tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52134868914385692042024-02-18T19:07:22.949-08:00The Autobiograpy of Vern Elrick BrysonMeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-73501860597991451852011-02-27T20:42:00.000-08:002011-02-27T20:42:11.792-08:00Chapter 39<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In the spring of 1946, I applied for training at the Air Force Institute of Technology to finish my engineering education. About this time, the Air Force was preparing to become autonomous and were starting aviation engineering school to train all the Air Force civil engineers personnel to man all of the Air Bases. Col. Dugan, who I was later to get very well acquainted with, was made head of the Civil Engineers school. He went to headquarters and reviewed all the applications for schooling. He picked 130 Air Force Officers with civil engineering background to go to school and become 1337s. That is a service number that depicts civil engineers and I was selected to become a civil engineer. In March, I received orders to report to Geiger Field, Washington to the school. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In the spring of 1946, we had been notified the Jones wanted their home back so we decided to build a house nearby. My father and mother had come to help us and we had reached the point of wall papering. Syl was downtown buying drapes when I got a call from the base that I had orders to Geiger. We turned the house over to a real estate agent who sold it at a marginal profit. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We packed the radio back in our trailer along with our other limited belongings, including our dog and dog house. We thought the doghouse would be an ideal way to ship her. We had a door on the doghouse which we closed, then bolted the trailer rear door tight against the door to keep it shut. Then with Grampa, Grandma, Mama, Papa, and two sons, we started out across West Texas. We went right past the King Ranch and I enjoyed Dad’s comparison of it with the Deseret Livestock Ranch, the second largest in the country. He looked at the flat, bushy country and allowed as how that kind of cow punching would be easy. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">A short time after we passed the ranch we stopped for gas and found “Lady” was gone from the trailer. We reversed our direction and went back looking for her, but to no avail. Finally, we offered a $25 reward through the local paper and went on our way. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We stopped off in Payson to leave the grandparents and then on up through Idaho to Spokane. Housing was tough after the war and we finally found a room with a kitchenette in a motel in Dishman, about 10 miles east of Spokane. We continued to live there until we finished the school I was to attend. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Our class was scheduled to be the third class sent through the school. Just by accident, a most unique group of students were assigned to this class. Of the 17 students, I was the 11<sup>th</sup> in size at 6 feet and 215 pounds. 10 guys were bigger than I and all of them athletic. Being spring (1946) and being required to spend some time in physical conditioning, we just naturally started playing softball. I entered the team in the base league. Craziest team you ever saw. We had an excellent defense, a so-so pitcher and all the power in the world. Only we were a straky bunch. We customarily would goof around for about 5 or 6 innings then unload in one inning enough runs to get us through the entire game. One of our opponents was a team of field grade officers which the base commander was the pitcher. Both teams were undefeated to that point. We played three innings then unloaded in one inning enough runs to get us through the entire game. I (center fielder) was scheduled to lead off the inning so I up and parked a home run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next four batters each in turn, stroked a homer. Five homers in succession must be some kind of record. We went on to win, 7-3. Until we graduated from school, we went undefeated in the second half of the league, some of the players were assigned to jobs where they couldn’t get off each game and we lost one game to the team composed of the instructors at the engineering school we had just finished, mostly Corps of Engineers officers. We were all Air Corps officers, mostly fly guys. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The political situation on the base was not very friendly. It was an Air Corps filed but the commander and most of the senior officers were old line corps of Engineer officers. Assigned to the base as students, and other specialized duties, were about 130 Air Corps officers. The senior officers were disgruntled because they had to learn to do things the Air Corps way and were disgruntled because our bases expected us to do things the Corps of Engineers way. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Our championship softball game became the focal point for all the frustrations on both sides. A three game series was arranged by the base athletic department. The base athletic officer announced he was going to play for the Corps of Engineers although he wasn’t connected at all with the school nor had he played during the regular season, which sounded like a ringer to us. To make matters worse, the commanding officer of the company that some of our players were assigned to, arranged a special training activity that wouldn’t let some of our best players come to the game. I was put on first base to replace one of our lost players. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Our makeshift game started under protest because of the seemingly ineligible player. The base athletic officer said, “The base athletic department” (which he was) “decides I can play with the Corps of Engineers team.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The game got underway and proceeded without incident until the base athletic officer came to bat. He hit a little bounder down to our shortstop who threw it to me but pulled me across the base to make the catch. The ringer then lowered his shoulder into my ribs and knocked me about ten feet. That’s alright, I’d been hit before but when he boasted, “You’ll learn to stand on the base when I’m running” that was a bit too much. I kept quiet and waited. The next time the same guy came up to bat, almost the same play resulted, a slow roller down to shortstop, a wide throw to first base. Only this time I knew the rules. As he lowered the shoulder, I side-stepped and threw my hip into him enough to knock him off balance and he rolled 20 feet. I swung around, facing him, expecting him to come up swinging but before he got up, the base commander who was umpiring the game grabbed me by the shirt front and shouted, “Blankety-blank you, I’ll throw you clear off Geiger Field.” I got thrown out of the game and we lost the game and the championship. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The next day the commander went to the legal officer who was an Air Corps officer and told him to start court-martial proceedings against me. Two days later in a Col. John C.B. Elliott arrived and replaced Col. Dugan as base commander. All charges were dropped. </span></span></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-84924220160036956362011-02-27T20:38:00.001-08:002011-02-27T20:38:53.424-08:00Chapter 38<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">When I went to work the next morning I found I had been assigned as recruiting officer. I was very unhappy about not getting the job of operations officer I had been promised by Col. Jumper. He had been transferred and all promises were null and void. I lasted one week as recruiting officer. I went back to the personnel officer who was also my boss and said I was too honest for that job. By, did he blow his cork. He finally agreed to reassign me. He assigned me as an assistant ground safety officer. After one week, the base safety officer got out of the service and I was base safety officer. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Things in the Air Corps were in constant turmoil. The services were shuffling personnel out of the service as fast as they could and shuffling new personnel into fill the vacancies created by shuffling the first guy out. There within a few weeks, the guy who just came in would be notified he was eligible for release from the service and he would be gone in a day or two. Even bases were being shuffled. The training command didn’t need all its bases so they decided to close Fort Worth. But they couldn’t close Fort Worth because it was the airfield that supported Plant 4, which was Convair Aircraft Company. The Air Corps then decided to transfer the base to Strategic Air Command and SAC then decided to bring in a B-29 wing. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I had just begun to learn what ground safety was all about—the training command way—when SAC came in with a whole new way. To make things worse, the Air Force decided to also cut back the civilian force and fired my secretary. About the time my secretary left, SAC decided to inspect the new base and brought in a team to inspect the base. Since there were only Mr. Long, the safety engineer and myself and one of us had to man the office to answer the phone. I was forced to assist the inspection team and answer all their questions. SAC was much more safety conscious than training command so we were censored for several violations. We had to correct them and write a report stating how each discrepancy would be/was corrected. With no secretary in our office, all the writing had to be drafted, corrected and retyped by the personnel director’s secretary who complained bitterly. When the report reached the director who was my boss, he directed several corrections which required retyping. About this time, the director was released to go back to school teaching and the new director heard all the complaints of his secretary and ordered a new secretary hired for my safety office. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The first woman that was sent down by civilian personnel for interview was a big fat slob and didn’t have any of the skills required. I called the civilian personnel officer and rejected her. The next girl sent down was a little bit of a thing but cute as a little mule colt. After a very brief affirmative interview, Mr. Long and I were discussing her age. He insisted she couldn’t be more than 16 years old but I argued that the regulations wouldn’t permit them to hire anyone less than 18. When she came to work, we learned she was 27 years old, two years older than I. She had been a model in New York and had just decided to return to Fort Worth to live. She could also type and answer the phone. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">After I learned what I supposed to do, I found I was having a hard time getting people to be safety conscious. I devised a series of bulletin boards, one in each important commander’s buildings. I labeled these boards, “booby traps.” As cheesecake, I would put pictures of some of the secretaries in various bathing beauty poses to attract attention. After that, I never had any trouble getting safety hazards corrected. One such bulletin board was just outside the base commander’s office. In a safety committee meeting, he indicated he would like to meet the little pin-up girl on this weeks’ picture. It was, of course, my secretary so I arranged to introduce him to her. Durned if she didn’t start dating her and about the time I was transferred, they were married. </span>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-88793138596463879732011-02-06T19:30:00.000-08:002011-02-06T19:39:27.700-08:00Chapter 37<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In the fall of 1945, we had arranged for a 30 day leave. The leave was in October and November which are the months for hunting in Utah. Before leaving Texas, I had written home and asked the family to send me a deer rifle. I had already collected a couple of shot guns and a W.R.F. 22. This was going to be a vacation dedicated to hunting. I had worked hard with my young pointer pup to get her trained to where I could control her and she would retrieve. So with 2 sons, a dog, and Sybil, I loaded everything into our Chevrolet and started North, arriving in Utah well before the beginning of the deer season. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Deer season is a big event in Utah, and most everyone going hunting at the season opener and it had become a social event as well as a hunt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Bryson Clan always hunted in a little valley about 30 miles northwest of Eureka, Utah. This was to be my first hunt with the clan. When I was home, I was too busy with football or farming to go and now I had been away 5 years in the service. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi87xrDPZhNWSf3n7ehUjvlmEoy9nmbKsVDP2EQS4yuh0q94pfmGtKhFWCo-ObqthfcJDODVIyZUGSl90aAOUQH0AHsVfpdIK3piMEoMUOuNsVFUr88b2jdbZTrsp2wvMBAwIjuxUFwl0o/s1600/Bryson+Family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi87xrDPZhNWSf3n7ehUjvlmEoy9nmbKsVDP2EQS4yuh0q94pfmGtKhFWCo-ObqthfcJDODVIyZUGSl90aAOUQH0AHsVfpdIK3piMEoMUOuNsVFUr88b2jdbZTrsp2wvMBAwIjuxUFwl0o/s400/Bryson+Family.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">When we arrived I was told that Red, my brother-in-law, had a gun for me. Being eager to get the gun and do some practicing, I drove to Santaquin, 6 miles away, to get it. This was 1945 and no civilian hardware of any kind was available so I expected a secondhand gun of some kind. However, I got a brand new Winchester model 70 that had been made in prewar period and hidden in some dealer’s back room for the duration. Red had found it and talked the dealer into selling it to me. It cost a whopping $97.00, which was quite a bunch then. I couldn’t let Red down and besides I was tickled as a kid with a new toy. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The day before the season opened we took a horse in the truck and my two oldest brothers, Dick and Merl, my nephews, their sons, both named Glen, and I went to the desert to hunt. We were the advance party and others would join us later. When we arrived at Little Valley we unloaded the horse and she helped us pull the truck over the last ridge. There at the spring were more of the groups of hunters that hunted the valley. Three families hunted the valley: the Brooks, the Robinsons, and the Brysons. My oldest brother, Dick, had opened the first road into the valley with Wes Robinson. Wes was now the marshal of Eureka, Utah, and Dick was his deputy.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">When we parked at the spring, Dick told me and another fellow to fetch a pair of bed springs he kept out at the valley. When we went to pick them up, up pops Wes. He hadn’t seen me for five or six years when I was a skinny 130 pound kid. Now I stood 6 feet and weighed 215 pounds. Wes said, “Those belong to Dick Bryson and you leave them alone.” We knew Wes, but he didn’t recognize us. So we just grunted and kept on walking. He charged over and got in front of me and was ready to whip me right there. Only Wes was about 140 pounds soaking wet. Things were getting interesting when Dick looked up and hollered over to see what the trouble was. Then Wes recognized me. He was out of his weight class, but the little guy was willing to try. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">That evening, we all sat around talking about past hunts and other hunting tales until just after dark. Then to bed until about 2 a.m. About that time, the Brook clan rolled in and woke everyone up. After a big breakfast, we packed lunches and started up our respective trails. The Brysons hunted the south ridge, the Brooks the north ridge. As we climbed the ridge, we soon reached the backbone of a long ridge running from east up to the west until it ended at a huge solid sandstone knob that was near 10 thousand feet in altitude. As we climbed, the older members of the family would stop off at regular intervals each at his favorite spot. Dick had killed his deer from the same rock for eleven consecutive years. We newcomers were forced to take the highest post of the ridge and none of us knew exactly where to set up, but found plenty of room. Eventually, everyone was in place and quietly freezing when daylight first started. