pointed up), etc.

After formation we “run the gauntlet” as I call it. Only the Fourth Battalion does it, and it is really pointless. Each section marches between two rows of the class officers, while said officers yell at everyone (“Straighten up there;” “Leshock, get in step;” “Crummy looking section;” “Third man second rank wipe that grin off your face.”). Since 34 is now the senior class, we stop after running the gauntlet and help jeer at the other sections. Then the class officers come and join the ranks and we march to P.T., which is about four blocks away. Sometimes we walk along the edge of the bay, in back of the hangers. After P.T., at about 0840, we go to the Regimental Armory and draw swords, to practice for our graduation. When we get our swords, we march all the way back to the Batt, and after practice we march back to the Armory (which is in Batt I), put away our swords, and march back to the Batt. By now it’s 0940. We go in, take off our clothes (in the hall so that we don’t get lint all over our floor), take a shower, get into the ‘uniform of the day’ (“Clean starched Khakis, low cut brown shoes, field scarves (ties)…”) and are allowed to study until 1030, when we march to chow. This is when we get our mail; by the way, I’m now 34H’s mailman.

At 1120, we muster outside Batt I, across the street from the mess hall, and march to classes, which start at 1130. Whenever an instructor enters the room, everyone must snap to attention and remain there until told to be seated by the instructor.

Classes are over at 1600 (4:00—just subtract 12 from any hour over 12 and you’ve got the right time). Then, at 1615 we have band practice. This lasts until 1800; we eat supper, back to the Batt or to band study hall and study till 2115. Taps at 2200.

Well, enough for now—I’ll write tomorrow or so (can’t remember what I haven’t told dad—next time).

Monday, November 29, 1954

I have time (where it comes from or how I don’t know) to dash off a short note, partially to make up for my long silence. Saturday (no, Friday) I went down and helped Eastern Air Lines buy a new DC-6. And it only cost me $112.90—I had to pawn some old family heirlooms to be able to get my ticket. I cashed my last government check ($50.00) and when I came home I had a little over twenty left! $17 for the plane, plus $5 for a new head for my razor.

Saturday night the band played for a football game—did fairly well, even though we had to compete with the drill team and the Pensacola High School Band, which was really terrific. After returning to the base, I was in one of my “moods,” if it could be called that, and felt like taking a walk. It was raining like mad, but I like to walk in the rain. By this time it was 11:40; a bus came by heading for town, so I took it. Oh, well—it’s fun to be different every now and then.

Just think—only about ten or twelve more days in this place—and only seventeen days more till I come home—I’ve been away so long the very thought of home doesn’t even sink in. I’ll have to believe it when I see it.

I’m sorry if every time I write I seem to be in a bad mood, but at the moment, I could cheerfully DOR and be done with this …*@…program. It has been proven that certain people are “accident prone”—well, I am “frustrating situation prone.” Nobody, and I mean NOBODY can get into the trouble I do in as short a time and with as little effort. At the moment I am not sure if I will ever get through this program (and I don’t care—“at the moment”). I am, as usual, on “academic probation” (—not being set back a week). Every night I go to band study hall. Also every night the battalion has its own study hall, for men who are on academic probation. Band study hall is supposed to excuse you from the battalion “stupid study,” as it’s called. The only drawback to this is that no-one bothered to tell the battalion captains; as stupid study is compulsory, and since I was not there, I was put on report, and chewed out by the captain.

After telling appropriate people, I was assured that the captains would be told and demerits canceled, which they were. So tonight, I went to band study hall, to return to the battalion and face another report chit; tomorrow I must see the same captain who chewed me out before and who evidently still hasn’t been told that I’m excused. And Battalion 4 is noted for its sweet and gentle captains.

Well, here I am again, a day later and no wiser. Went to speak to the Captain, forgot to sound off properly, and was given another five and one. If my demerits were Confederate money, the South would rise again.

Another day—by now its Wed. I think I’m in a little better spirits, but I really can’t tell. Only two more finals and I’m through! You know, it’s funny how the band can pick up my “lagging spirits.” Last night at band practice we got a whole bunch of new music—Song from Moulin Rouge, Tchaikovsky’s “Nutcracker Suite” (which is one of my favorites) the Triumphal March from Quo Vadis, which is fabulous, Slaughter on Tenth Avenue, and some others which we didn’t get a chance to play. Since the band is now officially recognized by the Navy, we get free music every month from Washington.

The Admiral received a letter from NBC saying that Arthur Godfrey wasn’t on that week-end, but asked how we would like to play a half hour show of our own. So that’s the latest. Now, if we play, you’ll be sure to see us (you’d better). It’s only ten days or so away, though, so there’s a possibility we won’t be able to be ready. We also don’t know the date or time yet for sure.

Well, as I’ve said before, the days till I graduate are rushing by (though they can’t rush by fast enough to suit me); and this being one of those days it is also rushing by, I’d better get busy and study if I want to pass those finals. Hope to have more time to write in the future—I know I will once I get out to Corry.

P.S. Do me a big and important favor, will you? Take my clarinet down to American House of Beauty (or Music, whichever it is) and have it cleaned and checked. Please do this as soon as possible, ‘cause it will no doubt take a few weeks. I’ll be bringing it back with me after Xmas.

December 1, 1954

Two letters in one day—you are in luck! (HAH). I really don’t have the time, but I guess I have sounded pretty glum in the last few letters.

Well, actually, that’s the only thing I have to write about that’s out of the ordinary. As to poppa’s references to “my troubles”—I haven’t the vaguest idea what he means. I don’t have any “problems” that I know of—just this Navy life in general. And as it’s being “too tough” for me…it is tough—damn tough (pardon my crudeness, but it’s the best explicative I could think of), and I’ll be very proud of myself if I ever get through this program.

See, I have to sit down here in sunny Florida and take all the dirt and mud and garbage the Navy can throw at me. Probably it is harder for me than for most of the other guys down here because I was always so choosy (“But mom, I don’t like carrots.”). And the only way I have of blowing off steam is in my infrequent letters home. Sorry if you have to take the brunt of my woes, but that’s partially what mommas and daddys are for—no? So—just take my idiosyncrasies with a grain of thought—like a hangover, I always feel better in the morning.

I could take up talking to myself, but I always end up in a violent argument with myself so that I find it futile.

I remember when I was little, I used to talk to Momma (the cat—remember her?), especially when you’d send me to the store at night. Instead of whistling in the dark, I’d call Momma and talk to her. Wonder whatever became of her? Anytime I’d whistle “Shines the Name of Roger Young” (remember that one—an old World War II favorite) and no matter where I was, Momma would come to me—within a radius of a block of 328 Blackhawk Ave., that is. Then one day I whistled for her and she didn’t come—I still miss her after all this time.

My roommate (one of them) is sitting here pouring over his navigation, saying “Why can’t I be brilliant? Why, darn it, why? This is a miserable *@ life.”

I can be an officer, but I don’t particularly care to be. They have about as much “individuality” as an Egyptian water buffalo. And as for “molding character” I think I should have an idea of what kind of a character I want to be molded into. Don’t kid yourself—the Navy is not my calling or my career. One the happiest days of my life will be the day they slap the discharge into my grubby little hand.

By the way, I expect to be picked up at the airport in a shiny new Cadillac—I don’t care too much for the new Olds’—not enough change. I don’t know what I’m going to wear when I get home—the only thing the Navy will authorize you to wear are your Blues and Greens--and I have no jacket for the Greens. It will seem so funny to get into civilian clothes; after four months.

P.S. As Confucius says: “Let’s play NavCad—you lay down and I’ll kick you.”
P.P.S. Only 17 days, 14 ½ hours, and I’ll be home.

December 7, 1954 (Tuesday)

Well, it’s over! At long last, after fifteen long, grueling, tedious, torturous, horrible weeks. I still can’t believe it—my mind is still muddling through that sea of molasses the Navy has managed to make of an ordinary day.

This morning we had our last two finals—Principles of Flight and Celestial Navigation. I was really worried about P. of F., because if I flunked this test I would flunk the course, and would not be able to go to New York. But I passed it—by a narrow margin I’ll grant, but nevertheless I passed.

Instead of graduating with my class on Friday, we members of the band will be handed our diplomas on Thursday afternoon, and will move to Corry Thursday night. The thought of not going through the pomp and ceremony of graduation doesn’t hurt me in the least. I have always pictured myself marching up the stairs of the reviewing stand, which is always crowded with admirals and captains and things, and just as I’d get to the top step, I’d trip over my sword scabbard and fall flat on my face. It’s probably never been done before, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t do it.

Friday morning at 0800 we take off from Corry Field for New York—God, how wonderful that will be! We’ll land at New York about 1500 (3:00 p.m.). That night we’ve got to play a concert at the band director’s old prep school somewhere outside the city. Friday night, and Saturday, we’ll be staying at the Brooklyn Navy Yards (doesn’t that place sound like it will just reek with charm and hospitality?).

Saturday evening I’m trying to get tickets to “The Pajama Game”—Ensign Barnes’ mother is going to pick them up. If I have any time Saturday Afternoon, I’d like to see another; preferably “The Boy Friend” (a terrific take-off on musicals of the 20s).

No TV show, which didn’t surprise me too much. NBC wouldn’t tell us what kind of show they wanted, and besides we couldn’t have been ready anyhow.

Sunday morning at 1000 we leave for Pensacola, arriving back here around 1500. Then, in five days, two hours and forty-five minutes, I’ll be boarding another plane—for good old Chicago!

Now for news on the home front—good lord, I didn’t expect a new car; I realize we aren’t that rich yet.

Well, parents, I guess that is about all for now. I’ll be seeing you in a while. Till then

P.S. I’m not expecting anything for a graduation present, but a new car would be nice, now that I’ll be at an outlying field with no way to get into town, and….

10 December 1954

Let there be music and singing in the streets—I have just graduated from Pre-Flight. Though I haven’t yet gotten my diploma, eight of us were informally but uniquely graduated. The usual procedure is for the sixty or so members of the graduating class to line up on the parade ground, in front of the assembled battalions, march up onto the reviewing stand, take their diplomas, shake hands with the captain and march off—a mechanical process, turning out Officer Candidates at the rate of ten a minute.

This afternoon we drew flight gear—the apex of a Pre-Flight NavCad’s career: it means the end of groveling beneath sergeants’ heels; it is one rung higher on the ladder of military evolution. With the drawing of flight gear, the realization springs into the NavCad’s mind that, at last, he is actually going to get near a real honest-to-goodness airplane. Oh, he sees airplanes every day—from a respectable distance, and he knows them intimately—he’s played around with carburetors, and feeder springs and magnetos. But they are as unlike a real airplane as the preserved specimens in a biologist’s laboratory.

The magic words “Flight gear” consist of several items, all quite awesome in their own way. First, you are issued gloves. At least that’s what I think they are—perhaps they are just glove lining—they are tight fittings and of a car chamois (spelling?) material. Then come the goggles. Next the “summer suit”—an ingenious piece of clothing that covers the entire body except for the head, hands, and feet, and has more zippered pockets (upper left arm, both legs below the knees, etc.) than you can imagine. Its closest counterpart in civilian life would be the full coveralls mechanics and sometimes factory workers wear.

Next comes a leather jacket with a fur collar—mine looks a bit like a worn rug. And then—the helmet. That large, faded gold helmet that makes the head appear twice as large; and on it the Navy wings. Actually, the helmet is in two parts—the inner lining, which contains the earphones (which are like large flattened donuts—or huge powder puffs with the centers depressed). This inner lining fits and looks a bit like a 1924 bathing cap—looks something like the helmet Amelia Earhart always wore in her photographs. Onto this part fits the connections leading to the radio and transmitter.

The outer shell is of some hard material—I don’t think it’s metal, but it most likely is. It looks like a football player’s helmet, only more so.