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Just at daylight, the legal time to hunt, the Robinson family spread out across the valley and started hunting up the canyon. Up where we were, we could only tell this by the sound of the guns. You could pretty well guess that every time one of those old fellows pulled the trigger, a deer dropped. As the Robinson family hunted further up the canyon, the sound of gun getting closer and closer. Finally you could see deer start moving down in the canyon and up the other side. But we knew the Brooks were over there. Finally, I heard a clomp-clomp-clomp—recognized as a bounding buck. With nerves taut as fiddle strings, my numb hands working to get circulation going to keep nimble, I suddenly shifted my gaze along the ridge and there’s a buck!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mine! Suddenly my hands had become nimble as ever and I moved so quickly, I didn’t know I was moving until I remembered to be calm. By now the sights were on the butt of the ear and I squeezed off one shot as he disappeared over the ridge. But I heard that 180 grain slug hit home and knew something’s hurting. I ran to the top of the ridge over which he had disappeared. There stood my stunned buck, spraddle-legged with head down, quietly bleeding to death. To make sure he didn’t decide to run again, I put another slug into his head from a dead standstill. He toppled over, never to run free again. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">My first shot had been slightly low and I had shot off the entire lower jaw and part of the neck, leaving the jugular vein very neatly severed. I did the remaining knife work and set back to admire my first deer. He was a nice one about 200 pounds, I guessed, but they always look bigger when they are first down. He really dressed out at 183 pounds. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After the excitement of the kill, you don’t mind the work of drawing him. Out there on the desert, you make the smallest possible incision to keep the dirt out because it is a long way to camp. Not many people will carry 180 pounds of deer. By the time I was finished the field dressing, I was calmed down enough to quit shaking. If it’s your first deer, you can’t wait to get it down the mountain to show big brothers. You can do it too. The morning had been beautifully clear and the desert sky was clear as a bluebonnet. Now a few clouds were rolling over the main ridge above and in a few minutes it started snowing. That made footing on the steep mountain sides precarious, but it made sliding a deer much easier. After a few slides and a few falls and a lot of hard pulling, I got the deer back to camp only to find everyone else in the family had already limited out and they were waiting me to go home. I found I didn’t get the biggest, in spite of my first guess, but I did better than some. Bryson deer hunts never take more than one day and today the rest were eager to get before the storm got worse. We put the deer and the horse in the truck and took off for home. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcIz7R1DdGBw_AjomZjvtH87DS61gwdcElo0rsgupu5HBFkNoNXV-4E2evnAX-saVFvEjpCdpeKy56Ehihkuiqqer4rTMQfqQ9rR3RtXNWbxcDl72fDuZVT7XxorWzKOgG6zmnctBM0Q/s1600/The+extended+Bryson+Family--in+Dec.+1945.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcIz7R1DdGBw_AjomZjvtH87DS61gwdcElo0rsgupu5HBFkNoNXV-4E2evnAX-saVFvEjpCdpeKy56Ehihkuiqqer4rTMQfqQ9rR3RtXNWbxcDl72fDuZVT7XxorWzKOgG6zmnctBM0Q/s320/The+extended+Bryson+Family--in+Dec.+1945.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bryson Clan</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After the deer hunt was finished, we went to California for a few days to stay with Syl’s folks. Then back to Utah for the pheasant season. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Pheasant hunting isn’t quite as strenuous as deer hunting and Syl agreed to hunt with us. Merl had an old black dog that loved to flush birds and I had a well trained young pointer that held the birds, instinctively. We spent a couple of fun days with my dog finding the birds and Merl’s dog running out ahead to flush them and everyone seeing who could shoot first. We all limited and had much fun. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The deer season was still on so we decided to try a last hunt in Nephi Canyon for the deer on Syl’s license. She didn’t want to shoot a deer, but I was quite willing to do it for her. On a warm, sunny afternoon, we drove up the canyon until we saw a deer herd climbing up the side of the mountain ahead of us. I jumped out of the car and took off after them, just as they topped the ridge and disappeared over the top. Since it was completely open and Syl could see me all the way, she followed me up slowly. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I made the top as fast as my old cross-country legs would take me and just as I reached the top, a nice buck jumped up and started running down a path almost straight away from me. With one shot, I castrated him, opened the paunch and split his brisket, making it very easy if a bit messy to clean him out. By the time Syl reached the top of the ridge, I had him dressed and was starting back down the ridge. This one was a smaller 3 point and I elected to carry him out across my shoulders. In twenty minutes, we were back down to the car and in another hour we were back home. Never could I convince Syl that deer hunting was hard work. </span></span></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-64638316284988153522011-02-06T18:11:00.000-08:002011-02-06T18:11:33.081-08:00Chapter 36<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After the war ended, the Air Corp started releasing people left and right. Because of my length of service and combat experience, I was listed as #3 on the base for priority discharge. However, I didn’t want to get out so I signed over on an indefinite volunteer situation. Because I was eligible for release, I received all kinds of offers for a job. The nearest I came to accepting an outside job was with American Airlines. They, like everyone else, had big dreams of expansion after the war. I received letters and interviews and all kinds of recruitment, but when I asked how much, they said, “Well, we start co-pilots at $225 a month for three years and then you can become First Pilot.” I wasn’t much interested in being a bus driver anyway, and I was making more than twice that much in the service. I decided to stick. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">About a week after the end of the war, the base commander was released from the service and a new commander arrived. He was reported to be a tough old guy and started remaking the base into a peace time army. I took one look at him, one day, going past on his motor scooter, and knew what we were in for. Seems I knew the old gentleman before. He had been my commandant of cadets at Moffet Field and was still there as a Captain when I went back there to instruct. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">About the second week he was there, he ordered a parade on Saturday morning. Knowing Col. Jumper, I arranged to be out of town. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The following week I was in base operations filling out a flight plan when I was slapped hard on the back by Col. Jumper. After a warm exchange of greetings, he asked, “Where were you stationed?” Answer: “Right here.” Second question, “Where were you last Saturday?” Answer, “I wasn’t there.” He answered, “So I noticed.” And we changed the subject.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">About a week later, I was called into his office and told I was now Squadron Commander of a squadron of about 500 personnel. When I modestly said I didn’t know if I could handle it, he answered, “I know very well you can—I taught you.” The squadron was mostly a collection of former B-32 crew members put out of work by the end of the war. They, in general, were grouped into two distinct categories. Those who wanted out of the Air Corps as soon as possible, and those who wanted to stay in the service and were looking for a place to make themselves useful to avoid being discharged. I had two officers in the squadron, an executive officer and an adjutant. The adjutant turned out to be Lt. Coleman, who had been the operations officer in the B-32 squadron I was in. A change from me working for him, to him working for me. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After the war, the service stopped production of B-32s at some place in the production line where it was cheaper to junk the unfinished aircraft on the ground or ship it away for salvage. All birds ahead of that model were finished because it was cheaper to fly them to the salvage yard than ship them. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The salvage yard for B-32s was at Walnut Ridge, Arkansas. During the course of the fall, I made several trips to Walnut Ridge to deliver aircraft. On the first day of October, I was assigned to fly the very last B-32 that was finished off the line to the bone pile. It was a beautiful day as we left the office and headed for the flight line. It had been stormy, but this day it had just cleared beautifully. As we left operations, I asked Lt. Coleman, who was flying as my co-pilot, if he had a map. “Naw, anyone can find Walnut Ridge in the dark, you just fly out at 060 degrees until you hit Texarkana, then follow the railroad to Walnut Ridge.” So off we went happy to be back in the air after being on the ground in a job no pilot likes. We took off, headed out 060 degrees and turned on some music, and waited for the Arkansas River to show up. Soon we saw a river and a good sized town, so we steered a bit left to the town and turned north on the railroad track. Only, as we turned left, I looked down at the water front and here is a big warehouse with the word “Memphis” printed on top of the building. Memphis. That isn’t on the Arkansas River! That isn’t the Arkansas River. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In our enthusiasm for flying, we had over flown Texarkana and flown clear to Memphis Tennessee on the Mississippi River. So we did a graceful 180 degree turn and flew back to Texarkana, picked the correct railroad tracks and flew on to Walnut Ridge. When we got there, there was a C-45 crew waiting to take us home. It was the first day of the month and you have to fly 4 hours each month to get your flight pay. We had flown exactly 4 hours and 5 minutes. I was going on 30 day leave the next day and I could never convince anyone that I really had gotten lost. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Before I went on leave, the squadron was deactivated and the boss promised me a job as base operations officer when I returned from leave. That is the best peace time job there is for a pilot. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">While we were at Bryan, one of the couples that lived near us had a big collie that played with Britt all the time. This gave me an excuse for buying a dog that I had always wanted. I was a pointer man and though I had never really hunted with one, I had read the many stories of field trials and followed old Pilot Sam [a famous Pointer dog] through the many years of his great career as the greatest field trial champion of all time. When I started looking for a pup, the first ad I spotted was for some registered pointer pups. They were out of a daughter of old Pilot Sam. I was sold. We selected a beautiful little female. Since we had a high fence around the back yard, this was perfect for a boy and a dog. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">During the summer our second son was born. Syl started labor in the middle of the night so I dressed Britt and we all went to the hospital. I entered Syl into the hospital but the staff refused to permit me to wait with the baby so Britt and I returned home and went to bed. And he even slept. Early the next morning, I called the hospital to see if Sybil and the baby were alright. The hospital attendant reported that my wife was fine, but my baby had died and I should make arrangements for the burial. Of course, I was very sad, but I had to accept what we could not change and proceeded to make the arrangements. Then I met the undertaker at the hospital to pick up the body. I approached the front desk and stated that I had come for my son’s body. While one nurse was busy arranging the papers, another nurse, who just happened to be passing the desk, stopped and asked what I had said. I repeated, “I came to get the body of the Bryson baby that had died.” She replied, “Wait a minute, I was on duty in the delivery room and it wasn’t the Bryson baby that died.” WHOA!! Trying to be very calm, I caught her by the arm and turned to the other nurse at the desk and stated that we were going to find out about this, like now! The hospital manager was called and we all went to the nursery and there was my very tiny baby with “Bryson” on his armband. Two premature babies had been born in that night, one had lived and one had not, and I almost buried the wrong baby. During all the excitement, the nurse who had corrected the error slipped away and I never did find out who she was. But my son and I will be forever indebted.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">[Forest] only weighed 3 lbs., 13 oz. and the next day or so, dropped to 3 lbs even. It was still touch and go, if he would make it or not. The day after he was born I had a baseball game with the base team and as I sat quietly dressing, some of my teammates noticed my behavior and asked what was wrong. I explained about my son and that he only weighed 3 lbs. Our big pitcher, who stood 6’2” and weighed 215 lbs., slapped me on the back and said, “That’s okay, he’ll be okay. I only weighed 3 lbs. when I was born too.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In a few days, Sybil was released to return home, but the baby had to remain in the incubator for 6 weeks. The doctors wanted to feed him on mother’s milk, so for 6 weeks we had to take the milk from Sybil and deliver it to the hospital every day. Finally he was large enough to survive outside the incubator, but it had taken him 6 weeks to gain 2 lbs. When we got him home, where he could be fed regularly and properly with all the tender-lovin’ care, he gained 2 lbs. a week for several weeks and was as strong and healthy as a boy can be. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The Church in Fort Worth was very weak. There were only a few people and they met in a small, one room wooden shack. It was so dirty Syl said she felt uncomfortable going there with the children. But as always, they were wonderful people and we even had home teachers assigned for the first time. Because of my flying schedule and the problem with the baby, we didn’t make it to church regularly, but we went when we could.</span></span></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-9720450536381058302011-02-06T11:28:00.000-08:002011-02-06T11:36:21.786-08:00Chapter 35<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After taking on the two problem students successfully, I was finally accepted as a full fledged B-24 instructor. About this time, I got solidly established in the B-24 program, [the program] began to phase out and a new, larger super-bomber, the B-32 began rolling off the production lines. Since the factory was on the other side of the runway, they didn’t have far to go. I was among the first 20 AirCorps officers to be checked out in the B-32 program. Whenever a new aircraft comes into the inventory, it always has many problems that are discovered and generally fixed before the aircraft becomes a reliable and useful system. The B-32 was no exception. The Wright engine vibrated in one mode and the Convair airframe vibrated in another mode and the fuel lines in between continued to break under the vibrational stress. A broken fuel line spewing fuel on a hot engine can be exciting. On the first flight I made, we took off and were instructed by the instructor pilot to circle the field once and shoot a landing. We reved up, poured the coal to it and took off beautifully. What a bunch of power and what a beautiful responsive aircraft to fly. You could fly it with two fingers. About the time the bird leaped into the air, the crew chief called, “#3 engine on fire.” Man, those were startling words. I shut off the fuel to #3, feathered the engine and climbed up to traffic altitude to start the approach for landing. By this time, the fuel in the line had all burned and the fire burned out. We continued our approach and landed quite safely and parked the aircraft without any trouble. The next three flights resulted in exactly the repeat of the first landing—four take-offs, four engines on fire emergency landings. It was getting routine but about this time the contractor had developed a new type of fuel line and stopped the problem. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After completing the B-32 training school, I was assigned to a B-32 training squadron as an instructor pilot and continued to fly as an instructor until the end of the war. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Soon after we arrived in Fort Worth while we were still in the holding squadron and didn’t have much to do, I started shooting skeet each morning and playing ball in the afternoon. One particular guy always seemed to be around the same time to shoot as I was and we became friends. Bob Weir was from Montana and was an avid hunter and fisherman. After a few months, we became good friends. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In the meantime, my wife started attending Officers’ Wives’ Club meetings. She started telling me about this girl she met and became friends with. The girl’s name was Peach and about every day I would hear what Syl and Peach had been doing. Finally, the girls decided that their husbands just had to get acquainted. A dinner party was arranged when I was to meet Peach’s husband. When the guests had arrived, I and the husband broke out laughing. Instead of spending a boring evening with some guy I didn’t know, here was my friend, Bob, married to Syl’s friend Peach. After that the two couples were inseparable friends, that is, until I was transferred. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In the spring of 1945, April brought a capitulation by Germany and some relief from the strain of a wartime basis. The B-32 program was designed mostly for the Far East Theater and our effort was directed toward getting B-32s into the bombing of Japan. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Sometime during the spring of 1945, I was flying with a student pilot from Fort Worth, northwest toward Abilene, Texas. The sky suddenly lit up like an aircraft had exploded just in front of us. I called the tower and reported the incident. They, in turn, started a search for a missing aircraft. We continued to fly toward the direction of the bright flash, but neither I, nor Operations, could find anything. The tower sent out a request for any aircraft missing and none were reported. I made quite a fuss that I was sure I had seen this peculiar flash of light, but it continued to be a mystery. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">During the summer, the atomic bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, bringing World War II to an abrupt end, much to the relief of all the people in the military. When it became evident that the war end was near, I along with most of the other sober, non-drinking officers, were chosen to form a “Victory in Japan Patrol.” It was felt that the citizen soldiers would go bananas when the end of the war was announced. The services wanted to avoid any unnecessary trouble. I was teamed up with an old Major and we were assigned a staff car to patrol the base. When the announcement came, there were a few hip-hoorays, but not much else. We did hear a bit of celebrating in on of the BOQs and went to investigate. Three people rushed out of the barracks and across the lawn area from the quarters. We went back, got the car, and drove around the area to discover three WACs [Women’s Air Corps] trying to get back into their barracks, without proper clothing. In fact, one of them was only wearing a leather flight jacket. We put them in the back of the car and drove them to their barracks and released them. That was the extent of the wild celebrations at Fort Worth Air Field.</span></span></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-59893480944507836412011-01-30T14:32:00.000-08:002011-01-30T16:00:35.909-08:00Chapter 34<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Next day, we had to report to the Presidio of Monterey for additional orders. They gave us orders to report to the R&R center at Santa Monica after 30 days leave. We then drove back to Merced and then on to Payson to visit my folks.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Since Syl’s dad was a railroad man, the family could get free passes on the railroad so Syl talked her mother into coming with us to Los Angeles to pick up our son, Britt, while we were at Santa Monica. We had several unforgettable experiences at Los Angeles and round about. We went golfing for my first time. I didn’t break any par, but I beat the golfing buddy we went with and he was really ticked that I beat him my first time out. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We also got tickets to a UCLA-USC football game in the LA Coliseum. During the first three quarters and 13 minutes, USC made 2 touchdowns and one extra point. UCLA made zilch. Our golfing friends were very bored with the game and wanted to leave. With 2 minutes left, we finally agreed to go. As we were leaving, the crowd started to go wild and we were wondered what we had missed. We learned later that UCLA came back with two touchdowns and 2 extra points to win the game 14-13. We had missed all the action. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Probably the highlight of the whole adventure was a trip to R.K.O. Movie Studio. Beggs and Corbin lived in Los Angeles and so we got together and took them and their dates to the Brown Derby for dinner. Bill’s girlfriend was a stand-in at R.K.O. A leg stand-in. Whenever they wanted to photograph a pair of legs for the movies, they would use her legs. The other parts of the girl weren’t bad, either. She invited us to take a tour of the studio and volunteered to escort us. This was great. We took the 2 dollar tour, then, as a little extra, she took us to the make-up studio where we met Perc Westmore, the best known makeup man in Hollywood at the time. He decided I’d look cute with a mustache so invited me to sit in the make-up chair. After covering me with a makeup cloth to prevent makeup from getting on my uniform, proceeded to give me a full grown cookie duster, Clark Gable style. As he was working on me, the director came in and said he wanted to have the makeup changed on one of the cast. Perc said, “I’ll take care of it as soon as I finish the Captain.” Without looking, the director said, “Haven’t you finished him yet?” Then to me, “You should have been on the set long ago.” He proceeded to give me a good bawling out for being late. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Some explanation and introduction later proved I was not the Captain of his play. It lead to an invitation to go watch the actual filming of the movie. It was a nautical tale staring Paul Henreid and Maureen O’Hara. We met and talked with both the stars and really saw them making several short scenes for the movie. To an old farm boy and his wife, this was very exciting. [The movie was “<i>The Spanish Main</i>” which came out in 1945.]</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After due time, I was assigned to Tarrant Field, Fort Worth, Texas, so I could be near the Brooke Medical Center. This was the world’s leading authority on Malaria. We collected our son and all our possessions, put them into our little car and trailer and we were off to Texas. Upon arriving at the new base, I stopped at the housing office and they had just received a new billing for a house to rent. I grabbed the slip and rushed to the address. It was 4008 Birchman, in Arlington Heights [Fort Worth], the better part of the city. There we met Mrs. Jones and promptly rented her completely furnished home. It was lovely. A nice, neat white house with a fenced backyard and a separate garage. Mrs. Jones was an artist and her husband had been drafted. She had decided to rent the house and go back to live with her folks until he came home. The house showed her very artistic touch and contained many of her paintings.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">My work at Fort Worth was at first very dull. There were hundreds of returned combat pilots in a holding pattern with absolutely nothing to do. At the same time, the training squadrons were refusing to release pilot instructors for combat because instructors were claimed to be especially trained. After about a week of that nonsense, I went to the director of trainings office and introduced myself. After explaining my instructors background, requested that I be put back to work as an instructor pilot. He allowed he would arrange a flight check to see if I was qualified to be an instructor pilot. I passed with no questions. The director then proposed he send me to instrument school at Bryan, Texas. At first I was very unhappy at his delaying tactics, but then later was very glad to have been through the school. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Since we only intended to be at school for six weeks, we kept the house and just took enough to get by with for a short period. When we arrived at the school, we first went house hunting. We ended up living in a motel at College Station, Texas, right across the street from Texas A&M. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The instrument part of the school was no problem, but feeling confident in a little AT-6 aircraft after stepping down from a B-24 took awhile. The highlight of the school was the school commandant, Col. Duckworth. He had been one of the first pioneers in instrument flying and had some 12,000 total hours. He was continually in trouble with the AirCorps administratively, but was fantastic in inspiring students to be interested in instrument flying. Most of the students, like myself, were combat returnees sent there to get us out of the way. All the instructors were non-combat pilots. One instructor was even a cadet I had washed out of one of my squadrons back when I was a flight commander at Merced. It took someone with great ability and insight to motivate the students. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After completion of the Air Force instrument school, we returned to Fort Worth and again put in the holding squadron. After another visit to the director of training and another flight check, I was reassigned to a B-24 squadron as an assistant instructor. This meant I could only teach with another instructor pilot along. Generally this meant being completely free to teach B-24 flying while the regular instructor slept in the back end. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After a couple of weeks, I was called into the squadron commander’s office and asked if I would take two very troublesome students and see what I could do with them. These two students were from an old training command, a Lt. Colonel and a Major with many thousands of hours of flying time and good pilots, but they resented the young lieutenant who tried to treat them like cadets. I simply talked to them and treated them like senior officers. They soloed the first day I taught them. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">An interesting thing developed while I was soloing them. For years since we were married, Syl could fly with me occasionally and she got to the point where she could fly very well. I had promised to solo her and help her get her license, but to do this, I had to get my commercial, instrument, and instructor’s rating from C.A.A. I had succeeded in getting the commercial and instrument rating and was working on getting my instructor’s rating at the time. As I sat on the end of the runway watching these students solo, they were shooting landings, one after another and I was sweating out each landing. I suddenly thought, “What if that was your wife.” Right there I decided no way. I never did get that instructor’s rating from C.A.A. and she never did solo. </span></span></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-14188768141194947852011-01-14T14:32:00.000-08:002011-01-14T16:13:23.081-08:00Chapter 33<div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">About the time of the invasion of southern France, I started having fever attacks every afternoon. The first one occurred one night after a baseball game. I had flown a mission and then played the game. The first question the doctor asked me was, “Have you been taking your Atabrine?” (A pill to prevent malaria.) I reported that I was taking it regularly but he said he better check for malaria, anyway. The results showed negative and so he started analyzing for something else. In the meantime, I would fly a mission and get home in time for my chill. Then by morning, I’d feel fine. Finally, the doctor grounded me and sent me to the hospital where they couldn’t find anything wrong with me either. </span></div><br />
<div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">After a few days of rest, they sent me back to duty. As soon as I started working, I’d start having attacks again. This time the doctor prescribed an R&R (Rest and Relaxation). So my whole crew was scheduled to go to the Isle of Capri for a vacation. That night the O.D. needed an extra man, stumbled into my tent and demanded my top gunner fly as a replacement. When I woke up to go on R&R, all the crew were so angry they refused to go. To make matters worse, the aircraft was shot down and we lost Sgt. O’Brien. The doctor insisted I take a vacation and ordered me to go to Rom an a rest quota for administrative personnel with some of our group leaders. When we reached Rome, we were taken to the Hotel Augusta where I was quartered. As we entered, we observed a long line of girls and women waiting outside the hotel door. At the counter as we registered, we were told we could take a friend to lunch and dinner and we could choose any one of the waiting line if we liked. </span></div><div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I became good friends with our group chaplain because he and I were the only two officers in Rome going solo. One day as we came out on the balcony overlooking the very ornate dining room, Chaplain Goldberg made a very descriptive statement. “Vern, there sure is lots of virtue going before hunger here today.”</span></div><div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">While in Rome, Capt. Roberdeau, an intelligence officer from the 830<sup>th</sup> squadron, and an old friend of mine, was assigned as my roommate. We spent a good deal of time touring the city. Rome is a city of Art. There is a famous statue or building on almost every corner. Of course, the greatest art treasures are in the Vatican. We had hired a cab driver who spoke English to be our guide. As we went through St. Peter’s cathedral, the guide would almost invariably say, “This statue was done by Rafael, he was beheaded in 1776” until it seemed that all the famous people had been killed. My friend Roberdeau finally stated, “No wonder all the Italians are so dumb, they killed all the smart ones.” This made the guide so angry, he deserted us. While we were going through the cathedral, a man in a beanie came by and asked us if we would like to have an audience with the Pope <span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[Pope <span style="color: black;">Pius Xll]</span></span>. Of course, who wouldn’t? We, with a number of other servicemen were taken to the Sistine Chapel where we were seated. I managed to get a front row seat. When the Pope entered, he shook hands with all of us and as he came to me he asked, “And are you a good Catholic boy?” To which I answered, “No Sir, I’m a good Mormon boy.” He answered that must be a good church, too. He then sat down and gave us a good fatherly lecture on the evils of sin and in keeping ourselves morally clean. He impressed me as a very noble old gentleman trying to do his best for the good of everyone. </span></div><div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">That evening, I went to dinner with Roberdau and his “date.” She was an Italian actress who was very beautiful and spoke perfect English. She was married and had two children. Her husband worked 16 hours a day and earned enough to feed his family just one meal a day. If she ate at the hotel, then her children could have two meals a day. She left each night in time to meet her husband when he got home from work. When she went home that night, she had money and food enough to feed her kids. </span></div><div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">The people in Rome and other large cities were literally starving to death, while the people in the farm lands ate adequately. That night I vowed I would have a farm as soon as I got home. </span></div><div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">After my R&R I returned to the same routine, fly all morning and have fever all afternoon. One mission I was flying deputy squadron lead on the right wing of my squadron commander, Major O’Brien. As we flew along, the number two propeller control iced up. This is caused by ice from the water in the engine hydraulic fluid freezing at the cold temperatures of high altitude. The ice would block the control valve causing the propeller to run away. I adjusted the power to compensate for the loss of one engine and turned the controls over to the co-pilot while I tried to remove the ice by cycling the control valve from full open to full closed. While I was doing this, the flight engineer was transferring fuel from one tank to another from which #1 engine was feeding. Sgt. Harris became interested in what I was doing instead of what he was doing. Then when the auxiliary tank from which he was pumping went dry, it began pumping air into the engine fuel line and #1 [engine] stopped cold.