As soon as I finish this letter, which will be almost immediately, I shall run down to the telephone and call you. I’ll probably repeat myself quite often, especially from here on out.

Tomorrow morning, dark (0615) and early, we shall leave scenic Pensacola for glorious New York—where, it is rumored, there is an odd substance called snow (a sort of atmospheric dandruff, I believe). I’m afraid I shall spend far more money than I should, but then I usually do, much to father’s dismay. Oh, well, you know I have a champagne taste on a water income.

Well, enough for now. I’m going down to call and I’ll mail this at the same time. It is 7:30 and poppa should be home by now. If he isn’t it’s his own fault.

P.S. My new address (which I’ve already told you on the phone—or rather will have told you by the time you get this) is

Undated (Probably December 12, 1955, returning from a band trip to New York)

I am writing this at about three o’clock in the morning while stranded at the Pautuxant River Naval Air Station. The forty or so other band members sharing my involuntary exile are sprawled in various attitudes over the floors, tables and chairs of this, the Administration Building, or terminal.

At approximately 12:50 while flying at an altitude of three to four thousand feet, the plane began to vibrate and the number two (left wing inboard) started coughing blue smoke. It became increasingly obvious that we had three choices open to us; four really—we were closer to New York than to any other landing field, but we did not turn around and go back, mainly because of the Navy tradition of “never turn back.” Therefore, we had three alternate choices—to land at Pauxtant River, Maryland; go on sixty miles farther and land at Washington, DC, or land somewhere between Washington and Pensacola in some choice swamp or on a forest-covered mountain. We could have made it to Washington quite safely without the wing falling off, but the pilot preferred to land at Pauxtant River, uttering the memorable words “service would be too slow in Washington.”: That was at 1:00 (1300)—at 1330 we set down at Pax. River, a service spot, 59.5 miles from anywhere. It is now 0320 and they still don’t know what is wrong. By a process of elimination, testing each little part individually, they should be through with their diagnosis by Friday.

0415 And still nothing. NavCads under, over, and on everything—a few valiant souls still awake, but look like leftovers from a zombie convention.

It snowed earlier tonight—the first real snow I’ve seen this winter. If this letter seems a bit incoherent at times, you must take the time into consideration.

Would you like to hear of my trip to New York? No? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. By the way, before I forget, did I tell you I am the official journalist for the band? I keep the log and write up accounts of our trips for the Commanders and Captains and such.

Well, onward—the trip from Pensacola took about five or six hours. We left Florida at eight and were in New York by two (three Pensacola time).

We landed at Floyd Bennett Field, on the outskirts of Brooklyn. From there busses took us to the Brooklyn Navy Yards, where we stayed at the Receiving Station. It took us exactly one half hour to unload the busses, stow our gear, draw linen, make our bunks, wash, and change clothes, and sign out for liberty.

I naturally rushed to Times Square (via a 40 minute subway ride) and headed for the nearest theatre. “The Boy Friend” was sold out, as was “Fanny,” “Victor Borge” (in his second year as a one-man show), and almost everything else. I did get a last minute ticket to “The Solid Gold Cadillac,” which was quite good and very funny.

After the theatre, I roamed down to Rockefeller Center to see the Christmas Tree. It was beautiful beyond words—by far the largest tree I’d ever seen (five stories high, four feet around the base) and it was decorated with foot-round lighted ornaments.

5 January 1955

After our rather hurried farewells, I dashed onto the plane (which, incidentally, was not a super constellation, just an ordinary one), turning twice as I climbed aboard to see you at the window. When I got to my seat, directly behind the wing, I again looked for you but you were gone. I surmised that you had gone to the roof to watch my plane dashing down the runway and winging its way dramatically into the sunset. I hurriedly fastened my seat belt and waited for the coughing roar of the engines. So I waited. And waited. I looked out the window to see if I could see you, but a rival airliner inconsiderately blocked my view. So I waited. And waited. The stewardess came by with magazines. I took one. And waited. The pilot used the intercom to apologize for the delay, visualizing Eastern’s customers rushing to rival air lines next time they went anywhere. It seems that one of the baggage doors in the belly of the plane wasn’t shutting properly—a small light in the cabin that told the crew when the door was safely shut hadn’t gone on. Fifteen minutes later they came to the conclusion that the light (costing approximately 10 cents at any leading dime store) was burned out.

Long before this discovery, the plane that had been blocking my view had taken off and should, about then, have been over Saigon, and I saw your wind-swept little crew atop the building.

So we took off—I waved like mad, but you didn’t see me. When the stewardess announced that we would arrive in Indianapolis in forty minutes I had a peculiar (but familiar) feeling in the pit of my stomach. My knowledge of geography had failed me for a minute and I thought I was on the wrong plane.

Came Indianapolis, and the man beside me, who had been working on a crossword puzzle diligently ever since he got aboard, left, and a woman of about fifty or so got on and sat beside me. She was flying to Miami for the winter and had just closed her apartment—she’d been flying down for the past eight years; before that, she drove, but driving is so tiresome, don’t you think?

At Birmingham, where we arrived an hour and a half late (neatly lousing up everyone’s plane connections), the steward said there was a plane for Pensacola leaving in ten minutes—there was a mad stampede as everyone who had missed their planes tried to get a seat on it. However, we were informed that a heavy layer of fog was flowing in from the Gulf and may close Pensacola and Mobile, forcing the plane down at Montgomery. I thanked Heaven that I’d decided to come back a day early (Many didn’t make it back till Tuesday morning). We who already had reservations decided we’d just as soon be stranded in Montgomery as in Birmingham, so off we went.

The Montgomery airport building evidently was constructed from two old chicken coops—a cheery place, you can imagine. Fortunately, they said the fog had either dissipated or gone back out to sea, and we arrived back at dear old Pensacola at 9:00.

Pensacola without the Navy is a seaport without a sea. Much as they may dislike us, we have a certain charm they can’t resist—money. The west is not the only place with ghost towns.

Our plane unloaded the first NavCads to return to the city—among the first, at least. We wandered down the streets; a few white-capped blue waves running across the bare shore. By the next day, a small stream of blue and white was again flowing through the town; by night it had become again the familiar river, swirling around the street corners, running into the stores, and bringing with them the ever-welcome green. A waitress where I ate supper admitted that it was dead around town, but added that it was also peaceful. Monday night the fog was back, making haloes around the streetlights; it was really pretty—the neon lights looked as though they were painted—they had no sharp outline, but just melted and faded into the grey. I took a cab back to the base.

Today is Wed. and the fog is still with us—it comes at night and stays until around noon. Then the sun comes out and the day is beautiful; no need for a jacket at all. Now that’s the way I like it!

At last we’ve started! I still haven’t been up yet, but I got into one and was showed how to raise and lower the wheels. The instructor sits in the rear seat at all times, and though he can control and fly the plane, he can’t raise or lower the wheels. Even a simple thing like that is complicated. First you press a lever which is on the floor on your left side, about even with your thigh. Then, by your left knee, there is another lever with a head like a gas cap. It slants to the front of the cockpit. You pull forward on the cap and then pull back on the lever. This brings the wheels up. To make sure they’re up, look out the cockpit and on both wings there is a small window—through these you can see a pin (or should see it) which tells you they are locked. To put them down, press the cap-lever forward, look at the two wing-windows, watch two little tabs beside the lever to see if they move back, and listen for the “wheels down” buzzer.

And so it goes. Tomorrow I go to the bail-out trainer. I’ll tell you about it after.

Letter Undated and Unfinished, but probably a misplaced first draft of the letter above.

Here I am and it’s only Tuesday—however, I’m doing quite well in my promise to write. Unfortunately, I’ve also promised fifteen or twenty others I’d write—I’m devoting all tonite for that purpose, but I probably won’t get half of them written as it is.

The NavCads have re-descended on Pensacola like an inverted explosion, or a plague of locusts. From everywhere—by car, busses, trains, planes, and any other means of transportation they flowed in to the city. Sunday night, when I finally arrived, the city was practically deserted. No blues and whites bobbing around, filling the streets and stores, clustered about on the street corners. Pensacola without the Navy would be like a harp without strings. I was on the crest of the flood, though—by noon on Monday, a small river a blue was flowing into town. The cab drivers welcomed us with open arms—for from the blue came the green which is so sought after by everyone. The clerks in the stores and waitresses in the restaurants admitted it had been slow without us, but added that it had also been quite peaceful.

18 January 1955

It has been called to my attention that your young son, Franklyn, has been a very, very naughty boy—he has been away at camp now for three weeks and hasn’t written. I know you must be terribly worried about him, so I have persuaded him to write you a little note. Now, now, Franklyn—don’t be stubborn—here you are, Franklyn—write mommy and daddy a nice letter about how much fun you’re having here at camp. But you really should you know—Very well, Franklyn, I have no other recourse than to take away your movie privileges for the next three days….

DERE MOM AND DADI AM HAVING A SWELL TIME. I SURE LIKE IT HERE. YESTERDAY I WENT TO THE SHOW. I SURE LIKE IT HERE. TONITE I’M GOING TO THE SHOW. I HAVE BEEN A GOOD BOY AND HAVE NOT DONE NOTHIN MUCH BAD. TOMORROW I’M GOING TO THE SHOW.

Well, enough drivel—let’s get down to the real gore. Yesterday we had our first test in Navigation. I went down valiantly with all hands. Today we had our first Engines test. I passed it, but just barely.

It is raining. It has been raining for two and one half days. I have lost my OD jacket. No one else minds the rain, because they have nice OD jackets to keep them dry and warm. But I don’t have one. I can feel all the little germs and microbes deep down inside holding a secret convention. I think they’re working on something that will make triple pneumonia look like a case of the sniffles in comparison.

I am feeling very sorry for myself. I have been in sheer misery ever since I went to Miami. Oh, not physical misery—mental! It reminds me of the recording of the flaming crash of the Hindenburg, at a complete loss for a description of the magnitude of the disaster cried “Oh, the humanity!” My loss of words is not from quite so gigantic or disastrous an incidence, but rather from for the frustration within me. You are aware, I believe, of my attitude not toward money, necessarily, but toward what it can buy. And what I saw in Miami, which has more billionaires per square inch than any other place in the world, really sank in. The homes and hotels are almost unbelievable; the money behind them and how the money came in is just as strange.

Take, for example, the gigantic mansion of Abner (?) Green—so huge that, after his death is was divided into three separate twenty-room houses! He was the son of Hanna Green, the most miserly character in Wall Street history. She would pick up papers on the subway, copy the stock market quotations, and give the papers to her son, making him go out and resell them to get the 2 cents back. Then, one day, he was run over by a truck. When carried to his mother in their dingy tenement, she refused to send for a doctor, though she had $30,000,000 in the bank! As a result, gangrene set in and his leg had to be amputated. He vowed that after she died, he would spend every penny his mother had ever earned. He had eight homes, of which the one I saw was the smallest. He bought 40 cars a year—five for each home. And when he died, he was almost penniless—leaving only $38,000,000.

But the most fabulous and unbelievable was the Deering Estate. John Deering was left either $24,000,000 or $124,000,000 by his father (when figures are that high, who quibbles about a mere hundred million dollars). He was also left a ½ interest in International Harvester. Young John, bless his heart, never worked a day in his entire life. He busied himself with traveling about, collecting antiques, and it was his dream to build a home that could fit them all.

So he did. It took six years to build. The tiles on the roof are from an entire village in South America (he moved the inhabitants out, removed the roofs of every building, replaced them with new tile, and moved the people back in). He admired a fountain he saw in a little Italian town, and had water piped into the entire town so that he could have the fountain that had formerly been their only source of water.