</span></div><div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">By the time I could get my head out of the cock pit and get oriented to the situation, we were flying directly above the lead plane in a 90° bank—with two dead, on windmilling on the bottom side and two going full burner on the top. I couldn’t straighten the aircraft against the power of the two top engines and I couldn’t chop power without dropping straight down n the top of Obie and his crew. So I tried to let the plane drift across the formation to the left, hoping to right the craft after we had passed the formation, but we never got that far. About the time I had cleared the lead airplane, the aircraft controls stalled and we began spinning to the left. The next few moments of time can best be re-told as told to us after the mission. Major O’Brien missed me from my slot and asked, “What happened to Bryson?” The tail gunner answered, “He just spun out of formation.” Obie shouted, “Where is he now?” The very calm answer came back, “He’s still spinning.” End of story.</span></div><div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> Back to a spinning aircraft with 5000 pounds of high explosives on board. I shopped the throttles and called George to kick full right rudder. When the bird had slowed its stall, I called, “Pop the stick” at which time we both pushed the control column hard forward. The big bird shuddered once, nosed over and began to fly again. We were now dangerously near the tops of the mounts so we picked a low pass between two peaks to fly through. At this altitude, al the ice was gone and all four [engines] were working fine. I turned to look how the crew was and there were eight men lined up on the Bombay catwalk ready to leave us. We looked for the formation but they were not even visible in the sky so we gave up and returned home. We flew the same airplane and the same bomb load successfully on the next mission the next day. </span>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-69951057244421858782011-01-14T14:31:00.000-08:002011-01-14T14:31:16.257-08:00Chapter 32<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Our common targets were <span style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Ploiesti</span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">,</b> Romanian oil fields, [which] I visited 5 times, Munich, Germany, the home of Hitler, to which I flew 3 missions, and to Vienna, where I set an Air Force record for returning from Vienna 9 times. I share this record for missions to Vienna with a Col. Campbell, but I came home all nine times. Vienna was our toughest target. There were reported to be 1000 anti-aircraft guns stationed there. When 15<sup>th</sup> Air Force visited Vienna, they rolled up a black cloud of flak that was so thick it looked like you could walk on it. The guns were arranged in groups of four and would fire in square patterns each bursting far enough away from the others to ensure damage to any aircraft within the box. As you approached the gunners would start to track you on your particular box. At first they would generally be a safe distance away, but on each series of four bursts, they would zero in on you until they made their kill, or you flew out of range. How many times I watched the quads pick up my squadron, one two three four, then a pause. Then 1, 2, 3, 4, coming closer. Then 1, 2, 3, 4, then 1, 2, 3, 4 until they were right ahead of you. Then one to your left, two to your right, three directly ahead and you waited and sometimes four never came. You breathed again and kept fighting to keep in formation and deliver your payload and watching for fighters and calling out “bogey at 1 o’clock high.”</span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One mission now ran into another and only a very few remained clean. One day we had bombed Vienna and were returning home peacefully as could be. When we flew, we wore flak vests and helmets for our own protection, but they were very heavy and uncomfortable. On this particular day, I had removed my helmet and placed it down o the floor beside my seat. As we flew back south, we were flying over a heavy cloud deck when all of a sudden the sky started popping with fireworks. When the flak burst is close, you see red from the explosion, and we saw red with the first burst. About the second series of four, I got smacked on the top of my head and the fragment lodged in the frame of the aircraft to the left of my head. It felt like I had been hit with a club. My head dropped down until my chin struck hard against my chest. My first reaction was “Good old flak helmet!” Then I looked down and there it was lying on the floor. We wore a leather helmet under the metal flak helmet and the flak fragment had cut right through the leather seam above the center of my skull, cut a groove through my hair, but never brought blood. That’s about as close as you can come. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On the 26<sup>th</sup> of June [1944], I was assigned to lead a mission to Vienna to bomb the Floridsdorf Oil Refinery. We had been to the same target for three days in a row and missed the target every time. How 800 bombers can all miss a target is hard to understand unless you have been there, but miss, we did. On this particular mission we all knew where we were going even before briefing and Germans knew it too. They announced on their propaganda radio that they would be ready for us and they were. They brought the entire Air defense capability that remained in the Luftwaffe into the area to meet us. The entire 15<sup>th</sup> Air Force with all available aircraft, about 800 B-24s and B-17s with all available fighter cover took off for Vienna on schedule. This looked like the show-down at O.K. Corral. Unknown to everyone, the Air Force had brought to additional groups of F-51 fighters from England down to fly cover for us also. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We arrived over Vienna in the middle of the long train of American bombers strung out, group after group. As we started our bomb run, a group of yellow noses met us, head on. The yellow noses were the German’s crack outfit. Then flew the best aircraft and used more effective techniques and new their business. I was leading high box in the first wave. In the first pass, the lead box disintegrated so I was left alone, leading the group. Only two of that box finally limped home. The next flight of yellow noses were after us, head on. They would roll just before they struck and fire upside down, then fall away, beneath the target. The bottom of their aircraft was armor-plated so it was impossible to hurt them once they got turned over. As the flight leader came straight at my aircraft, we waited until he just started his roll. Then big Bill opened up with the nose turret and blew him clear out of the sky. The rest of the flight, to avoid his debris, broke off the attack and hit the second wave in full force. This left me unmolested to drop our bombs. We went on until bombs away then started to weave to avoid the flak which had every gun trying to stop us. The bombardier continued to watch his bomb until they struck and reported a direct hit from our six birds carrying 5000 pounds each. We continued to fake and weave to avoid the flak, putting as much distance between us and Vienna as possible. The rest of the group that was still flying rallied around us and we proceeded on home. My squadron had not been touched due to Bill’s pinpoint accuracy. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As we droned away from the target, we took time to look around at the rest of the battle. Any direction you looked, you could see B-24s or B-17s going down in smoke and flame. Finally, 12 of our original 24 birds reached home and safely landed. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was reported a little later than the U.S. Air Force had shot down 376 jerry aircraft that day. It effectively broke the back of the Luftwaffe because I never saw another fighter the rest of my tour. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One Sunday, I wasn’t flying for the first time and I got my next day mission planned early so a group of us could go to Church up at Foggia where there was a large concentration of Air Force groups. They had started a church group and four of us borrowed a jeep to drive to Church about 50 miles distance. We arrived late and everyone was seated so we slipped in the back and joined them. They were meeting in a large auditorium in the city and had a capacity crowd. During the services, we had to stand up for a song and when we stood up, I thought I had shrunk. Being six feet tall, I was not used to having trouble seeing over people’s heads. This crowd was all so much taller that I was awestruck. I couldn’t believe that a group of L.D.S. men stood so far above the average of the men I was used to working with. A testimony of the Word of Wisdom. </span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">During the summer, we made several missions to southern France to soften up the course for the invasion of southern France. One of the obstacles as a huge 16 inch naval weapon located on a prominent point overlooking one of the harbors. The squadron lead was assigned to bomb the gun implement. As we made our run, the bombardier reported a direct hit on the target but, of course, the target was instantaneously covered with a cloud of smoke so no assessment could be made. One of the men was assigned to take pictures through the bottom of the aircraft for target identification. When we got back and developed the pictures, one showed a bomb exploding immediately behind the big gun causing the gun to be blown forward toward the ocean. The picture snapped just as the muzzle of the gun struck the water causing a spray out from the impact. </span></div></span>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-64253532223812349632011-01-13T20:57:00.001-08:002011-01-13T20:57:49.771-08:00Chapter 31<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The Arabs are generally a fearless people where death is concerns because they believe their religion. There is one thing they fear and that is the “Gumbs.” The Gumbs are French West Africans and they are generally very tall, powerful negroids. The French armed them with World War I rifles with old long triangular shaped bayonets. They were used exclusively as troops to ring the Arabs in line. In all, I had to admire the Arabs more than their French conquerors. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Probably the most interesting thing in the three weeks we stayed in Oujda was the Arabian horses. All the horses we saw about the area were stallions because the Arabs never work a mare. They are kept for breeding, but since they are very selective about their breeding stock, it must be more than just using the mares for breeding but never did I see a mare being worked. All the horses we saw were outstanding as to configuration if not for size. They were generally quite small but there were some that were very tall. I never saw any draft-type horses either. Even the beer wagons were pulled by Arabians. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Most of the Arabian stallions were very tranquil, showing no viciousness we would see in American stallions. Our friend, the cabbie, had 5 stallions he kept in a single room—in his house—incidentally—and they never fought. On the street, people would walk up and down the street walking within inches of the horses and pay no attention to the horses, as if they were completely harmless. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">There was one outstanding example to the contrary. He was, without question, the most beautiful and dynamic horse I saw. He was a bright copper sorrel. He stood taller than most of the Arabians I saw, but was light of frame and very leggy. He was worked on the outside of a beer wagon with two nondescript but heavier horses. When he moved, you could see every muscle in his body moving in rhythm, like the muscle patterns you see in some tall, but very powerful athletes. He was very quick and would always have the load started before the other two horses could move. But he was mean. They had to work him with both kick straps to prevent him from kicking and a muzzle to prevent his biting. They say Arabs select their breeding stallions according to their docile nature and their obedience first and configuration second. I’m sure he would have been a brood stallion except for his meaness. He was a beautiful picture to behold. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Another outstanding horse was a tall dappled grey horse that was driven on a two-wheeled surrey by the wife of one of the French authorities. He must have been 17 hands high, with a beautiful dappled coat that almost became blue in the hind quarters. His head was the typical short Arabian head with a tiny muzzle. They say a brood stallion must have a muzzle small enough to drink from a tea cup. This particular horse was completely gentle and her owner would stop in front of a store and the horse would stand perfectly still without even being tied for as long as the woman was shopping. When he travelled, he had a long swing that really covered miles. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After 20 days of waiting, the Air Force finally shipped us a tire but no aircraft jacks to mount the tire. Since were bothered by our long absence, we were eager to get going. We borrowed 5 jacks from the British and a truck load of railroad ties from the French. With the ties, we built up a crib on which to place the jacks and with planks under the wing to distribute the load, slowly jacked up the plane enough to remove the old tire and wheel and replace it with the new one. It was a very risky procedure and if a jack had slipped and punched a hole through the wing, I could have paid for the whole aircraft. We succeeded without incident. We finished about noon and by one o’clock, we were in the sky on our way to our final destination. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We landed at Oudna [Airfield], I reported directly to the squadron headquarters were the commander told me he had reported us all missing in action. Seems the message had not reached the squadron in the three weeks we were waiting although I had personally talked to the group operations officer and told him where we were and why. The base at Oudna, Tunisia was very hot and dry. It was just inland from Tunis and the surrounding area was very harsh desert. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Since it was the French territory before the war, a provisional French government was established. They imposed all sorts of dumb rules, like, if an aircraft crashed, it belonged to the French government, even if it crashed on the airstrip. The base security guards were French and in general, they were milking Uncle Sam for all they could get. About this time, one of our aircraft had a wheels-up landing on the field near the runway. As soon as the plane had crashed, the French rushed out and posted a guard around the aircraft. It happened that the ball turret on my plane was inoperable because of a simple little airbase fitting that was not in stock and we were being briefed to fly a mission the next day. There was a fitting on the crashed aircraft. So I determined to get the part. We drove a jeep we had borrowed from Ops. out to this downed aircraft and were immediately challenged by the big colored guard. I tried to explain to him that I need a part in English and kept jabbering in French or Swahili, or whatever he spoke. I’d show him the wrench and part inside the aircraft and he finally got the idea that I wanted to do something with the plane so I got as far as the turret. When I’d start removing the part, he would start jabbering and start to lower the end of that long rifle. I’d drop the wrench and would drop my hand down to my pistol. This provided a pretty good bluff because he soon was watching my right hand more and jabbering less. After several minutes that seemed like hours of playing bluff between a few turns of the fitting, I finally succeeded in getting my part and backing out of the aircraft with him jabbering more than ever when he found I was going to take something. With my right hand free, he never threatened to point his rifle anymore. I got back in the jeep and we drove off. It was a foolish game to play, but I morally objected to flying a crippled aircraft in combat because of stupid political bungling. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We flew a couple of short practice missions their and I got to fly to Algiers one day to take the group commander on business. Other than that, it was a pretty dull place. Finally, the word leaked out that we were scheduled to move to Italy. At this time the invasion of Sicily had been completed and we had taken Southern Italy up to the north end of Foggia Valley. The beach-head at Anzio had been established, but had not been connected with the inland troops. In fact, they were completely stalled in the small beach-head. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">About the next day, the Squadron Commander, Lt. Col. Griffin, a good “jack-mormon” from Utah, called me in and told me I was going to Italy the next day and would be in charge of establishing the squadron area. We loaded up our Big Bird again and flew onto a new field near Venosa, Italy. The field consisted of a pierced plank runway and part of the taxi ways and parking areas. Everything else was a wheat field until the war came to Italy. We landed in a beautiful clear day. The grass was up and green and everything looked beautiful. We set about getting a couple of tents and set up to live in and just about succeeded when it started to rain. We had no heat in the ten but had succeeded in keeping our gear dry. And it rained. Finally one of the group officers came by and dropped off a few cases of “C” rations. Later they parked a trailer of drinking water. From that, we lived for two weeks until they could get another aircraft into the field. As soon as the rain stopped, the rest of the squadron started to arrive and we began to prepare to fight a war. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After the flight crews arrived, the ground personnel arrived en mass. Well, most of them did. While the flight crews flew across the ground support, troops had come across by boat. They were traveling in a huge naval convoy protected by many warships but just after they entered the Mediterranean Sea, three JU SS, Jerry bombers, came in on the deck and concentrated their attack on just one ship out of the convoy. This happened to be the ship one of our squadron personnel was on and the entire ground force for one squadron was lost. The group reassigned personnel from within the group and filled in the vacancies with replacements. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Very quickly the assignment came for the first mission. It was an easy milk-run on a seaport on Yugoslavia. I was assigned a position in the lead box of our squadron. All the crews reported for briefing about 2 a.m. and by the first light of dawn, we were launching aircraft. The lead aircraft containing the group commander, took off first then by squadron, each aircraft took off at 20 second intervals. The leader started a slow turn to the left around the field and each pilot would take a route inside the circle so as to intercept the leader by the time he had made two complete circles. From there we flew to a rendezvous point with our arrival timed exactly so as not to interfere with other groups arriving over the point at time spaced intervals. Since this was our first combat mission, they sent us by ourselves so we wouldn’t foul up other groups. We went in at bombing altitude and we saw a couple of little white puffs in the sky below us. Everyone was too busy preparing to drop bombs and to stay in good tight formation to worry about them. As pilot, all I had to do was stay in formation with the squadron leader. The bombardier manually released the bombs when the lead ship released his. Everything went well and after about six hours flying time, we were back at the field. After landing and parking the birds, we all were picked up in the personnel trucks and taken directly to debriefing. There each crew member was given a shot glass of whiskey and we were criticized on the mission and results. Since not all of the crews could fly in every mission, it took three such flights to give each crew a milk-run to get over the jitters then things began in earnest. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">On my second mission, our group was assigned to bomb some installations immediately in front of the narrow beachhead we held at Anzio. We were supposed to fly from the ocean in south of Anzio, bomb our targets, then rally left, over Rome and back to the Sea. As we approached our target, a few bursts of flak could be seen over Rome so our leader decided to rally over the Anzio beachhead instead of over the city. Only the ground troops didn’t like aircraft flying over them and the American anti-aircraft opened up on us. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">My aircraft received 32 flak holes and my tail gunner was wounded to the point he couldn’t fly for several missions because a leader didn’t do as he was directed. Other crews didn’t fare as well as we did. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Soon after we started flying combat, the 731<sup>st</sup> squadron lost almost half its squadron in one mission. The squadron commander was hurt on the mission, also, and was hospitalized, so Capt. O’Brien, one of the senior pilots from our squadron was made commander of the 731<sup>st</sup> Squadron. He asked for and with my concurrence, had me transferred to his squadron. O’Brien was an old-timer and the one flight commander remaining in the squadron was an old-timer, but the squadron operations officer was an inexperienced fellow. So the squadron was organized with two flights instead of the usual four. Capt. F.X. Dalton was chief of one and I was the chief of the other. F.X. and I had complete responsibility for the planning and leading our flights and we would alternate days flying. Each mission required a squadron leader and only three of us, O’Brien, Dalton, and I were qualified to fly the lead and/or alternate the lead. Every fourth mission where our squadron became group lead squadron, two of us had to fly. The days I didn’t fly, I would select the crews and plan the flight for the next day. Then the next day I was responsible to get the crews up and to briefing and see that the mission was performed properly. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Missions ran into missions, one every day and sometimes two on consecutive days. On the days I flew, I had to be awake before the rest of the crews to be sure the O.D. awakened the right crews and to make assignments to replace men that were sick or wounded. This meant getting up at 1 or 2 a.m. and being briefed at 3 or 4 a.m. Most take-offs were around 5:30 or 6 a.m. We would return around 2 p.m., depending upon the distance we had to go to the target. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After we returned, we had to attend debriefing then our time was free until the next mission except for the required planning. </span></span></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-83108281978559335302011-01-12T10:00:00.001-08:002011-01-13T18:35:33.071-08:00Chapter 30<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The next morning we were off to Marrakech, Morocco. This flight took us across the west edge of the Sahara Desert, through a pass in the Atlas Mountains before landing at Marrakech. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">As we crossed the desert, we could see the sand flowing below us, actually obscuring the ground. As we went further north, the sand storm kept getting higher and higher until it was higher than our assigned altitude and we found ourselves flying in a cloud of red sand. We applied the air filters to keep the sand out of the engines but it was everywhere else. Using air filters always decrease the output power of the engines perceptible and we had to apply more power to hold our airspeed and altitude. After a couple of hours of flying in the red cloud, the crew chief noticed liquid coming out of the number 3 nacelle, which proved to be gasoline. Of course, raw gasoline you don’t want in the nacelle of an airplane so we shut off the fuel line and feathered the engine. No big deal—except we discovered that which our heavily loaded bird, the filters on, and one engine feathered, we couldn’t hold our altitude. We kept getting lower and lower and we knew the pass in the Atlas Mountains was 12,000 feet with 16,000 foot mountains on both sides of the pass. And we were blind all the way. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I picked up the microphone, turned to intercom and asked the navigator where we were. It had been my habit to recheck the navigator with the radio compass at all times, just to play it safe, but this evidently didn’t go well with Zeke and he answered, “What the h— you asking me for, you have a radio compass, don’t you?”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">As we continued to descend, it became extremely doubtful if we could clear the pass, particularly if we were slightly off course. I considered all things, took a chance on the leaking gasoline and restarted the dead engine. We climbed up to a safe altitude and flew through the mountains. As soon as we were through the mountains, the sand storm disappeared and the green oasis that was Marrakech was right in front of us, as it should be. We re-feathered #3 [engine] and made an uneventful landing. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">When we got on the ground we had an understanding with the navigator, repared the broken fuel line and prepared for an early morning take off on our last leg to our destination at Oudna, near Tunis. Next morning we were off on schedule and were cruising quietly when an engine started running rough. A quick check indicated that lost a magneto on number 2 engine. This can cause an overheat of an engine with extended use, and since we wanted those engines in the very best shape for things to come, we decided to land at an airfield at Oujda, French Morocco to get the engine repaired. Our briefing material indicated the field had an American repair facilities so we expected a quick repair and on to our base. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After we landed on the pierced-plank runway, we turned to taxi back to the parking area, but one corner of the plank had been broken loose and bent up. It cut a tire causing a blow out. We were instructed by the tower operator, a very British voice, to clear the runway and park the aircraft since they had no towing equipment big enough to tow an aircraft. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">This particular base had recently been turned over to R.A.F. and they had only Spitfire aircraft there, from the African campaign and no maintenance facilities for American aircraft at all. The change had not been corrected in our briefing material. </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">For three weeks we waited for the Air Force to ship us a new tire. While I was calling the Air Corps to make arrangements for the tire and magneto, the crew found a wrecked C-47 with a good magneto on the engine. Since B-24s and C-47s have the same engine the engine was repaired within an hour. But not so the tire. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Here I had experiences with three groups of people at the same time. It was a French territory, the base was British and most of the population were Arabic. The English, the Royal Air Force controlled the field were we had landed and the BOQ where we were staying. The BOQ was an old hotel in downtown Oujda, in the French section but serviced by Arabs, mostly women. Each morning early, they would chant their prayers. It was a rather startling alarm the first time you heard it. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Most of the English were very nice fellows but there was one in every crowd. In this case, a group captain equivalent to an American Major. When we were introduced, he invited me to have a drink with him, which I politely declined explaining that I didn’t drink alcoholic beverages. Soon he came back with a bottle of champagne and insisted I toast the Queen. He said it would be an insult to Great Britain if I refused. I accepted the glass of champagne he thrust into my hand and he toasted the Queen. As quietly as possible, I set it down on the table besides me. Suddenly I saw a hand reach out from behind me, grab the glass and quickly replace it empty. Lt. George had drunk it in one gulp and put it back on the table beside me without the Captain seeing it. The next morning I went back into the club for breakfast, quite early and as I entered, the Wing Commander called to me and asked him to join him at his table for breakfast. He apologized for the rudeness of the group captain the night before and as we talked, the captain came in for breakfast and immediately started telling how he had tricked me into taking a drink. After much bragging how he had outsmarted me, he asked how I liked it. I quietly, but plainly, explained I hadn’t tasted it—that I had put it down on the table and George had drunk it. This just panicked the whole group of officers to think I had out done the jerk. Everyone just roared with laughter, particularly the Wing Commander with whom I was eating. I thought they would laugh him clear off the base. They just kept laughing until he left the club. They have all kinds, too. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The French were the governing society in the country. The only thing I particularly noticed about them was the beautiful women. Not only were there a lot of lovely French women who lived there, but a lot of Spanish nobility had escaped to the French Morocco at the time of the Spanish Revolution and they lived there also. In the tow and the hotel where we lived, all the people were French. The Arabs came to town to work, but they lived in the cadina on one side of town. The cadina was walled as if to keep the French out, but it really served to separate the two races. Except for work, the Arabs stayed within the cadina and no Caucasian went into the cadina without an Arab escort. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The French were a very cruel people where the Arabs were concerned. A French man could kill an Arab and the standard fine was 26 Francs. If an Arab killed a Frenchman, he was shot on sight, without trial. There was a contingent of French legionaires stationed there to guard the railroad and they road as guards on the trains. It was reported they shot any Arab in sight of the railroad track. When an Arab saw a train coming he had to get a rifle distance from the track even though he may be working on his farm right beside the track. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The Arabs were characters. They were very philosophical about everything. Since the war in Africa [started], the natives had been without gasoline so no cars would be driven. The Arabs, being a very industrious people were a fast buck is concerned, removed the engines from the cars and put a driver’s seat in a place of the engine. They then put a tongue in front of the car and drove 2 to 4 horses to provide taxi service or their personal transportation. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We became good friends with a one old sheik who drove three horses on his machine. He had about 1932-35 Chevrolet, very well preserved inside and waxed to a mirror outside. His horses were on the small side, but many Arabian horses are, although I saw many that stood 15-16 hands. He had five stallions of which he worked 3 each day. We would generally go together, the four officers, and rent his rig all day so we could see the countryside. It got so he would wait for us outside the hotel and drive us to the base for breakfast and then wherever we wanted to go. One day we borrowed the carbines from our enlisted men and went wild boar hunting but with no luck. Wild pigs were about the only game in this part of Africa. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After he had gained confidence in us, he asked us if we would like to attend a slave auction. He laughingly said we could buy a wife. He then carefully warned us if we went, we must not get out of the car for anything while we were there. We all agreed, so he drove about 5 miles out into the country into some rather hilly country. Between a couple of ridges, in a secluded area, was a large assembly of Arabs. Sure enough, they were buying and selling human beings. The bidders were all men, mostly older sheiks or free men. The slaves were young girls eight to ten years old. When the parents raised a girl that age and she hadn’t been betrothed, they simply took her to market and sold her to the highest bidder. The bidder then took the child into his household and she became a servant until she was old enough to marry. Then he either added her to his harem or sold her as wages to another of his laborers. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">The Arabs were mostly very sincere in keeping their religion. None of the people drank or would break any of the Ten Commandments in regard to another Muslim but the Koran states the commandments a little differently. Their Good Book reads, “Thou shalt not steal from a believer.” It was not a sin for them to steal from the French, the English or Americans. Since we were protected by our cab driver, we were fairly safe, although the selling of slaves was forbidden by French law. Had we been Frenchmen, we had not been invited or permitted to live to report them. As it was, we had to physically restrain Bob Catlin, who decided he was going to stop them. He could have got us all killed, including our host. We sat on Bob while the old sheik quietly drove away.</span></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-65393824691444894792011-01-12T09:58:00.000-08:002011-01-13T18:34:49.840-08:00Chapter 29<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Early the next morning we were off and flying on our way to South America proper. We landed in Belem, Brazil, near the mouth of the mighty Amazon River and very near the equator. In March the sun is directly overhead, which made it hot and humid. The jungle was everywhere that man did not fight to keep clear, and of course, a point of intrigue to all us North American kids. After a few questions to the permanent part, we told that there was a good stream which was only a couple of hundred feet from the road. We followed a path through the jungle to the stream and you couldn’t believe the beauty of the stream. It was perhaps 10-15 feet wide and generally only a couple of feet deep as it tumbled over moss covered snow-white rocks, forming deep pools big enough for a us all to swim in. Then the water would tumble over some more rocks, thick with moss. We soon found we could slide down the rocky falls from one pool to another like a group of otters. There were flowers of all colors along the banks and in the trees, and everywhere was this dark green moss. It was beautiful and we were having a ball swimming across the pools and sliding down the slippery cascades. As we reached on cascade, we heard girls giggling. Some of us stopped to see what was going on but some of the fellows didn’t hear the laughter and went head first down the cascade into the next pool where a group of older men and a couple of girls were also swimming. Now we all had bathing suits but they didn’t. We excused ourselves quietly and started walking our way back up the stream to the road. That night as we were having dinner, the base commander and some other officers were having dinner with a couple of Red Cross girls, and sure enough they were our jungle friends.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Again, the next day were off and flying on our way to Fortaleza, Brazil. By this time, I had determined that our fuel consumption wasn’t what it should have been and reported the fact on to maintenance in the Form 1. This stopped our progression for a couple of days while the maintenance officer double checked my conclusions. Then we were off to Natal where they had better maintenance facilities for changing the carburetors on our engines.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">While we waited at Fortaleza, we were introduced to pineapples. We again had gone swimming, this time in the Caribbean ocean and to a group of small boys were around hawking ripe pineapples. They were a nickel a piece and when you bought one, the boy would hold it by the tope and lop off the skin on the side of the pineapple with a machete. Then you ate the fruit like an all-day sucker. They were very ripe and very sweet and very good. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The Caribbean Sea has got to be one of the most beautiful bodies of water in the world. It is generally very shallow and the ocean floor is white stone, quite irregular so in flying over the ocean at relatively low altitude, on can see the very pale blue water and the pattern of the white ocean floor all animated by million or even jillion of tropical fish all fighting the law of survival. Many of the fish are sharks of the predatory variety so one has to swim with caution.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Natal is a short flight south-east of Fortaleza along the Brazilian North Coast. Here our aircraft went into repair and a recheck to determine the fuel consumption was now correct. They filled each tank right to the top and then flew for an hour. Upon landing, they refilled the tanks right to the top again to determine the consumption. Sure enough, all four engines were right on. They screwed the gas tank caps on real tight and notified me my plane was ready to fly. This was all early in the morning and that afternoon my crew went out to double check the bird to be sure she was ready to fly the big pond [Atlantic Ocean]. But there she stood, spouting gasoline from every tank. In Brazil, the sun is very hot and that hot sun on the wings of the plane caused the gasoline to expand and rupture every tank so we sat in Natal another week, waiting for maintenance to change a complete set of wing tanks. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Again, we swam a lot but the base was a little farther from the beach and harder to get to and Natal is right at the point where the Caribbean and the Atlantic meet so the swimming was not so good.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The north coast of Brazil is populated by blacks, mostly a cross of native Indians and Negro slaves imported from Africa to work the sugar plantations. Just south of Natal is Recife, a resort town popular to Brazilians. At Recife, black Brazil and white Brazil, to the south, meet in common population.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>North of Recife, white or blonde people are rare. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">While I was Natal, I ran into an old friend from Moffet Field and from Merced Field, who had married one of my wife’s friends. Most transient crew personnel are not allowed off the various bases as we travel to our combat area, but Capt. Cole obtained a pass to permit him to take me to town for dinner. The night club where he took me was one of the few places were Americans were allowed to eat for sanitary reasons. We did obtain a good steak at fair prices. The feature of this club was a dancer and singer called the “Blonde Brazilian.” She was fair of complexion that most of the natives and with the help of lots of peroxide, managed to be blonde. She could neither sing, nor dance, in my un-humble opinion, but she starred just because she was blonde. One night in town was enough and the rest of the time we spent at the Officers’ club reading, playing ping-pong or pool and listening to a stack of worn records. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The Officers’ club at Natal deserves special recognition because of its collective character. The club took the attitude about being very selective about its associates. It [has been] reported to have begun when Tommy Harmon, the erstwhile football jock tried to be a pilot. He had been washed out of cadets only to be reinstated because some high person in Washington thought it would be bad publicity for anyone as famous as Harmon to be washed out of the Air Corps. This, of course made him a marked man because of political interference. Before we went to South America, he had been flying B-25s in Brazil. He ran into trouble and bailed out of his aircraft. Nothing wrong with that except he left the crew in the plane, which crashed into the jungle and killed all four crew members. A pilot bails out last, after all others are safely gone. Well the Air Corps had found the lost plane in the jungle, identified it as Harmon’s and recovered the bodies of the crew. Later when he came walking out of the jungle and was taken to Natal Airfield, he reported that the crew had all bailed out. As the story goes, when he entered the Officers’ Club, every man got up and walked out of the club. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The custom was then adopted as a standard rule that anyone who brought bad publicity to the Air Force received the treatment. There became a regular rogue’s gallery of persons who had been ostracized at Natal’s club.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After all the delays at Fortaleza and Natal, we were anxious to catch up with our group. As soon as the bird was well, we took off for Africa. As we climbed out and established our assigned altitude, I set up the auto pilot and put the plane on auto pilot (George) and told the co-pilot to take over while I caught a little nap. It was always emotionally exhausting to get everything in order and make the take-off without mishap. After I relaxed, I became very drowsy. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> Off the coast of Brazil was a stationary weather front that had horrendous thunderstorms and we had been warned to avoid them at all costs. The next thing I knew, my big nose gunner was banging me on the side of the head quite excitedly. When I recovered my senses, he was really giving me and the co-pilot what-for. Seems the co-pilot got drowsy too, and with George doing it’s job, flying becomes very dull, so he accidently fell asleep. We had successfully circumnavigated all the storms in the tropical front while sound asleep, much to the anger of one Sergeant Beggs. The rest of the trip to Africa was very peaceful as it had been the first for Lt. George and I, and we landed at Dakar, Senegal, West Africa. It was also hot and sticky and a very uninteresting place to us.</span>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-9272074335844731602011-01-12T09:57:00.001-08:002012-06-16T15:21:50.286-07:00Chapter 28<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The winter was cold and lots of snow fell making flying and driving very hazardous, but it went all too soon. In February, new combat airplanes started to arrive and I was assigned one of the very first. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to sign an issue slip for one B-24 #448 valued at $298,000. Our crew really worked to make her an outstanding ship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They cleaned and polished and tuned the engine, checked the turrets and guns and equipment of all kinds. Then in February, the entire wing was ordered to Lincoln Air Force base in Lincoln, Nebraska for final overseas phasing. The planes were again inspected and the crews briefed and given combat clothing and overseas shots and all kinds of things. I got into a big fight with the inspectors over the wearing of non-regulations under garments which I refused to change. It took the higher officer to convince them everything didn’t go by the books. So my garments stayed. </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We had rented a rook in the Cornhusker Hotel in Lincoln for my family to stay and there my first son took his first steps. Finally, Mom St. Jeor came to go back west with Syl.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">On the night of 4 March 1944, Lincoln had a big snow storm. The next morning we reported to the base before daylight, received our orders, filed our clearance and prepared to start a long series of flights overseas. Our orders were not to be opened until we were in the air, so we didn’t know our destination. As we taxied out to take off, the outboard props were biting into the snow, piled on the side of taxiway. The take off was eventful and after being airborne, we opened the orders. They read, “Land at Miami, Florida, Morrison Field. That afternoon we were swimming on a balmy 80 degree day. Because we were combat crews, enroute overseas, we were not allowed off base. Still we enjoyed the beautiful palms and tropical flowers, in what had been mid-winter, the same morning in Nebraska. </span></span></div>
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<br /><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> Our stay in Florida was short and the next day we were first off for our next destination still unknown. After opening our orders, in flight, we were headed for Berenquin Field, Trinidad. In route, we flew past Cuba, Haite, Puerto Rico, and the Virgin Islands. As we approached the Virgin Islands, we decided we didn’t have enough gasoline to reach Trinidad. So we decided to land at the Air Force emergency field on St. Croix. We touched down very close to the approach end of the runway because we knew the runway was only 4,300 feet long. But as we approached the other end, we were still going at a good clip. I called, “Loop it left!” and both George and I jammed left rudder and left brake. The big monster sharply pivoted about and headed back down the runway, just in time to avoid running into the fence at the end of the runway. The B-24 has an extremely long gear and they are not all that sturdy, but they held together. We came to a complete stop, but only because of superior crew coordination between the co-pilot and men. </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">While I was busy getting gas and further clearance, the crew pooled their money and ran next door and bought a case of scotch, for about a ¼ the American prices. In a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>hour, we were back into the air and completed the trip to Trinidad.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">As we approached the field, we were given landing instructions. After another aircraft called in, we were told to clear the pattern until the other ship had landed. Finally on the ground, we were told that there was a very important person (VIP) in the other aircraft. It was Eleanor Roosevelt, the wife of the President of the United States. </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We were told we wouldn’t leave until the second day so we could have a good crew rest so we obtained a jeep from the motor pool and went to Macqueripe Beach to swim the next day. It was one of the most beautiful places in the world and before the war was a famous Caribbean vacation spot for the rich. The beach is of snow-white sand. The water is a Caribbean blue as only Caribbean can be blue. The beach is only about 100 yards long and at one end a river runs into the ocean. At each end of the narrow beach, two huge cliffs 200 feet high extend up at a narrow angle for several miles. The cliffs are capped with a thick carpet of dark green tropical jungle. The immediate area behind the beach is stair stepped up to about the level of the cliff tops and there sits the beautiful Macqueripe Country Club. During the war, it had been taken over by the Navy and had become their Officers’ Club and barracks. </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">During the afternoon, we met some Navy officers swimming on the beach and they invited us to go up to the club and eat with them. So we dressed up in the only uniforms we had, tropical suntans with short sleeves and open necks, and went to the club to eat. It was late afternoon so we put off ordering food until dinnertime, but were thoroughly enjoying the beautiful faculties and view. As evening came, we noticed all the navy officers appearing in full white formal uniforms, but we had been invited so we didn’t worry much. Suddenly, the place became quiet and everyone stood at attention, which we promptly jointed. There was a flurry of movement at the inside entrance and in walked Eleanor Roosevelt, accompanied by all the Navy brass in the Atlantic. </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Mrs. Roosevelt looked about the room and spotted us in our grubby suntans amidst all the Navy whites and headed straight for our table. When she approached, of course we all popped to attention, but she told us to sit down and, taking a spare chair, sat down at the table with us. We talked for about 10 minutes or so and she commented how nice it was that the Navy and the Air Force could be so friendly and both enjoy the club house. The look from the Navy brass was not friendly, nor were we right at that moment enjoying it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> After she left, we enjoyed our dinner with what bravado we could muster and excused ourselves and headed back to Berenquin Field. It made a short stay in Trinidad a most memorable occasion.