Since the water in front of his home was only four feet deep, he had his own private channel dredged to the deeper areas of the ocean. In a small cove in front of the house, he had a replica of Cleopatra’s barge carved out of stone (it took four years). On this, musicians would play while lighted streams of water shot into the air. He built the most complete and beautiful gardens in America; on the other side of the house, he dug a network of canals and sent some of his servants to Venice to learn how to be gondoliers. Each morning, the housekeeper-in-charge would open the doors and admit 30 gardeners with armfuls of flowers to place around the house. He once saw a play in New York and liked it so well he bought it and had it moved, lock, stock, and barrel, to his home, where he put it on in his outdoor theatre for friends! He died in 1925, returning from Paris on an ocean liner he had chartered. The house cost so much to maintain that his heirs turned it over to the state, to be used as a museum

Oh, incidentally, I saw all of this while on a boat tour. It was really worth the money. One of the “nicer” homes belongs to a Doctor Stoyer or something, an eye-ear-nose-and-throat man from somewhere called Rockford, Illinois. Ever hear of him?

Played for the Shah of Iran, though we only caught a glimpse of him as he swept into the hotel. The hotel, incidentally, repainted his entire 14 room suite to match his Rolls-Royce.

Weather there ranged from hot (especially in our winter Blues) to frigid (for which we naturally wore our summer trops).

Tell me something—why do all the very tanned women in Miami wear mink coats? To me, suntans and furs just don’t mix. But, then, I don’t have $30,000,000.

Letter undated, early 1955, written apparently to college friend Effie Fowler, though why it is addressed to Miss Wilde I cannot say.

Sorry I don’t have more impressive stationary; I had some with gold Navy wings on the top, but I’ve used it all. I was just getting into bed, curling up with a good book (“SNJ Engineering—Primary Phase”) and suddenly for some reason I thought of you and decided to drop you a little line.

My handwriting has, if anything, deteriorated since high school, as has my spelling. I’m really ashamed of myself, but I’ll try to remedy it when I get back to college.

Local natives were thrown into a mild panic today when an odd white substance began to fall from the skies. Of course, it disappeared almost immediately upon hitting the ground, but it gladdened many a Northern heart. Naturally, it made me violently homesick for a minute or two. Fortunately, I am very seldom troubled with homesickness; never have time, I suppose.

Florida is supposed to be a sort of an earthly preview of heaven, but if it is, it gets mighty cold there. Jan. 17 I was lucky enough to go to Miami with the NavCad band. We got out of the plane in our tropical uniforms and almost froze to death. We were “honored” to play for the Shah of Iran when he arrived in town. The Iranian population of Miami and vicinity was out in force, and the moment he and his wife pulled up in their Cadillac we were nearly crushed in the stampede. I only got a fleeting glimpse as he swept into the hotel. Incidentally, they repainted his 14-room suite to match his Rolls Royce, which arrived ahead of him. It must be nice to have money….

Well, I have been at Corry Field now for five weeks. I’m not sure, but somewhere along the line I got the weird impression that I was a Naval Aviation Cadet, but since I have only been up once in those four weeks (or five weeks), I’m beginning to have my doubts. Oh, I get near them all right. Just this afternoon I spent three hours on the Gas Truck, running up and down the line of planes filling them up with gas. The truck I was on holds 3,000 gallons and had to be refilled twice. So now you can see where some of your income tax money goes. OH, Eff—I meant to tell you that while in Miami I happened to see a little movie called “Aida.” I can honestly say it was one of the most beautiful movies I’ve ever seen. The scenery was out of this world; the color was Italian Ferriniacolor, and even more vivid than Technicolor. The music and singing was remarkable, and the actors and actresses were wonderful. As you may have gathered by now, I liked it.

Even if you hated music, it would still be beautiful. There was no speaking and it was all sung in Italian, naturally (it is just as Verdi wrote it). An announcer comes on in English just before each scene and explains what will happen. Doll, you’ve got to see it! Tell Ted about it, too.

Finals coming up this week—yes, we have them, too. Only instead of being in English 362, ours are on Engines and Navigation. So, if I want to pass (as usual, I’m just on the borderline), I had best get with it.

Please write very soon and I’ll do the same. Until I hear from you, then, I will send

22 January1955

Well, I’m writing, like I promised. However, don’t expect it to be too long, as I’ve got to go to band later this afternoon. Ground school has been cut to just three weeks! Before it was eight or ten! So that means next week is my last week of ground school out here. I’m not exactly broken up about it, but it will be hard to have to take those finals so soon—I’ve got a Navigation quiz Monday, and I’ve got to get a good grade in it or else. We’ve dropped our Aerology course altogether and instead are having a recognition course. We have to learn practically every ship and plane in the United States or any foreign country. They have slides which they flash on the screen at 1/50 of a second, and we’ve got to tell what they are. 1/50 of a second isn’t very long—about as long as it takes you to blink.

I’ve decided that when and if I ever get out of the Glory Boys, I’m going to become a professional Collegian. I’ll go to school for three more years to get my degree in Journalism, then I’ll go four more years and get a degree in something else, and so on. That way I can become one of the most well-educated people in the world. Believe me, when I get back to school, my attitude is going to be completely different from what it was—after all, I’m paying them to go to school—they don’t own me. I can do anything I want any time I want.

The routine around here would probably be of very little interest to you, but I’ll tell you anyway. Reveille sounds at 0530. The COOD (Cadet Officer of the Day) goes on duty about 0500. He picks up the mike that is connected to both barracks, and says “Reveille.” Period.

Now, most of the guys around here don’t like the squawk box blaring at them, so they either disconnect it or stuff it full of paper; so when the COOD calls reveille, nobody hears it. Everyone starts milling around about quarter of six, stumbling off to chow (which is just across the street, to the left). The sky is just beginning to get light in the east, over the hangers. The routine in my room is somewhat different. We never get up until six o’clock. Since we have only one half hour until muster, I never eat, though the chow hall is so close—I don’t mind, though: it’s usually horrible anyway. Well, we all dash around, washing, dressing, making the beds (or “stacking” them—folding everything up and placing it in the middle of the bed). The floor is given a very hasty sweeping, someone runs out with the papers and trash, and there is a general air of ordered confusion. At 0625 or thereabouts, we tumble down the stairs, book bags and plotting boards under our arms, and out the front door. Directly in front of the barracks, which faces east, we have our muster—small groups of ten or twelve with one guy taking roll.

Then we all march the two and a half blocks to the main hangar. This is the center of all the flight operations. On the floor just as you enter through the huge sliding doors (which are only open a crack on cold mornings) is a painted copy of the Standard Field Entry pattern, which everyone must learn and obey if he doesn’t wish to end up running into or being run into by another plane.

In the center of the hangar is the operations desk, where you sign in and out. Large plastic boards tell who the instructors are, and under each instructor the name of his students. After each name is a large area divided into squares for each hour. If you are scheduled for an A-1 hop, this is where you find it and also what time. Also watches and lectures are scheduled on the same board, so that just by looking at it you know what’s going on.

On one side of the hangar are the numerous offices and mail room (stuck away in the Southwest corner, near the sliding doors). On the other side are the Officer-Students and Navcad Ready rooms, where you sit most of the day.

Well, muster is taken again at the hangars by classes—all band members muster by the Safety Notices board. Then, at 0645, we leave for ground school, which is located in barracks just about at the bottom left hand corner of the paper. At 1035, ground school is over. We go and eat dinner (I eat at the Gedunk—bottom right corner) because I’ve usually got a hop scheduled for 1115. Then we go back to the hanger and sit around till either a) we go on our own hop, b) they secure us (which happens on bad days about 1:00), or c) until 2:30, when everybody goes home. I haven’t had a hop all week, and it gets pretty boring just sitting.

29 January 1955

Well, here I am per order. I’m afraid I have neither the time to make it a short novel nor the talent to make it a literary masterpiece. Nevertheless, I am doing my best to keep you informed as to my life and hard times.

Enclosed find a gem from Time Magazine—its coverage of the Shah’s arrival. They seem to have taken a rather dim view of the Sans Souci’s valiant efforts. One or two slight mistakes slipped in in the rush—he didn’t drive up in his $23,000 Rolls Royce—it was there when he got there. I didn’t notice the red carpet, but then I didn’t notice much of all. Fortunately, there was no mention made of the band. Oh, by the way, the Marine Commandant (Lemual Sheppard) was the one we played for at Birmingham. I think I did see the frantic press agent, though. He was bouncing up and down and waving like mad, evidently to get their attention.

I actually got to fly (once) last week. Thursday I couldn’t because my instructor had some duty or other; Friday he had to go to Los Angeles. I have hopes for next week. You know, I like to watch the weather around here. Usually it comes up fast—the day will be perfectly clear and all (or almost all) of Corry’s 208 planes will be out. Then, in the northwest, black clouds will start rolling in, and all the SNJs will flock in, like yellow chicks hurrying home to the mother hen.

And when you do get into the air and look around, all you can see are varying size yellow blobs. It’s a wonder they never collide in midair—especially since the instructor sits in the rear cockpit and can’t see a thing.

My phonograph is on the blink—I’m going to have to take it down town today and see what’s wrong. Also have to buy another needle, and an O.D.Jacket. And you wonder why I don’t save money!

Yesterday afternoon while on our way to band, we noticed a huge, billowing cloud of smoke rising from somewhere in the city. It looked like pictures you see of volcanic eruptions. When we got to Mainside (Pre-Flight) we could look across the bay and see flames. Several freight cars of chemicals had exploded in the railroad yards—firemen who knew a lot about fighting wood fires but very little about chemical fires, poured water on the flames which only made the chemicals burn more fiercely. The reaction caused by the water on the burning chemicals (Sodium-something-or-other) threw another chemical into the clouds of smoke. It turned out that the result was a dust which could eat paint off cars. So all that night the radio kept broadcasting to the area residents to wash their cars and put them away. Fortunately, though, most of the smoke blew out over the gulf—the government would have been very unhappy if the smoke had blown over their pretty yellow SNJs.

Tonight, lucky me, I have a watch from 0200 to 0600 (a.m.) And I also get it next weekend; same hours.

Oh, in case I forgot to tell you—I passed both my finals (just barely). I don’t get it—I’m not stupid, yet I just can’t get some things right.

Well, short as it is, this will have to do for now. I’ll try to write again soon.

P.S. I’ve decided I can’t wait till I get my wings to get a car. When I get to Saufley Field and Barin, I won’t have any way at all of getting into town. So I’ll just have to start saving my money and buy some old heap—anything that will run

February 1, 1955

Yesterday I saw a movie called “The Bridges at Toko-Ri,” a real Gung-Ho-Three-Cheers-for-the-United-States-Naval-Air-Force type thing that will make a tremendous impression on the public in general and a rather adverse one on the young gentlemen who are currently training to be Naval Aviators. As the picture fades out on the teary-eyed fatherly old Admiral, he looks into the screen and says dramatically to himself, the camera, and several thousand viewers—“Where do we get men such as these?” I could tell him!! Be sure you see it, though—it’s quite good, in spite of making all the NavCads DOR-minded.

Today was a beautiful day—all the planes were out—all but one, that is. Number 229 was sitting calmly on the sidelines waiting for me and my instructor. I was scheduled for a 1230 hop—I’d signed out the plane, filled out all the necessary forms, and waited. Well, I waited…and waited…and waited. He never did show up, so at 1415 I called it quits and went home. Saturday afternoon I saw a guy in my class (34) who was out at Whiting—he‘s on his A-15 and here I am on my A-2. So tomorrow, if I haven’t gotten up, I’m going to have to request a change of instructors; and when I say I can’t afford it, I mean it—every day extra I spend here, I lose $10 a day that I’ll be getting when I get my commission

Mother, are you still not smoking? If not, I’m very proud of you—if you have started again then you’d better quit, cause you promised me.

We’re through with ground school as of tomorrow, but I’ve still got 34 hours of Code to put in. I’m having one heck of a time with Morse code—I remember that it is one of the things that kept me from making Second Class boy scout.

As to my “rank”—which father is always inquiring about, I am now a third class cadet; which, comparatively, is about the rank of a snail compared to an ameba—not a very high step up the ladder of evolution, but a small one nevertheless.

13 February 1955

Somewhere in one of the photo albums around the house is a picture of yours truly taken about fifteen years ago. There are three kids in the picture—I think I’m the one on the left. I was wearing a genuine imitation Army Air Force jacket; my pride and joy. At the time, war was a vague word, but to be in some branch of the United States armed forces was comparable to a minor god, or a knight in shining armor. I hadn’t then the slightest idea of what I’d be doing at the age of 12. I doubt that I thought about all—to me (then in third grade) the very peak of mental and physical maturity was the eighth grade.

Nevertheless, here I am fifteen years older and quite a bit wiser. I’ve always thought it unfortunate that the mind lives in the past and the soul in the future, while the body must live only in the present. It’s like riding backwards in a train—you can’t see the view until it’s passed, and by then it’s too late to enjoy it.

Sorry I haven’t been writing as regularly as I should have been, but as I said on the phone, I have been busy. The band is giving a concert at Mainside early next month, and I’ve had to write the script.

Also, as I’ve said, I’ve been flying every day, and it takes up a lot of time—you must know exactly what to do and how to do it before you get into the air. Providing everything goes well, and I don’t get any “downs” (extra time given because you don’t do something right) I should be soloing a week from this Friday! Of course, this means that every day must be good flying weather. One of my classmates got a “down” the other day because he tried to raise the wheels while the plane was still on the ground (which, you may imagine, is rather hard on the plane—especially on the propeller). Fortunately, his instructor caught it before the plane belly-flopped. I’m laying here trying to listen to the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, while one of my roommates is plunking away on a ukulele—he’s currently giving a slightly off key rendition of “Baby Face.” When he makes a mistake, he goes back to the beginning and starts over.

At the rate I’ve been saving money, I should be able to afford a second-hand tricycle about the time I get my commission.

Well, at least this is something, even though not much—I’d better sign off for now. I’ll try to keep up a little better than I have been.

Saturday, 26 February, 1955

Well, here I am at long last—my “$70.000 hat” in my hand, pawing sheepishly at the ground with one foot, and trying to look as apologetic and humble as possible

I am one of America’s children. She’s a loving parent, but very strict and demanding. Like the mothers of ancient Sparta, she sends her children off to war and expects them to return with their shields or on them. Around her spacious house she assigns her sons and daughters various chores, and she is meticulous about them, even though there are cobwebs in the corners and several skeletons in the closets. My duty is to learn to fly. So I do my best. But, like learning to count or to read, learning to fly can put the student in a form of lethargy wherein he doesn’t much care if school keeps or not.

So there rests my case—when I’m not flying (which is most of the time) or studying for a flight (which is not as often as I should), I must be doing something—but I’m not sure what.

Also, when I’m down here, I don’t have a home or a family or a pair of dogs—I have a battalion and a bunk and a paycheck every two weeks. A sort of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde type of existence. You’d be surprised how odd it seemed to be home at Xmas—at least right after I’d gotten off the plane. It’s like changing channels on TV to a program you used to always watch but hadn’t seen for a long time; it’s familiar yet strange.

The moral to that little story, my friends, is that I should see you more often (hint!). Oh, well….

Now, about the band—the first inkling we got that all was not as it should be was Monday morning at formation in the hanger. Mr. Barnes made several thinly-veiled allusions to the outcome of a meeting that afternoon at 1520 with somebody at Pre-Flight. At 1615 we all arrived from Corry, walked in the band room, and were greeted by a new director and Cdr. Logan, who was smiling and being overly-friendly as usual. Cdr. Logan had been appointed Liaison Officer for the band about three months ago. We’d seen very little of him, but when we did he usually went out of his way to be nice (“Any time any of you boys have any problems about anything, you just come on over and see me—my door is always open”).

Ensign Barnes, it seemed, had too much to do, and they thought it only fair to take the load off his shoulders. (Actually, in Miami two of the band members had been talking with Mr. Logan at the officer’s club; Logan was half-potted and was boasting about how much he had done for the band and how it was his band and he didn’t want “any damned Ensign” to try and run things.) He ushered us all into the band room, introduced Lt. Stokes as our new director, said “Well, you can take it from here, Bob,” and with a wave of his cap and a big buddy-buddy smile, beat a hasty retreat. Mr. Stokes thereby informed us that it was a Pre-Flight band and only a Pre-Flight band; that we at Corry weren’t worth the powder to blow us to hell, but that we could, if we really wanted to, come over and play any time until they got the band built up at Pre-Flight, and then we could go jump. I don’t think he (poor guy—he didn’t know what was going on—he was just singing the song written and composed by Cdr. Logan) or Mr. Logan expected our reactions. We nearly had a riot on our hands and told him Pre-Flight could take their precious band and shove it. The Pre-Flight cadets in the band were ready to walk out because the word had been that no-one else from the band would go to Corry—they only had the honor of being in the band with no privileges attached.

Somewhat taken aback, Mr. Stokes promised to try and get someone down to talk to us Wed. And with that, we all stormed out of the building.

Came Wed. afternoon, and every member of the band arrived on time for a change. And everyone carried their gloves and leggings, ready to turn them in. I was all set to pack up my clarinet and send it home.

So who should be there to greet us? Cdr. Logan popped in for a moment, mumbled something to Lt. Stokes, to which he replied “If they say the right thing, we’ll have a band—if they don’t…,” and ran out. When we entered the band room, the brass and gold braid made us almost blink. Stokes, it appeared, had called out the militia in the form of Captain Strean (in person) and a full Commander whose name I can’t recall.

The tune they played was entirely different from Monday’s battle. All was forgiven, and Corry welcomed back into the fold with open arms. We were, as appeasement, offered two trips to California—one to Hollywood on March 25. Still, a lot of the guys dropped out. I’m staying in only for what I can get out of it. I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could throw an SNJ.

Friday I took off well for the first time—the hop was going very well until my right earphone went out on me and, since I couldn’t hear a word my instructor said, we had to run back to Corry.

I’m sure you’d enjoy some of the maneuvers we do in that thing—especially the spins, where the plane heads straight down and turns around like a top. You’ve got to recover from it before you’ve done an absolute maximum of five turns or bail out. It’s the oddest sensation when pulling out of a dive—all the forces in your body tend to keep pulling you down, and when the plane starts coming up, you feel compressed—everything gets grey in some of the worst ones. But it’s fun (I guess).

Well, I am going to close now—I’ll try to write oftener, I promise. Till then, I am

P.S. I’ve got to get a car. Pensacola has the worst bus service in the entire South, which is noted for its slow traffic. I’ve got $120 saved, but I’ll have to get insurance and plates, etc. Oh, well….

Monday, 28 February 1955

Somewhere in a very remote section of the mountains is a secret, and yet very well fortified, cave. Inside this cavern are miles and miles of gleaming machines, boiling vats and steaming test tubes. In the middle of all this is a four-foot high stool. And on this stool sits a little green mad scientist. And all he does all day long is invent menus for the Navy mess halls. I never have been overly fond of rice, and have developed even a greater dislike for it while in the Navy. Whenever they serve rice, I look at the meat suspiciously—I have a nasty feeling they’re trying to hide something.

Now don’t get me wrong—I’m crazy about this military life. I’ve always wondered how an ant colony functioned. And the horrible part about it is that the NavCads have it head and shoulders above the other services. I don’t think I could stand it now to go white-hat (regular navy swabbies).

Actually, when you come right down to it, I guess it isn’t so very bad—but I cannot stand to have people tell me what to do and how and when to do it. Captain Zagrodsky from Pre-Flight had the right idea when he would say “Tonite is the Smoker (boxing competition between Battalions, held once a month). You will go to the smoker. And you will enjoy yourselves.” So we all went (we were locked out of the Batt.), but a few of us cheated and didn’t enjoy ourselves—I felt very guilty.

We’ll soon be moving again—some people play chess; our Captains play “let’s move the cadets.” This time we get to lug all our gear from one building to another.

Sunday I decided I’d wander around the base—so armed with my trusty camera, I headed out into the boondocks. Naturally, being a military base, Corry has been completely surrounded by a ten foot high wire fence, with a barbed-wire top. Its purpose is, to the first impression, to keep people out. But it also serves marvelously to keep people in.

The wilds of Florida, as seen through the fence, are very wild and amazingly uninviting. It’s one of those “pretty-to-look-at-if-you’re-not-too-close” situations. I imagine that tall, straw-colored grass hides a wondrous multitude of unattractive beasties, and hundreds of colorful but dangerous members of the reptile family.

During my wanderings, in a far off corner of the field, I came upon a sign saying “Restricted Area—Do Not Enter.” So, naturally, I entered. I could soon see why they had no desire for eager young NavCads to come browsing about. Like the African explorer (as I somewhat fancied myself) who comes upon the burial ground of the elephants, I stumbled onto the burial ground of the airplanes which have met an untimely end. With only a bleached and twisted tail assembly to act as a tombstone, three planes (their remains) lay about the field.

One, the most complete of the wrecks, sits upon a concrete platform, reminding me of a mounted fish over a mantlepiece. I took some shots of it--and if the Navy ever found out about it, they would take a few shots of/at me.

Landed twelve times today—once good. I’m getting so that I can even take off without weaving all over the runway. But I still do little things like switching gas tanks from a full one to a near empty one, or taxiing into the wrong chocks. He (my instructor) said today that my flying was improving but my headwork was getting worse.

Saw pictures of Franson’s accident and read the report on it. He got fifty feet into the air, stalled, spun to the right—hit on his right wingtip, still turning plowed a hole one foot deep and eight feet long with his prop, bounced seventy-two feet, landed upside down (“in an inverted position”) at a 45 degree angle, flipped over forty-two feet, landed on its belly, and skidded backward twenty feet! Well, as usual, I shall end on a happy note.

9 March 1955

At the moment, I am seated on a marble doorstoop inside the base barber shop waiting, along with fifteen other guys, for a haircut. Tomorrow is the Admiral’s annual inspection, and of course we all must look out best. So here I sit, waiting for a haircut I don’t need.

Now, about the car—I don’t know how long it will be till I get to Saufley, but the week before I go, I’m definitely buying a car! As I’ve tried to impress upon you, Saufley is 25 miles from anywhere, and I most certainly have no intention of walking back and forth every time I go somewhere. Also, how do you think I’m supposed to move out to Saufley? The Navy doesn’t care how you get there—they aren’t going to take you. So please talk to Clarence about having my insurance taken care of and the policy sent down here so I can show it to them. Besides, poppa, I’m not planning on buying a Cadillac—just something that will get me where I want to go. Pensacola, without a doubt, has the lousiest bus service of any city in the South, which is noted for its casual transportation system. They have one bus serving a ten-mile stretch, and it goes and comes whenever it pleases. No matter what time you try to catch it, you’ve just missed it.

Weather down here has been clear, fluctuating from winter cold to summer heat. No clouds to speak of, but lots of smoke from burning forests and swamps. This morning at one of the outlying fields we were shooting landings, and could hardly see the runways.

Finally saw the film I’ve had down here. I won’t send it home till I can get it spliced—even if you saw it you couldn’t know what everything was without a running commentary from me. They turned out pretty good, considering. I do jerk too much, though. One half-roll I had a kid take for me of the Friday parade at Mainside and the band. They came out very well except that he held the camera sideways so you’ll have to lay the projector on its side to see them. Most of the footage I took of the wrecked plane was ruined by sunlight. The ones of me in the plane came out very well, but for about five feet there, you can only see half the picture—the other half is the guy who took its’ finger.

While watching the first roll I took down here, all of a sudden the picture became very dark, but you could make out a woman in a white dress bending over doing something—I thought “My God, they’ve switched film on me during developing.” Then there was a large woman in a blue and white apron and three small kids. I recognized the apron right away—it was Aunt Thyra—then there was a shot (all dark, of course) of Cork carrying Mom. Then came one of you (both) and me. Real nostalgic—it was nice to see you again, though.

If all goes well (which it probably won’t) I can solo Friday. That will be a day for great celebration and joy. Of course, I’ll probably get a “down” on it, but if I do I won’t worry too much—I’d rather take a couple extra hops rather than solo and get myself killed.

21 March 1955

I was planning on waiting till I soloed to write you. Well, at that rate, you’d never hear from me. Since I’ve been here, I’ve averaged one hop a week. I’ll still be here next Xmas.

Absolutely nothing has happened of importance—except that I’ve just been skipping from one frustration to another. Believe me, which I get out of this Navy, I am going to be one of the most bitter and pessimistic people you can ever imagine. And no condolences, please—I’m not mad or disheartened or anything—just so bitter at life in general that I can’t see straight. Of course, I’m making it sound much worse than it really is, but if you knew how it is to run madly down to the hanger every morning and have to sit around all day wondering if today might be the day. And it’s triply maddening for me, since I can’t stand to wait for anything. With all my heart and soul, I hate the Navy!!!! That, incidentally, is not an emotional outburst—merely a calm statement of fact.

Friday we’re going to Miami again. Hope we’ll have all day Saturday liberty—maybe even Friday night. We’ll be coming back Sunday at 4:00. Of course I can’t afford it, but last time I was there I only spent eight dollars, and this time I plan to break that record.

Found out anything about the Corvette, poppa? Listen, if that deal doesn’t go through, don’t try to get me a car up there—I’ve really got to have one as soon as possible. By the time I get to Saufley, everyone I know will be well on their way to Corpus Christi. So I will have no way to get out to Saufley. If you can’t get the Corvette, all I want is a ‘46, ‘47, or ‘48 Ford or Mercury. And if I had to wait till you came down, I’d never get out there—besides, I hate to be stranded out there for weeks with no way of getting into town.

Weather down here is hot and lousy. Every morning the sun comes up in a beautifully clear sky—by the time we get to the hanger, there are a few wisps of cloud on the western sky. Fifteen minutes later and the clouds are everywhere.

Never rains here—well, almost never; when it does (at night) it is like someone had pulled a plug somewhere. Clouds, always clouds, but never rain. I miss it.

To keep from slowly going bats, I’ve been reading a little. Right now I’m on “A Short History of American Diplomacy,” “Greek Made Easy,” and “Windows for the Crown Prince,” which was on the best seller list last year.

Well, I’d better close now—I have so much to do! Oh, yes, I’ve also been writing a little.

Every NavCad had his photo taken in full flight gear for distribution to family and media back home as part of the Navy’s recruitment effort.

23-29 March, 1955

As of today I am the proud possessor of a small gold bar about 1 ½” long, with a small silver oval in the center adorned with an anchor and twisted rope. This is my reward for seven months and ten days service; I believe I’ll wear it to bed with me.

This morning began just as the preceding five days had—I woke up at 5:45, dressed, washed, and ate breakfast. At 6:30 we mustered and marched to the hanger where, at 6:45, another muster was held. Upon checking the board, I found I had been assigned an instructor—Lt. Ashbridge. As he is a new (to Corry Field) instructor, the usual flourishing grapevine, which supplies all data on moods, temperaments, and generosity of all instructors, could not help me. At 7:15 I had the L-11 lecture for the third time. This lecture is given every day you are assigned an A-20 (first solo) hop, and you keep taking it until you finally get the hop. Subject matter is a summary of all the other lectures you’ve attended; what to do when, if and how.

(FIVE DAYS LATER) The lecture was over about 0815. I raced out to the board and met my instructor—a short man with greying hair. I told him I hadn’t flown for five days; he said he didn’t expect too much and that he’d take the five days into consideration. He said “Climb on up to 8,000 ft. and do a spin, then we’ll do some high work and go on over to 8-A and let you take it.”

Our plane was CA100—a plane borrowed from BTU-4. It was parked as far away as it is possible to be. I pre-flighted it (checked to see everything was OK), got in, started it, and went to report over the mike to my instructor—but when I reached for it, it wasn’t there. Since we were parked way out in the middle of nowhere, and had to take a bus to get to the plane, someone would have to run all the way back and get one. We sent a plane captain (enlisted man who helps strap you in and stands by with a fire bottle while the plane is starting), but he took too long, so the instructor said to taxi the plane to the hanger and get one.

Lt. Ashbridge is new here at Corry—he’d just come over rom Whiting; so he wasn’t certain of our taxi patterns. As a result, he had me taxi against traffic to get to the hanger. Fortunately, no other planes were coming toward us, because those taxi-ways are not wide enough to let two planes by comfortably.

After about fifteen minutes of delay, we took off. He was very nice and didn’t yell at me like most instructors do. We climbed on up, did a spin, some stalls, and did some cross-wind landings at Wolfe field. Cross-winds are tricky and dangerous—you’re always supposed to land into the wind, but sometimes that is not possible. At Wolfe field, everyone always lands on a runway that isn’t directly in line with the wind. As a result, you’re always being blown off to one side or the other, and you must make corrections for it, or else.

After that, we headed up to field 8A, a huge grass field where everyone solos. We shot three landings; two ½ flaps and one full flaps (flaps slow the plane down—the degree of flaps determines how fast or slow you’ll land). On the full flaps landing, he told me to taxi off the field and stop. Then he got out of the plane, came up to the front cockpit and said “All right, you’ve got it—go out and bust your ass.” (Instructors are noted for their poetic phrasing.)

I waited for a signal from the yellow crash truck which always is parked beside the runway in use, got a thumbs up, and took off. As I said on the phone, after five days of waiting and sweating and getting all keyed up for nothing, when it finally did happen I felt almost nothing. I did two ½ flap landings, which a buddy told me he watched and said were beautiful; then did a full stop, full flap landing and went back to pick up my instructor, and we came home.

No sooner had I said so-long to my check instructor, I looked on the board and saw I had an A-20 immediately. A-20 is your first real solo hop—you do everything yourself. The plane I was given was number 227. I checked out a parachute and two back pads (otherwise I have a hard time reaching the rudder pedals and brakes) and went out to the plane. I secured the rear cockpit—strapped everything down so that it can’t flop all over and hit the instruments, took the instructor’s stick and secured it in a special holder (also that it wouldn’t whip around and hit anything).

Silverhill is a paved runway field; the farthest one from Corry. It is used only by solos for landing practice. I decided I’d try a few. I entered the traffic pattern, lowered my wheels and ½ flaps; did everything necessary. Made a good approach, and landed.

There is a big difference in the handling, especially in the landing, of a plane when it is 160 lbs. lighter—but I didn’t know that. The first landing wasn’t too good; the second was worse. On the third, I landed wheels, bounced, turned a little to the left, hit again, bounced again, and started to flip over on my left side. God, but I was scared! I thought for sure that I’d had it. But somehow I made it. I wanted to go home then, but thought I’d be afraid next time if I quit now. So I shot two more, neither one of which was too good, and came home.

So there you have the long story of the day I soloed. Hope it didn’t bore you; I rather enjoyed it , in retrospect.

Last Friday morning, as you know, the band went down to Miami again. It was very hot, as I said in the card. Friday night we marched in a parade in Hollywood, Florida. For such a small town it certainly had a large parade. The occasion was some sort of festival or other, and the main street was lit up like a thousand Christmas trees. They had an almost solid ceiling of colored lights over the street. Ten minutes after the parade started moving, every light in the downtown area went out. Nobody probably thought of the terrific overload all those lights would cause.

The streets were jammed with people. Then, to top everything off, one of those Amvet “trains” started to backfire with loud booms, getting everyone thoroughly shook. I think they suspected it was all a Yankee plot, and that Sherman was on the march again.

Some forty-five minutes later, the lights came on and the parade resumed. Oh, yes—during the lights-off episode, while everything was in slight confusion and the Hollywood city fathers were tearing their hair out, the Goodyear blimp floated over, flashing “Best of Luck to Hollywood’s Fiesta Tropical Parade—Goodyear.” I’ll bet that made the city fathers happy!

And so my days pass, with nothing much happening (except on those occasional trips). I always resent the fact that so much valuable time is wasted on doing nothing.

Well, enough drivel for now—I’ll be sending the films home, along with an itemized manuscript. I’d best send this off tonight, or you’ll never get it.

Sunday, 3 April, 1955

I’ll start out by answering dad’s questions--#1. I’ll be at Saufley for eight or nine weeks, then I go to Barin for eight or nine more, then back to Mainside for five or six. #2. I think I’ll be given a certain length of time to get there, so I’ll be able to drive. #3. All the other guys at Saufley have cars—at least 9/10 of them do—the other 1/10 either don’t go anywhere or have to rely on someone else with a car. #7 Ask someone there if I have to have my license renewed at all—in some states, members of the Armed Forces needn’t renew their licenses till they get out. Absolutely nothing new or exciting has happened since I last wrote. Friday was lousy weather, but I went up on three “D-Stage” (Instrument) hops with my instructor. As I’ve probably told you, our training here is divided into four stages: A (Primary), B (Precision), C (Acrobatics) and D (Instruments). I’m now in B stage. Instruments can be given anytime in B or C stage. During these hops you sit in the rear cockpit, pull a white canopy over your head, and fly the plane just by looking at the instrument panel. It was a lot of fun, but hard work. When you’re in a plane and can’t see the ground or anything with which to orientate yourself, you suffer from an ailment (if it can be called that) called vertigo. It has something to do with the sense of balance, which is located in your ears, and tends to make you think you’re doing things you’re not. I was sure I was going in circles; sometimes you think you’re climbing, or gliding, or turning one way or another. Because you think you’re turning (although the instruments say you aren’t) you try to stop the turning, and instead of flying straight, you wander all over the skies. It’s real weird. What they’re trying to teach us, though, is to believe your instruments—too many guys have been caught in clouds or at night and crashed because they thought they were climbing and pushed their nose over to get back to level flight.

Guess I’ll go downtown this afternoon and see a show or two (or three). Haven’t been off base all weekend. They should be filling the swimming pool soon—this is both good and bad. Good because I can go swimming whenever I want, and bad because I’ll have to go once when I don’t want to.

It is a custom around here, as I’ve probably told you, to take people who have just soloed and throw them into the pool (fully clothed). Well, they drained the pool just before I soloed, and though I’ve had my tie cut, I haven’t been thrown in. But they have memories like elephants around here, and I’ll no doubt go in the first day.

Have you gotten my solo picture yet? Or was it in the paper? By the way, the paper expires April 8.

April 12, 1955

Since I am unable to be here in person to give you a running commentary on these pictures, please read each explanation before seeing each roll. Note that explanation no II comes on a different page than nos. I and III.

P.S. They’ll be along in a few days (I HOPE!) Don’t read the explanations till you get the film—it’ll spoil it.

I This first roll is mainly an introduction to Corry Field, showing you something of how the other half lives. The scene opens with a shot of the door of the building in which I live. These barracks are just like the ones at Mainside; only those were yellow and these are green (not shown). Looking down the street toward the hangers (up one block) and the main gate stand Corry’s two water towers, which are about as inconspicuous as a hippopotamus in a bird bath. Now comes a quick switch to the field itself, where we see a taxiing J, then up into the sky to see one flying over.

I can’t tell if the next shot is a J or an R4D (DC3 like we rode to Chicago). No explanation is needed for the next few, which were just taken at random. Again, due to my inability to see microscopic details, I can’t tell if those two white splotches are planes or not. Next I give you a view of some of our planes, all lined up—imagine them all in the air at the same time. The yellow thing is a Search and Rescue helicopter—the building in back is the administration building. Behind that are the gym (white bldg.) and PX. The next big building is the enlisted men’s barracks. Notice how much it looks like the ones at Mainside? Then comes the power plant and the two water towers. The hanger prevents seeing our batts. More whirly-birds.

The guy wandering all over the J is pre-flighting it. Every time we go out on a hop, we have to check the plane over very carefully to make sure a wing won’t fall off in flight. Last Friday the side of a J fell off at 5,000 feet—it didn’t crash, but I’ll bet the pilot and student (one of my classmates) were plenty shook

III Before showing this roll, turn the projector over on its side. The guy who took these for me held the camera wrong and everything came out sideways.

This is the parade at Mainside. The reason everyone’s wearing Blues is that someone was making a procurement movie (“You too can be a NavCad”) and everyone had to wear them—I think you get a flash of their rig (the photographers’) in the background. I haven’t the vaguest idea who the little girl belongs to. Look close—here comes the band. We’re passing in review. Thank god this wasn’t a sound movie; dig that marching.

Comes two or three feet I loused up—it’s supposed to show the Florida Boondocks—I took it through a fence. The road runs all around the base and is made of that red clay I’ve mentioned before.

The plane landing is an AD—though you can’t tell from this distance. Now comes the wrecked planes—I still wonder if it was accidental that so much was ruined. Oh, well.

That’s an R4D landing. Finally, all these J’s belong to BTU-4—just shows how many planes we’ve got around here.

II More Corry Field. First, we get a scenic view of the field itself—a grey Dempster Dumpster (where we dump trash); a yellow gas truck—the hanger is the one next to the one where I spend most of my time. This is the one where they repair J’s. All the cars belong to instructors.

These gas trucks hold 3,000 gallons and have to be refilled at least twice a day There are three of them. The one photoed is just gassing a plane.

That squat, serpent-like plane is a Search and Rescue PBY—I’ve got more shots of them somewhere.

My roommate is in the SNJ taxiing past a parked PBY. I think the next PBY is taxiing, but I can’t tell without a projector. It gets pretty hairy on those taxi ways at times. The little red thing in the corner is a fire wagon—we’ve got them all over the place. We need them.

The big plane with its nose in the hanger is the R5D we take on all our trips. They haven’t found out what was wrong with that engine; they finally changed it but it still a large part of its time in the hanger.

Those S&R helicopters are the weirdest looking things. Notice the side saying “REMOVE CHUTE’—that’s for picking guys out of the water; with your chute still on, the wind from the blades will billow out the chute and blow you away (they could chase you all over the ocean and never catch you). Ah yes, next comes yours truly—first thing I’m doing is pre-flighting the plane—next I’m “helping” them fill one of my gas tanks. If it seems like I’m taking a long time getting in, I was. Havin’ a devil of a time with my backpads (I use them so I can reach the rudder pedals). The guy who took these for me got his finger in the way for about five feet, during which time I’m starting the engine. See my instructor in the back—poor guy. And away we go! There are two different planes taking off into the wild blue yonder—one of ’em’s me—I’m not sure which one.

16 April, 1955

Yes, it’s me—your long-lost son. It is Sunday (Easter Sunday, at that). You will no doubt be very surprised to hear that I did not go to church today. I am very ashamed of myself.

See—I have written you (or started to). I began this one Easter Sunday, as you may have gathered. It is now the following Friday. I got my first down today—I deserved it; flew a lousy hop—did everything wrong. Oh, well—I don’t feel too badly—my two other roommates have a total of eight. The third roommate hasn’t been here long enough to get any.

One of my buddies went home this weekend to Connecticut—his wife is having a baby. He had a heck of a time getting a pass, mainly because you can’t be married and in the program too. Oh, well, more power to him.

If I’m very lucky, I should be back here at Corry by July—via Suafley and Barin.

Out of my original section (Dog) of about twenty-five guys, only five are left in the program—all the rest have DOR’ed.

See what I mean about time? Here it is Saturday—a beautiful day, and nothing to do, as usual. I can’t wait till I get the car down here; boy will that be wonderful! I can go anywhere I want anytime I want, and not have to rely on someone all the time. I always feel guilty about bumming rides anyhow.

I also can’t wait till you can come down—there is so much to see—New Orleans, Mobile, Pensacola, Fort Barrancas, Fort Pickens, the base, Miami, and all of Florida on the way, plus all of the U.S. on the way down here. You’ll really be experienced world travelers when you get back home. Of course, dad’s seen most of it already, but it will be new to mom. And if you get half the kick I do out of seeing new things and going new places, you should enjoy it. I wish you didn’t have to wait until August to come down, though.

There are two swimming pools here on base—enlisted men’s and officers’ (we use the officers’). We can’t use the enlisted men’s since the officers’ opened this morning. It was open for two hours and they closed it because they found out that they’d neglected to put in chlorine. So we can’t use either one.

I suppose I’ll get dressed and wander downtown—without a car, there is nothing to do but go downtown and go to a show.

And then comes the three-hour wait for a bus back. Oh, I got a letter from Gary the other day. He is going multi-engine and is being sent to Oklahoma this week for training. That gripes me—he went in two months before I did, and already he’s in advanced training—it will take me at least four more months before I can even think about it!

Well, I guess I’d best close now and get this mailed. I’ll have to take it downtown with me—mail isn’t picked up around here on weekends.

18 April, 1955

Surprise, surprise—two letters from me in one week; aren’t you lucky? Before I forget, if the movie “A Man Called Peter” hasn’t shown up there yet, see it when it does. It’s a good picture, but the reason I want you to see it is for a short scene taken at the church services at Annapolis—they sing that song I like so well—of course, they don’t sing the part about “the men who fly.”

For lack of anything better to do, last night I went down to the U.S.O. It is a squat, almost fortress-like building of red brick, one story high. It is on one of the side streets—two blocks in back of the main drag, and situated beside Fire House No 1.

It is a fair-sized building, though by no means large. As you enter through the arcade and come into the main room, there is a sign on the door requesting all girls to kindly register at the information desk, which is just to the left as you enter. To the right is the registration desk for those who want to spend the night in the dormitory. A snack bar leads from the registration desk, where they serve sandwiches, milk, malts and the like (for a profit). Several tables clutter about by the snack bar, and there are no stools at the bar itself. Off to the left of the room are two typewriters, some writing desks, and a pin-ball machine. Leading from the main room are the library and a “recreation room” (TV set).

Also off the main room is the large dance hall, where they occasionally show movies.

In the library, a nice little lady of about fifty-five reads fortunes for whoever wishes it. She is always neatly dressed, wears glasses, and wears a pair of Navy wings. Her voice is soft with a definite but pleasing Southern accent. She is an interesting conversationalist, very interested in Masonry, is a member of the Eastern Star. She was telling me about the pyramids and telling why one dollar bills have so many series of 13—very interesting.

She has been there every time I have; it’s very nice of her to donate all her time like that.

In the main room is a piano—there, too, is a lady who is always there. She, too is in her early fifty’s; she always wears a brown tam far back on her grey hair, and invariably has on a brown tweed jacket. She was once a concert pianist, and can still play beautifully, although she is familiar with only a few of the composers. Her hands now are almost gnarled—not quite like arthritis, but obviously not as they once were. She, too, is very friendly, inviting everyone to come and sing—there is usually a good-sized group around her, singing popular songs and others from mimeographed, tattered copies of songs evidently left from the war (Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree, etc.)

When I was there once in November, we were singing Christmas carols (“It’s never too early to sing Christmas carols,” she’d say).

Corry Field used to be known as a sort of resort hotel. Recently, the Admiral has decided that we could use a little military instruction to keep us in shape. So now, every Monday, we go out and “march” for the 5:15—only we have quite a bit less discipline. Tonite we were being our own casual selves when we happened to be observed by the Marine major who runs our batts. I suspect he fancies himself somewhat of a Nero and we NavCads as a mixture of Christians and Praetorian guard. He called all the platoons together, then climbed atop the steps leading to the Batt. I had noticed him in eager conversation with several of his cohorts, in this case playing the role of Cassius. Perhaps I only imagined the beady gleam in his eyes as he said “Well, tonite we’re going to have a little fun.” I could imagine who would have the fun and at whose expense. Benevolently he eyed the huddled populace and said “Who has soloed recently?” Nobody said a word, but several of us flinched. I glanced at the newly opened swimming pool with apprehension. Ours is a land of custom, as I’ve said, and one of those quaint customs is that whoever solos gets thrown in the pool. Until recently it has been drained, and quite a backlog of solo students had been built up. Need I say more? He smiled, and said, gold-leaf crown slightly askew—“Throw them in.”

The mob scenes from “The Last Days of Pompeii” have nothing over what happened then—everyone who hadn’t been thrown in broke ranks and began running off in all directions, quickly pursued by those who had already received the water treatment and those who hadn’t soloed yet.

Though I was in one of the outer platoons, I didn’t start running soon or fast enough. All-too-eager hands snatched me up and carried me, like Ophelia’s corpse, to the edge of the pool. They removed my shoes, watch, and wallet.

And then, very unceremoniously, I was flailing my arms and watching the pool come up to meet me. By the time I came to the surface, the water and air all around me were filled with NavCads in various stages of entering the water. Oh, yes—they wait till you’re almost out, and then throw your hat in, as far as they can throw it—you have to swim out and get it, and with full clothes on, this isn’t too easy. Oh, well, it was fun.

25 April 1955

Well, here I stand, neither with my heart in my mouth nor my hat in my hand. I still don’t know what is to become of your loving son—I am not yet anywhere near getting kicked out of the program, but there is always the possibility, in my case heightened by four “downs.” To be perfectly truthful, I don’t care, really.

Oh, I will care—it would be hard to go white-hat after being a NavCad, but the mere fact that I’d only have two years to serve would act as a soothing medicine to any wounds I might have. Were I planning to make the Navy a career, or if I were really “gung-ho” over flying, it would be different.

As I’ve said, my problem is quite simple—they want precision and I am not precise. I can fly the airplane with no difficulty, but I can’t fly it to suit them. Father’s attitude of “other guys made it; why can’t you?” doesn’t help matters. Of course other guys make it—other guys also make atomic physicists and trench diggers—that doesn’t mean that I can make an atom bomb or dig a Panama canal. I’m satisfied that I’ve done my best—that’s all I can do.

However, and be that as it may, I’m not out yet—but if I do get the boot, you can be prepared for it. Also, a letter from me saying I’m going white-hat is considerably better than a letter from the government (“regretting to inform you….”); at least I think so!

The guy next door was on his last check ride here at Corry, before moving out to Saufley; he got a down on it, and DOR’ed today. That I’ll never do—they can kick me out if they want to, but I’m not going to leave voluntarily.

My, this all sounds depressing, doesn’t it? Well, it isn’t supposed to be. I’m not in the least depressed; just sensible.

I’ve already had the grease and oil changed ($4.70)—went to see about getting the upholstery sewn up. Don’t have any idea how much that will run. I’ll also stop in and see about the rear end—it sounds like a charging rhinoceros. There is a hole in the roof—very small one, though; it hasn’t rained lately so I can’t tell if it will matter or not.

It drank $4.00 of gasoline Sunday. I don’t know how many miles per that is, but it sounds pretty expensive—it will have to spend most of its time here at Corry.

Nothing much else new—never is, it seems. I go swimming just about every day—just got back from the pool, in fact—I don’t like swimming at night—you can’t see under water. I still can’t hold my breath under water for more than ten seconds. It must be psychological, ‘cause I can hold it for over a minute above. Oh, well, such is life.

Well, I’d best close now. Just wanted to let you know the score in the ninth inning. Don’t be too shocked, Poppa, if things don’t turn out—wouldn’t you rather start supporting me again in two years than in four? I’m still planning on being on being a professional civilian.

26 April 1955

Two letters in two days! Will wonders never cease? Just got back from a short bout with the swimming pool and thought I’d drop a line. It will, of necessity, be short, as I told you yesterday, nothing much is new.

I don’t know what it is—must be spring in the air; but guys are dropping out like flies—three more DOR’ed this morning. Tomorrow or Thursday will tell the story for me—I didn’t have to go before a Speedy board; I was given two more extra times and another recheck. Also, they changed instructors on me—gave me one of the instructors who gave me a down. They aren’t supposed to do that, but I’d just as soon have him as anyone.

This morning after our hop he said “I want to have a serious talk up with you.” He then said everything but “bon voyage”—all of it very true, and none of it that I hadn’t already discovered or realized myself.

As I said yesterday, I’ve given up worrying about it. If I do drop out, it will be because they wanted me out, not that I couldn’t take it.

Just realized also that if I do get dropped, I’ll only have 18 months to serve!! The way it is I have 40! Now, if I had, as I said, planned on making the Navy a career, or were really wild about flying, it would be different. From the outside, all appears to be glamour—from the inside it looks different. As the old saying goes, the grass always looks greener on the other side of the fence—until you get there.

Of course, I will admit I do like the NavCad uniform (it’s a lot sharper than regular navy blue). Oh, well, we shall see what we shall see. I’m not out yet.

Both the band and the choir are going to Shreveport this weekend. It will take about four planes to get us all down there.

I’ve been offered a commission as rear admiral in the new Confederate Navy. I’m considering it. One thing you’ve got to admit, these Southerners never give up.

Monday 2 May 1956

Well, you can stop chewing your nails (if you were)—I’ve been granted a temporary reprieve—at least until the next check hop. However, I’m never going to worry about any other hop as long as I last in the program. Now that you’ve been alerted to the fact that there are termites in the structure, don’t be surprised if it collapses one day—in other words, don’t expect all to be rosy now that I’ve got one problem behind me.

Started acrobatics today—they seem like they might be fun. Tomorrow I have two solos, and will have a chance to practice some loops and rolls. I blacked out on a loop today—first you go straight up and then come straight down. Gravity does some odd things to you—it can make you weigh several times as much as you actually do. When you’re heading straight down and try to pull out of the dive, all the forces of gravity tend to keep pulling you straight down; all the blood is pulled down, too, and leaves your head—and you may black out. If you attempt to pull out of a dive too very fast, the gravity (or “G”‘s as we call them) can tear the wings off the plane.

Get my card from Shreveport? That town is, I believe I said, as dead as a dormouse. No amusement parks, no good movies, no nothin’. Oh, well. We marched in two parades and played in one concert. Did learn something of interest, though. The people of Shreveport are Acadians—remember “Evangeline” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow? The Acadians were a group of settlers in Nova Scotia; they were driven out and their settlements burned by the British in 1755. I’d never given much thought as to where they’d gone, but it was nice to find out, anyway.

Louisiana is the only state in the Union that does not have “counties”—they call them “parishes.”

We stopped at Barksdale Air Force Base while we were in Shreveport—in fact, that’s where we stayed. It is a huge base, lined with practically miles of B47s (jet bombers) and air tankers to refuel the 47s in midair. Talk about security! They wouldn’t even let us go to our planes to return to Pensacola without calling somebody on the phone to get clearance. While one sentry was doing this, the other walked around our bus, looking under the body and behind the wheels—I haven’t the vaguest idea what they thought we might be trying to smuggle in or out, but they were taking no chances. Those air corps men almost broke their arms off saluting us until they finally caught on that we were not admirals. Someone mistook me for one of the Blue Angels, the Navy’s crack jet acrobats who were to appear there Sunday.

Well, I have six other letters to write tonite, so I’ll close now. Till then, regards to everyone.

8 May, 1955

Excuse the wine-colored ink, but I just bought a new pen (the old one was left on the plane I took back from Shreveport), and filled it with ink at the drugstore.

I bought a new record today—one I’ve wanted for a long time; the music from The Robe. I got it for only $3.75 (the usual price is $6.00). My roommate Lee bought an album I’d like to get. It’s called “The Confederacy” and has many of the South’s marches and popular songs of the Civil War.

The poor South—how hard and bitterly they fought a war that was lost before it began. I’ve always admired their courage and deplored the North’s ruthlessness in destroying their finest cities and plantations. A simile could be dawn between the South and the early Christian martyrs—they were both doomed, yet met their respective deaths bravely, not afraid to die for a cause they considered right.

I’m afraid I admire people too much, and expect too much from them as a whole. That is why I still boil every time I hear an asinine commercial or song. Why we insist upon degrading ourselves by talking down to ourselves. We have capabilities far greater than we imagine.

I’ve finally decided on my “calling” in life—for some reason it is human nature to resist change. Yet, if there had been no change, we would still be living in trees and caves, and eating our meat raw. Ever hear of an ameba (aomeba, aemeba…?…one celled animal, anyhow)? It moves along by first projecting a little of itself out beyond the mass, and then flowing the rest of the body into it. Well, to me, that is how Man moves—a little segment moves out from the whole—this is change—any new idea or invention. At first, everyone is against it (“Hmph! I wouldn’t have a TV set if you paid me!”— “I tell you, the automobile will never replace the horse,” etc.); but very slowly it becomes more and more common, until its absence is more conspicuous than its presence. That is the way Man has always been, and no doubt the way he will always be. He must be prodded—he cannot be pushed. So that’s what I’m going to try to do—prod people here and there. It is a very unpopular thing to do, and at times quite dangerous, as in great religious reforms. But someone has to start people thinking, even at the risks that may be involved. Like Johnny Appleseed, I’ll go around sowing ideas that will become facts in the future.

As I’ve mentioned, perhaps the greatest and most dangerous field of change is in Religion. You have noticed, no doubt, my seeming lack of interest in religion. I’ve always had the nasty habit of asking questions where none should be asked—the first sign of Change Advocate. I’ve reached the conclusion that about 2,000years ago, Man got off on the wrong track, and has remained stubbornly on it since that time.

For an analogy, let’s imagine Thomas Edison and his gift of light to the world. Let’s suppose, instead of applying his principles as we did, that we bowed before an unlit light bulb and worshipped this great man who invented it. Our cities would still be lit by gas light and candles, while great temples were erected to a burned-out light bulb.

Oh, well, Reverend Margason, the sermon is about over for this evening. Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast and to set me off on rampages.

However, if I don’t go off on an occasional “rampage,” I have very little to say, as nothing much new happens around here.

Oh, yes—tonight, after coming home from the beach, I raised the top, locked it, and pressed the button to raise the windows—but they wouldn’t raise. The motors hummed, but nothing happened. Upon getting out of the car to investigate, I saw a stream of dark and sweet-smelling liquid running from the right door onto the ground. Let’s pray it doesn’t rain until I can get it fixed! Well, enough for now. I’ll try and write more often and let you know how things are going. I wish you’d hurry on down here—it has already been five months since I’ve seen you; longer than before.

At this point, I leaned forward slightly on the edge of my bunk (where I’m using the stationary box as a desk); the wind blew the window shade, and the wooden bottom hit me in the forehead. I yanked the shade in anger and the whole thing came down and tore off the roller. I spent the following five minutes with a roll of scotch tape, up to my knees in green window shade, trying to tape it back together. I finally got it and put it back up. It’s sitting there now, billowing slightly, and just waiting for me to lean forward again.

P.S. Telephone strikers have just dynamited the telephone relay station so that no calls can come in to or out of Pensacola. Bless them.

15 May 1955

Sorry again for my usual delay, but I just don’t seem to have the ambition to do anything.

Last night I went to see an ice review called “Ice Vogues of 1955.” It was pretty good, and I recognized several of the people in it—Chet Nelson is back after three years. They had one act that was done on a trampoline and had absolutely nothing to do with skating—I wonder why they did that? Also, one of the acts they billed as being “for the first time in America” featured a guy named Ron Priestly, who had been wandering around before the show selling programs. Even then I was certain I’d seen him before. Does he sound familiar to you, dad?

The show was held in the new Million-dollar Municipal Auditorium, and whoever set up the seating arrangements really goofed. The front of the ice rink, instead of facing the majority of the people, was put toward a side wall, where there were no more than two hundred people, if that. A poor arrangement, you must admit. Pensacola is almost as bad as Rockford as far as applause goes. They had the usual production numbers, but no top act, like the guy on stilts they used to have.

Now for a little bad news—I took the car down yesterday morning to have it looked at; I went to a small but reasonable garage, as you suggested. They took the rear end apart to look at it, and told me that the fluid from the hydromatic leaks down from the front and into the rear end. The fluid, when mixed with the grease in the rear end, forms a sort of acid that eats the gears. There was a good half-inch wobble between the two main gears, which should be perfectly meshed. So, to make a long story short, they said it would cost around $135.00 to have it fixed. After I picked myself up off the floor, I asked if they could just adjust the gears to mesh better. They said yes, and it might stop some of the noise—but then again, it might not; at least the gears wouldn’t tear themselves apart. So they adjusted them, and we took it out on a road test, to see if it had helped the noise. When we stepped on the gas, cars started pulling over to the side of the road—it sounds like an air raid siren! Any suggestions, poppa?

I am nearly broke. Yesterday I also paid out $16.95 for a new pair of trop pants. It was worth it, to keep my set of trops from wearing out. In the summer, we don’t have to wear blouses, and to just wear the pants time after time, and having them cleaned without cleaning the blouse would wear them out in no time, or at least change the color. Oh, yes—I forgot to mention about the car—I told you that a hydraulic line broke so that I couldn’t close the windows—well, I had it fixed—for $12.67.

Just think—this Thursday I’ll be leaving for California! I’m kind of anxious about it. As I’ve said, I’ll never begrudge being in the Navy as far as traveling goes. I hope I get to see Lief—but if he’s out on a cruise or something…. I sent him a special delivery letter telling him we are leaving Thursday and landing at Los Alamitos, which is just outside Long Beach, Calif. That is all I know—I don’t know what time we’re leaving, what time we’ll get there, or what we’ll do when we get there. I told him I’d send a telegram as soon as I found out for sure—and that if I missed him somehow, I’ll try and stay at the Long Beach YMCA (since I don’t know any hotels there, and everyone can find the Y.).

I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to call home—I’d like to call from California, just for kicks, but it would be rather expensive, I imagine.

Thursday afternoon I spent fifteen minutes on my back under a 1950 two-tone green Chevrolet, talking to a kitten who had climbed up into the undercarriage. It had wandered from somewhere into one of the hangers—a sailor caught it climbing a flight of stairs, and carried it outside. He took it across the wide cement mats that separate the hanger from the Administration building and set it carefully down on the Ad building’s lawn. The poor little guy was scared stiff and obviously lost—it took a few steps in one direction and then a few in another. Then it bolted back across the mat and hid under a parked car. I had been on my way to see if I could get a ride home this weekend (I couldn’t). With cars coming and going all the time, the kitten wouldn’t last long, so down I went and tried to coax it out. It was evidently wild, and not used to seeing people, so it crawled as far away as it could get, up behind the wheels, in among a bunch of greasy crossbars and springs. The poor thing was shaking as if it would fall apart. At long last, after talking and petting failed, I got a hold on it and pried it loose (getting myself covered with axle grease and dirt). A chief petty officer came over and said he’d seen its mother by the Ad building behind some bushes. I carried the kitten over, across the Navy’s well-kept lawn, and saw its mother, watching us through a low bush. When I approached, she scurried away, and evidently dived through a window under the building (none of the buildings here have basements—they’re just set up off the ground like the cottage, with a space underneath). I put the kitten on the window sill and stepped back. It hesitated a minute, looking around, and then jumped in and disappeared in the darkness.

I’m going out this afternoon to see about renting a cottage on Pensacola Beach for you—if it’s too high, of course, I’ll look elsewhere. But there’s no harm in looking. Hurry up and take your vacation—it’s been six months, almost!

A Naval Aviation SNJ flight trainer comes in for a landing at Corry Field, one of several training bases surrounding the main Pensacola naval base.

16 May 1955

I awoke this morning at about five o’clock and, though it was really too dark outside to tell, decided that we weren’t going to fly today. It seemed as though I had been sleeping for several years, and had full intentions of sleeping several more. At five forty-five, though, I forced myself out of bed, got dressed, folded my bedding (I haven’t made my bed since pre-flight), washed, and straightened up my room, which always seems to be in a state of high disorder. By morning formation, at six thirty, the clouds covered about nine-tenths of the sky, but there were still some hopeful-looking holes. Dual hops were sent out on schedule at seven-thirty, although they held solos on the ground. By eight, the western sky (where we do most of our flying) was getting ominously dark. Mother Corry began getting anxious, and called her chicks home. I stood outside the hanger and watched the little yellow J’s running home, chased by dull, flat-bottomed clouds. As soon as the planes landed, they were tied securely down, and the wind started blowing. On the horizon I could see the rain, a grey curtain hanging beneath the clouds. Finally the rain came, very undramatically, and it has been drooling monotonously ever since. Everyone is sitting around the hanger waiting for the magic words “Secure from flight operations.”

Friday was what I consider a beautiful day for flying. I went out on a solo first thing in the morning—the sky was full of huge, billowing clouds that reminded me of mountains of whip cream. We aren’t allowed to fly through them, or even get within five hundred feet of them, but it is fun to know that you could, if you wanted to. I like to dive down toward them and then pull out and skim over them. Also it’s fun to go behind the clouds, to see what’s there. Friday I found a clear spot, like a valley in mountains, completely surrounded by huge puffs of clouds. I played around, doing my acrobatics, all by myself and having a wonderful time.

On the radio, which solo students must have turned up all the time, I kept hearing someone calling the tower at Corry: “Corry Tower, this is Charlie Baker 302 (CB are on all our planes): I am on a B2 solo and would like to know if Magnolia Field is open for Corry planes.” Magnolia Field is one of our small outlying surfaced fields, usually used only by Barin Field students, but one of the fields we always use, Summerdale, is being resurfaced, and we’d been allowed to use Magnolia in the afternoon while they worked on Summerdale. B2 students are on their very earliest solos—their second, in fact (A20 is their first—B1 is a dual, and B2 is the second solo). He kept calling and calling the tower, which evidently didn’t hear him, for it never answered. Finally he shut up, and about two minutes later, someone called “Crash! Crash! Crash! Plane down one mile southwest of Magnolia Field.” I thought “Oh, oh….” I was sure it as the poor little guy who couldn’t get the tower.

Although you aren’t supposed to go near the scene of an accident lest you get in the way of rescue operations, I headed toward Magnolia, flying down alleys and corridors between the clouds. On the way, I was kept busy listening to the radio—the crash crew from Magnolia had reached the scene…the plane was completely demolished, in at least twelve pieces…they had not yet removed the pilot…Search and Rescue had launched a helicopter from Corry Field…no word yet on the pilot’s condition….

By this time I was in sight of the field. It is a fairly large field, with four runways, arranged so that, from the air, it looks like an arrow pointing to the south. They were using the Southwest/Northeast runway, taking off toward the Southwest and Mobile Bay.

Very close to the end of the S/w runway are a large grove of trees, and beyond them, plowed fields. I had used that runway the day before, and several times just missed the trees while taking off. This guy had evidently hit the trees and crashed into the plowed field beyond. I got close enough to see the crash truck and several cars around, and the tail section of the plane lying on its side, sticking up into the air. I didn’t want to get too close and have them take my number, so I headed back to Corry in a light rain shower. On the way back I learned that it hadn’t been my radio friend but some O.I. from Barin. He wasn’t killed—just broke his hip, several ribs, an arm or two, and severe lacerations. Incidentally, it was Friday the 13^th.

23 May, 1955

Got back to sunny Florida last night about 9:15—eleven hours after taking off from Los Alamitos, Calif. On the way we ran into some beautifully violent storms—the plane bucked and plunged all over the sky; the clouds were so thick that we couldn’t see our own engines. One time, the plane lurched so violently that luggage, instruments, and everything else was thrown out of the overhead storage racks and all over the plane. My clarinet flew half the length of the plane. The guy next to me was a marine hitchhiking a ride across country (his first time in a big plane)—a box lunch flew from somewhere and hit him—a small cup of catsup opened up and spread all over his pants and hand. He looked as if he had been in a particularly horrible accident. After dark they turned all the lights out on board, and it was weird and rather exciting to look out the windows and watch the green wing-tip light winking on and off—whenever we flew through a cloud, the light looked twice as powerful, but no brighter. And lightning seen from inside a cloud doesn’t appear in any streaks—just a general glare of yellow-grey, outlining the wings and engines, with the blur of the propellers eating away at the night.

Going out was rough, but not so abruptly so—instead, it took the form of slow oscillations; up and down, up and down, sideways, up and down, etc. After nine hours of this, you can be sure we had some very green NavCads—pre-flight boys; they were miserable. Even a few hardened “advanced” cadets got sick and cursed themselves for it. I was riding in the very rear of the plane, which is the worst place to be under such conditions, and I’ll admit that after nine hours, I wasn’t feeling my peak, either; but I wasn’t sick—I have a very wonderful ability to talk myself out of being sick when my stomach tells me I should be.

I saw mountains and deserts for the first time—and I was glad I was far up above them rather than on the ground. We flew for at least two hours over land I didn’t think existed outside of science fiction books. Any visitor from space, landing by chance on Texas, Arizona, or New Mexico would swear ours was a dead world and return to where he came from. The very clouds over these deserts are a dull sand-red, either a reflection of the land below or colored by dust particles. How our pioneers ever lived to get across these wastes is a miracle.

What is really amazing is when, after flying over miles and miles of dead earth, to suddenly come upon a city—no warning; no farms or little towns. One moment it is desert, and the next is the city. With no trees or rivers, they look scorched brown under the relentless sun. And, as soon as they’ve come, they’ve gone, and there is only the endless sands.

The desert laps at the mountains like a dead sea. First comes a small ridge of mountains, which acts as a reef in the sea, breaking the desert and turning the sands on the other side from yellow to drab and mottled browns and greys.

Arizona west of Phoenix is a monotonous winter brown. Between the ridges the earth looks like nothing so much as dirty snowdrifts.

Well into Southern California the landscape takes on the appearance of the surface of the moon—huge bumbling mountains surrounding a completely flat yellow plain. Slowly the desert ended—not gradually or gracefully but in well-defined patches and chunks. How man has done this without any visible signs of water is amazing.

Somehow I get the impression that Californians believe that when they die, they go neither to hell nor heaven, but to California. I doubt even Texans are as zealous over their home state as Californians. Personally, they can keep both of them—I’ll take Illinois and the Mid-West.

We landed at NAS Los Alamitos at about five o’clock, their time. Getting out of the plane was like walking into an open refrigerator. Overhead the clouds (I could never tell if they were really clouds or just high smog) scampered by, looking as though they belonged there. Sunny California—HAH!!

No Little Lirf in sight. I figured either he hadn’t gotten my telegram, or else he had gotten it and, being Lief, decided he’d rather go to a movie than come and meet me.

We were given liberty almost immediately, and I hurried into my Blues (which felt very good) and headed for the gate, to go into Long Beach. However, it seems that Los Alamitos is ten miles from Long Beach, and no busses run from there (only an occasional Greyhound). Even worse, it is not even on a main highway. Fortunately, I got a ride into town with a Negro man who works on the base.

I spent most of that evening looking for Lief. Long Beach is where his ship was docked. The town was crawling with sailors, but none of them was Lief. I considered going down to the ship, but decided against it, since it was a long way, and he probably wouldn’t be on board anyway. I ended up going to see Daddy Long Legs. Now comes the problem—how to get back. Not another NavCad was in sight, so at last I got discouraged and took a cab ($6.45).

Next morning we were informed that we were to play for an Armed Forces Day TV program to be held, by a strange coincidence, aboard the U.S.S. Toledo. First, however, came the Armed Forces Day Parade in Long Beach. I kept looking around, hoping to see Lief, but finally gave up. About three-quarters of the way through the parade, I caught a glimpse of someone striding along behind the people watching. I could recognize that walk a mile away. Sure enough, it was Little Lirf—he was about twenty feet ahead of us, and marching straight down the sidewalk, in the same direction as the parade was moving. He didn’t look back once, and kept on walking. He was outdistancing us, and I thought “Oh, great!” He stopped briefly to speak to a policeman, and then on he went. Finally comes the end of the parade, and there is Lief, looking about vacantly. He looked at me about four times before he saw me. I was at attention, supposedly, and couldn’t do much but grin at him. He glared back.

We were dismissed and told to get back on the busses to go back to Los Alamitos for dinner. Got a chance to talk to him for a second, and told him to meet me on the Toledo; also told him to write home.

The U.S.S. Toledo is huge, blue-grey, and very formidable looking. It fairly bristles with guns. Although most of the ship is heavy steel, the main deck is covered with wood, for reasons I’ve known but forgotten.

This was the first time I’d ever been on a big ship, aside from the Monterey, and the second time I’ve had to salute the national ensign (flag)—really military. Of course, today the whole place was swarming with civilians and enemy agents, and all sorts of pennants and flags flew everywhere. I was on board half an hour before Lief strolled up casually. He took me downstairs to show me where he lived—my God; at that proportion of space to men, twenty-three people could live in our front closet! We talked for awhile, back on deck, and then came time for the TV program. We played “Anchors Aweigh” and were told we could quit for an hour while the program went on. Part of it consisted of a demonstration of frogmen, whose job is underwater demolition. Lief and I were rather hoping they’d blow up a giant cargo vessel alongside the Toledo, but were disappointed. After an hour we came back, played the national anthem, and were secured for liberty—we didn’t have to be back till 0700 Monday morning.

Lief and I went to downtown Long Beach, where he changed into civilian clothes. Although it’s against the rules, a lot of guys rent lockers in a private locker store. We then ate supper and hopped a trolley for Los Angeles—an hour’s ride.

August 9, 1954

August 10, 1954

August 14, 1954

August 15, 1954

August 17, 1954

August 18, 1954

18 August, 1954

August 22, 1954

Date Unknown

August 27, 1954

Saturday, August 28, 1954

September 1, 1954

Sept. 3, 1954

Date unknown

September 11, 1954

September 19, 1955 Started at 6.35 p.m.

Undated and unknown: part of a letter? Just notes to me?

September 28, 1954

October 2, 1954

Wednesday, October 13, 1954

Undated, but still in the 8th week of Pre-flight. Probably begun on the 15th and finished Friday, Oct. 22nd, 1954

Sunday, October 24, 1954

Friday, October 29, 1954

Monday, November 1, 1954

Wednesday, November 3, 1954

Friday, November 6, 1954

November 14–25 1954

Monday, November 29, 1954

December 1, 1954

December 7, 1954 (Tuesday)

10 December 1954

Undated (Probably December 12, 1955, returning from a band trip to New York)

5 January 1955

Letter Undated and Unfinished, but probably a misplaced first draft of the letter above.

18 January 1955

Letter undated, early 1955, written apparently to college friend Effie Fowler, though why it is addressed to Miss Wilde I cannot say.

22 January1955

29 January 1955

February 1, 1955

13 February 1955

Saturday, 26 February, 1955

Monday, 28 February 1955

9 March 1955

21 March 1955

23-29 March, 1955

Sunday, 3 April, 1955

April 12, 1955

16 April, 1955

18 April, 1955

25 April 1955

26 April 1955

Monday 2 May 1956

8 May, 1955

15 May 1955

16 May 1955

23 May, 1955

Undated, but still in the 8^th week of Pre-flight. Probably begun on the 15^th and finished Friday, Oct. 22^nd, 1954