</span>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-26308008199369697482011-01-12T09:56:00.000-08:002011-01-13T18:33:02.325-08:00Chapter 27<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The major emphasis of 1<sup>st</sup> phrase training was learning to bomb, which is a complicated process of coordination between bombardier and pilot. The bombardier directs the bombsight which gives directional indications to the pilot and he flies the airplane where the sight indicates. It takes some time to get coordination between the two people, but having been a pilot in the bombardier school and Bob being a bombardier instructor, one bomb run and we had our coordination down pat. We flew the first bombing mission with our crew instructor and he wouldn’t believe we knew exactly what to do and how to do it. After the first run, we started to go for shacks (bull’s-eyes) and making them. The second and third day, we finished our bombing missions required for that phase and set a school record for lowest circular error probability. Of course, we were old pros. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Another flight or two to check instrument flying and night and we had completed our required sorties, but only had 35 of the minimum 50 hours flying time that was required. So for three nights in a row, we were assigned night flights with nothing particular to do but just fly. Since we had a strong desire to stay alive through this old war and maybe a little more moxey than most, we used the time to teach everyone of the crew to fly. At least enough to bring the airplane home if both pilots were hurt or whatever. The men liked this and it helped cement an esprit de corps [A common spirit of comradeship, enthusiasm, and devotion to a cause among the members of a group] into our crew that wouldn’t stop. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Our crew had been complete for weeks with the exception of a navigator and we couldn’t graduate without a navigator. We were held up until a shipment arrived and we got first pick of the group so we could graduate with a class ahead of ours. We were intended to have a ten week course and we finished in four. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The navigator was Orest A. Zorina, a tall, quiet fellow of Russian decent and proud of it. A graduate school teacher, he was not much interested in sports, which made him somewhat different from the rest of the crew. Otherwise, he fit into the team very nicely. He did his job well, but let the rest of us know when he didn’t agree, regardless of rank. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We were notified we were to join the 485<sup>th</sup> Bomb group being formed at Fairmont, Nebraska. I visited the school commander and requested permission to drive my car and take my family at my own expense, thus saving Uncle Sam the cost of transportation. He agreed if we would make the same time as the train and we therefore, were promised orders allowing us to travel separately. All the rest of the crews were to go on a troop train. Three senior officers had been given this special permission. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">When the personnel were briefed for the trip, the commandant announced he would like to see Capt. Jones, Capt. Reeves, and Lt. Bryson separately. We went over into the corner and he gave us our separate orders allowing us to drive. I left the building immediately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Syl was waiting in the car in front of Headquarters and we drove directly to the front gate to leave. When we arrived at the gate, the base Provost Marshall was waiting for me and the other two [officers]. I was ordered to return to headquarters, which I did immediately. It seemed that a young West Point 2<sup>nd</sup> Lieutenant had overheard the Commander give us our orders and immediately called General Travis, the 2<sup>nd</sup> Air Force Commander, complaining that we were getting special privileges and he wasn’t. Bull Travis had called the provost marshal to stop us at the gate. The Lt. didn’t get the privileges and neither did we. We were ordered to travel on the troop train and Sybil had to travel alone with the baby.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> When we were required to travel by train, it made us the three senior officers and Capt. Reeves became the troop commander. That poor young lieutenant had to travel on the train too. There is around the country, at last communication, an old Air Force colonel who has claimed ever since [that train ride] that he saved my life. He says he kept me from killing that lieutenant. While I was on the train, Sybil found another girl who was going to Nebraska by train and offered her a ride so the two of them drove on Thanksgiving weekend to Nebraska. In Wyoming, they ran into a blizzard and Sybil had never driven in snow before. [This is why Sybil hates the snow.] The girls would have been in real trouble, except for some truck drivers who escorted them all the way to Nebraska. In our family, we came to love truck drivers.</span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">When the family was safely in Nebraska, we rented a one room apartment in a home in Friend, Nebraska about 15 miles from the base. The home belonged to a local banker named Franz and his wonderful wife. Mrs. Franz was always doing things for us. One night I was assigned to fly and it was a miserable, snowy, windy night, but I went to the base just before dark and checked the weather, which was forecasted to get worse, so I released the crew and went home arriving about 8 p.m. Next morning, Mrs. Franz came in and said she couldn’t wait for the baby to wake up to check and see if I had gotten home safely. Syl told her I had not flown and was home in bed by 8 o’clock. “Well!” said Mrs. Franz, “there I was down on my knees until nine o’clock praying for his safety and he was home in bed!”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Just before we left for overseas, she gave me a St. Christopher’s medal. She said she knew I was not Catholic, but would I just keep it in the plane for the Catholic boys. We kept it throughout the war and for years after, until it was stolen from my accident-free car years later. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The flying in Fairmont was mostly formation, putting all the individual crews into a squadron and group unit. We first flew formation in tows and threes and later in whole group formations. We flew formations at night, in weather, and in all sorts of conditions. The aircraft were older model B-24s and not always in very good condition. One day I was flying formation when suddenly, in a turn, my pilot’s seat broke loose and I shot out of the pilot’s cockpit down about a 3 foot drop into the navigator’s compartment.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Fortunately I had a good co-pilot who kept the thing from running into anyone else, even if he did break formation. While I was trying to get unfitted from the seat and get the seat back into place, the group leader got on the radio and was chewing me out for breaking formation. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Another time I was instructing two new pilots in landings and in general, giving them a flight check. It happened, of all days, to be an open house day for the base. As we made the first take-off and began climbing out of the base pattern, Sgt. Harris came crawling up into the cockpit and he looked like a drowned rat. He was saturated from head to toe with hydraulic fluid. He had been in the bombay checking the gear when a hydraulic line broke, spraying all of our hydraulic fluid all over. In the airplane there are always reserve systems, but this had broken at the one place where the systems were common. We also had a mechanical method of putting the [landing] gear down, but this lowered the gear, but wouldn’t lock it. I strained on it, and pried on it, trying to force it into the locked position until I broke the crank right off the bulkhead. When all this failed, I called the tower for instructions. They told me to circle the field and got all the group brass into the tower. They each took turns telling me to do all the same things I had already done, to no avail. Finally they instructed me to fly until I had burned up most of the gasoline, then bring it in and land it. This all took about 8 hours. We had taken off in the early morning, and it was now late afternoon. Finally I got clearance to land and lined up with the runway, but it looked like an Army-Navy football game. Both sides of the runway were crammed with people waiting to see me kill myself. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The [landing] gear on the B-24 folded downward and outward from the wing, so I reasoned that a good hard bump in the right direction might lock the gear. I brought it in a left slip with the right gear low until it smacked the ground and Sgt. Harris shouted it was locked, then I reversed the procedure and bounced the left gear, straightened out the bird and settled smoothly on the runway. I think I disappointed the entire state of Nebraska—I didn’t kill myself. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The organization of the group created considerable antagonism among the various personnel within the squadrons. The original cadre was trained before crew assignments were made and some brand new lieutenants were assigned to the cadre as co-pilots. While they were still cadre training the group commanders promised them positions as operations officers and flight commanders. Then when a large influx of senior officers arrived out of training command, they all ranked many of the cadre personnel and many of the pilots found themselves working for people far junior to themselves. The junior birdmen in our squadron was Jacob Disston of Disston Steel, Co. We ended up with ten different pilots who ranked him but because of his political pull with the group commander, he had a position superior to most of us. To make the situation more galling, when we reached combat, he chickened and refused to fly combat. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">My crew developed into a very cohesive group. We played ball together, worked together and trained together. They learned to pilot the plane and I learned to shoot guns and work on the aircraft. At Christmas time, the whole crew came out to our little apartment for dinner and it was a very good meal and a good time was had by all. </span></span></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-71592318234154271212011-01-12T09:53:00.001-08:002011-01-13T18:31:11.944-08:00Chapter 26<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In due time Britt was old enough and Sybil well enough to travel so we started to get our family back together again. Sybil and the baby were to leave Merced on the airlines, change planes in Los Angeles, and fly to Albuquerque. I was to drive to Albuquerque to meet her. The plane was scheduled to arrive in the middle of the night so I, after arriving in Albuquerque, got a room in the Franciscan Hotel and after dinner, went to the room to await Sybil. About 10 p.m. the phone rang, “This is Transworld Airlines calling for Mr. Vern Bryson. Your wife has been ‘bumped’ off the flight in Los Angles.” During those war years, official travelers had priority over civilians and she had been put off the flight. However, the Airlines had quartered her in of the patio cottages at the Ambassador Hotel in L.A., at their expense. The airlines had called every hotel in Albuquerque until they located me. Then they connected me there on the telephone so I could talk to her. It would take several days for them to get another reservation, so I had to leave the car with our friends, Jim and Nadine Burton, for her when she arrived in Albuquerque and I took the bus back to Roswell. Sybil finally arrived a couple of days later with the baby all in good shape and we were happy again.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Since we were only family with a house, our house became the social oasis for all our friends. We bought a big radio-phonograph, so we had music and the others would bring records and enjoy our house with us. One friend practically lived with our phonograph and we had records around for years that he had brought and left at our house. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">There wasn’t much social life in Roswell. There seemed to be only 2 things to do: go hunting, or go swimming, and both offered pretty good facilities for each. The swimming lake, located 7 or 8 miles east of town, was a hot spring. The water smelled slightly of sulfur, but if you ignored that, the water was just a nice temperature and with gas shortages and rationing, there weren’t many people there, so we would often pool rides and go swimming. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Roswell is fairly flat, slightly rolling country with miles and miles of Lincoln County cow country. It had lots of huge ranches infested with squirrels, rabbits, and coyotes, which the ranchers were glad to have killed. This gave us lots of hunting opportunities. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">One day I was in the local hardware store trying to buy shells for my guns, but when I asked the clerk, he said they were out of shells. A middle-aged Spanish man was there buying something from another clerk and he said to sell me some of his supply. Without a by your leave the clerk went and got just the shells I had ordered. The gentleman asked what we were hunting and invited me up to his ranch to hunt and gave me directions to his ranch up near Readoss. While I was finishing up my purchase, he left, and I asked who he was. It turned out that he was one of the biggest, richest ranchers in the State and if he said to sell me shells, I got shells. I wish I had had time to go to the ranch hunting, but it didn’t happen. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">About this time each of the people who had volunteered for the P-38 squadrons received a personal letter from General Barlon K. Yount, commander of the Air Corps training command apologizing to us for a snafu in our assignments. It seemed 80 brand new lieutenants out of Yuma Adriance Flying School had been assigned to command our squadrons. The 80 of us senior officers had been sent to fly bombardiers where they should have been sent. It stated that a personnel clerk had reversed the two lists of officers and it cost each of us our assignment for which we had volunteered. The letter concluded<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that threw would be no more fighter squadrons formed and we could either volunteer for some new B-24 or B-17 Bomb groups that were being formed. I chose B-24 because of the bad reputation the B-17s stationed at Roswell. I soon received orders to report to Kirtland Field, Albuquerque, New Mexico for B-24 transition training. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> With a new baby and the big radio and all we had accumulated, we had too much stuff to crowd into our little old Chevy. So, before leaving Roswell, we purchased a sturdy little 4’ x 6’ x 2’ high, two-wheeled trailer. Into that, we stuffed the radio, crib, etc. And with a flat plate of plywood to form a crib for the baby in the back seat of the car, we took off for the trip to Albuquerque. We arrived Friday in September 1943, found a nice motel on the west side of town, when to Church Sunday, and prepared to report to Kirtland Monday. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Our transition school was mostly ground school and PT. I think in the next month, I flew about 3 or 4 times with an instructor pilot and in conjunction with 7 other guys had a B-24 solo. In other words, we soloed each of us shooting one landing from the left seat and then flying co-pilot in the right seat for someone else’s one-pilot landing. I think I ran more miles than I flew. When we weren’t flying, we were in ground school which included P.T. One month and we were declared B-24 pilots and reassigned to Boise, Idaho. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Since Utah was halfway between Albuquerque and Boise, it permitted a weekend at home before we reached Gowen Field. The trip was memorable for only two things. One, the folks had sold the ranch and retired to a home in Payson and two, Sybil saw her first snow storm. She had seen snow before and had even skied, but her acquaintance was a warm sunny day’s trip to the mountains and return. She was fascinated by the snow. She was out running in the yard, trying to catch snowflakes as they fell, having the time of her life. Little did she dream how that white stuff would challenge her before the year was over. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After a weekend home, we travelled on to Boise. We found a motel with a kitchenette and prepared to enter first phase crew training. This command was 2<sup>nd</sup> Air Force, a part of the Strategic Air Command. They did things a little different here. We flew a lot more, went to school a little, and were expected to keep in physical shape as we went. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The first day we were assigned to a flight squadron and as soon as we reported, we were assigned to an instructor. Within one day, we were checked out and soloed. The next day I was assigned a co-pilot and a crew number, 44. My co-pilot was named Florian E. George, a smallish fellow several years older, but less experienced in flying than I. George ad been a first pilot in a previous class, but didn’t complete the class and was reassigned as my right seat arm. After a couple of flights, he seemed content to build a good, solid, well-trained crew and thus increased both of our chances of survival. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We flew at least three times a week, but had plenty of time to spare during the days. However, we worked seven days a week. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">On several of our first flights, we were assigned a flight engineer named Harris. He was an instructor engineer at the school but had not yet received any students, this class. He up and volunteered to be our crew engineer and I was pleased to accept him. He was a real sharp mechanic and knew the B-24 from long experience. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The next project was to a get a bombardier because a good deal of our training was bombing. Because I was an older pilot in experience and had been around the Air Force some, I found a friend in the crew assignment section who gave me an opportunity to select my own crew members. In going through the bombardiers available, I came across a senior Second Lieutenant who had been an instructor in one of the Air Force bombardier schools. A flight or two proved him to be an excellent bomb dropper and he was pleased to find an experienced pilot who new how to work with a bombardier. We very quickly developed into a very accurate bombing team. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">His name was Bob Catlin. He was from Cleveland, Ohio, where his father owned a couple of factories and had had too much money for Bob’s good. He was a fun guy to be around, but was irresponsible in his love life. He was engaged to a girl from Cleveland, married to and living with a girl from New Mexico and found a new love life in every station, all of whom he was madly in love with. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The next addition to our team was a friend of Sgt. Harris who was a radio operator. His name was Ball and he had been an instructor radio operator of the field. Because Harris had talked of our crew, Ball decided to join us. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The four gunners were assigned without my choice, but I couldn’t have done better if I had picked them all. Bill Beggs was the nose gunner. He was a 6 foot 2, 220 pounds ex-footballer from Santa Clara University, college graduate and an outstanding man. His one idiosyncrasy was sleeping. When he went to sleep, he wouldn’t wake up on anyone’s schedule but his own. If someone tried waking him, he would come up swinging and with 220 pounds behind him that was trouble. Many a time I had to wake him up because of the rest of the crew couldn’t or didn’t dare try. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Begg’s buddy, who had been with him since they enlisted together in Los Angeles, was Allen Corbin. He was about as big as Beggs, but not as good looking, or as aggressive. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> O’Brien and O’Niel were friends from back East who had been together since civilian days. Here again, O’Brien was good looking, aggressive and a good athlete, while O’Niel was quiet and refined, but a good man too. They were all four big men, athletic, and capable, but none of them would fit into the ball (belly) turret of the ship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We made some adjustments and Ball became the ball turret gunner, O’Brien in the top turret, O’Niel in the tail turret, Beggs in the nose turret and Corbin and Harris at the waist guns.</span>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-70567505834687181332011-01-11T18:09:00.000-08:002011-01-13T18:28:30.270-08:00Chapter 25<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Before we left Albuquerque, we took Syl to the doctor to see if it would be alright for her to travel so close to her delivery date. The doctor examined her and said the baby would probably be a couple of weeks away and besides, if he decided to come, it just as well be in Utah or Nevada, or California. But we took it very easy all the way. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After a weekend in Utah, we arrived back at Merced without difficulty and without a child. At the base, they said we would be receiving orders soon so just to wait them out, which meant a few days of free vacation. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In about a week, orders came assigning part of our P-38 group to Roswell, New Mexico, which wasn’t where our P-38s were. Others were assigned to other bombardier training schools around the country. We were all very upset—but orders are orders. My orders said to report to Roswell Airbase no later than 12 July [1943].</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">About this time, I forgot all about travel and orders because Syl said it was time. We rushed to Merced General Hospital [Sybil corrects this to Mercy Hospital] where all military maternity cases were sent and got the poor doctor out of bed at midnight. He came and examined Syl and saw that everything was alright, but then went home to sleep again. Finally morning came and still no baby, but periodic pains. Then noon, then night again and still no delivery. All night at the hospital again holding Syl’s hand when she hurt. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Came morning and still no progress. At noon doctor came and examined her again and said there was no progress. At noon, the doctor came and examined her again and said there was no progress and that I had better go get some food. So I went back to my in-laws where I was staying, for lunch and a shave, but rushed right back to the hospital to be with Sybil again. Only she wasn’t in her bed. Someone said they had taken her to the delivery room so I rushed up to the delivery room just as a nurse was coming out. She took one look at me and said, “Here, have a son” and handed me my son, still wet and just on his way to be cleaned. So I followed her to the next room where she again took him and I started back to see Sybil. She was all very happy, but very, very tired. After a few minutes, they ran me out so she could sleep, and I waited to see my son, Britt, in the nursery before leaving for a few winks of sleep myself. That night before going up to see Syl, I stopped by the nursery to see my son when the nurse put him back in the crib, I put a small pair of boxing gloves on the foot of his crib. This created a good laugh for lots of people. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Months before he had been born, I had come home from work one night to find Syl busily knitting, which is something she didn’t do too often. She allowed she was “Knittin’ for Britain,” a popular project during the early days of the war. So for a few days the baby was named Britain, then the name was shortened to “Britt” and that was to be his name. And it was: Britt William Bryson. </span></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLMnmVTrCM76n6nfsoGBI6p4EmQYpLF47dmvRuvBvZQMWhY2fPzYZra-pCxHCs7Vb9SgZ9ARFrnXolYKCixFGsWTWLrq4kcnU2sB4Nv_xxyAPBpgL7tSokoKKcLn85gFQbcQ8WZyaiB_o/s1600/Britt%252C+Sybil%252C+and+Vern+Bryson+in+1943.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="323" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLMnmVTrCM76n6nfsoGBI6p4EmQYpLF47dmvRuvBvZQMWhY2fPzYZra-pCxHCs7Vb9SgZ9ARFrnXolYKCixFGsWTWLrq4kcnU2sB4Nv_xxyAPBpgL7tSokoKKcLn85gFQbcQ8WZyaiB_o/s400/Britt%252C+Sybil%252C+and+Vern+Bryson+in+1943.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sybil, Vern, and Baby Britt, 1943</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">A few days after Britt was born, I received orders to report immediately to Roswell Field, New Mexico. The day after Sybil returned home from the hospital, I had to leave for my new assignment. On the way across the country, I spent the first night at Kingman, Arizona at the Officers’ Quarters at the gunnery school there. Next morning I looked up an old friend who was stationed there and he gave me a tour of the base. The final shooting range we visited was a mobile trap range, where he invited me to shoot. I was put in the back end of end of a half-ton pickup truck and a box of shells was placed in a rack above the cab. The truck was driven about a twisting course through a wooded area and the clay pigeons were through toward, away from, beside, and against the direction of the moving vehicle. I was supposed to hit the sailing birds. The birds came and went at all angles and FUN! I never had so much fun shooting in my life. I managed to break 18 or so, which I was told was very good, but it was a real challenge to make the course. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Without incident, I travelled on the allowed 35 minutes per hour until I reached Roswell. It is a dull town sitting on the high plains east of the Sacramento Mountains. The town was small and there were a lot of G.I.s there with nothing much to do. So the rapport between the military and the townspeople when from bad to worse. Of course, there were absolutely no houses to rent. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I reported into the base and was sent to a B-17 student squadron. It was just in between classes so they didn’t know what to do with me because they didn’t expect any students at that time. Finally it was decided that I had been sent there to pilot aircraft carrying student bombardiers, a job I considered the bottom of the professional ladder. I insisted I was supposed to go to a P-38 squadron but there weren’t any such squadrons there. Reluctantly I began flying T-11 bombardier trainers. Many of the people that had volunteered for the P-38 group were also assigned with me. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">A couple of days after I arrived, I went to town one evening to start looking for a house. I drove down the main street and didn’t see a real estate office, so I started at a service station to look up an address in the telephone book. When I asked the attendant to use his directory, we struck up a conversation about Roswell. I told him I had just moved there and was going to call a couple of agents looking for a house. He said he had been renting a house and was about to move and maybe if I went up to see his landlord, I could rent his house. So I went to see his landlord and promptly rented a nice clean 2 bedroom house for $55.00 a month. I thus agreed to let the service station attendant share it with me until he moved about a week later. And I promptly moved in. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Many of the other couples who had been assigned to Roswell at the same time were totally unable to find quarters of any kind. One couple lived in a converted garage, and they were fortunate, because another couple rented a former converted chicken coop. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">My job at the base consisted of flying bombardier students while they were practicing dropping bombs. The AT-11 type aircraft is a twin Beech converted to a large glassed-in bombing compartment in the nose. The student would sit in the nose of the aircraft and aim the bombs with a Norden bombsight. The pilot would fly the aircraft at an assigned altitude in the direction indicated on the pilot’s direction indicator. Conversely the pilot could engage the automatic pilot and the ship would stir itself by directions from the bombsight. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">It was extremely dull for the pilot; our only excitement consisted in dropping some of the student’s bombs by visual or dive bombing techniques and have a competition with the student to see who could come closest to the target. The students were generally quite willing because the pilots could get better scores which were then credited to the student. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">The large nose on the aircraft made it impossible for the pilot to see out the aircraft to the right or straight forward. The student was supposed to sit in the right seat on the ground and warn the pilot of obstructions on that side of the taxi strip. One day, not long after arriving, I was making a right turn on the taxi strip, when POW!—stopped on the runway. Even though the student was supposed to have warned me, of course, the pilot caught the blame. I got an immediate invitation to visit the Base Commander. After a short explanation of how it happened, Col Horton said, “Bryson, I ought to make you pay for that, but I can’t afford to report another accident, so forget it.” It turned out the Col. was an old acquaintance from Moffet Field days and we spent the rest of the time talking about old times.</span></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-28586488377819390942011-01-11T18:08:00.000-08:002011-01-13T18:21:47.226-08:00Chapter 24<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The next day we went to Payson where my family and friends had planned an open house reception where my family and friends could get acquainted with Syl. It was very nice. Archie Williams, a teacher and personal friend gave a hilarious, original reading and another friend, June Butler, a girl that I had grown up with sang. And we received a whole car load of gifts for us to pack into our little car for the return trip to California the next day. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After arriving in California, we had another wedding reception in Merced for all our mutual friends there. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Before we left Utah, my father asked us if my younger brother Alvie could go live with us. Dad was completely unable to control him because every time Dad tried to correct him, Mother had a fainting spell which we supposed was a heart attack. Little brother, who was six foot two and weighed 192 pounds, became our ward and our responsibility. Sybil was willing to undertake this problem, even though it may have been complicated our adjustment considerably. So little brother joined us on our return to Merced. He lived us only about a month when Mother sent him the money and he left us to return home. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I suppose no adjustment of two people learning to live together was totally harmonious, but ours was wonderful. Sybil only left once to go home, and I soon learned. I had tried to teach her fry pork chops, but she wouldn’t let me. Then I went hunting the weekend after we got back to Merced. A group of my friends flew up on a cross country, and then on Thanksgiving weekend, I took another cross-country to Cheyenne, Wyoming to fly Dr. Yoder, my friend, the flight surgeon home for a day. She learned that flying was my business and that I would fly away from time to time. The first Christmas I bought her a nice piece of jewelry for a present, but I wrapped it in a series of boxes until it was a great big box under the Christmas tree. When she un-wrapped it, she learned I was a practical joker, and I learned not to be a practical joker. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Back in the flying business, I had graduated to be a senior instructor and a flight commander. As such, it was my responsibility to give the check rides to each of the cadets in my flight. I soon found myself doing stalls, spins, and acrobatics 4 to 5 flights a day and found my stomach couldn’t take it. It got so I was airsick most every day until the flight surgeon started me taking Benzedrine tablets [a stimulant in the amphetamine family—similar to methamphetamine] before I flew. This worked wonders until one day I was working with a larger number of cadets than usual and took a couple of extra pills and I was high as a kite. Then the doctor prescribed another pill which worked wonders until someone invented Dramamine. The doctors wouldn’t give me the little pill anymore because it was a narcotic. But through all the pills, I was able to continue to fly until about the first of March [1943], when a Col. Rogers visited Merced Field recruiting a cadre for a new P-38 wing. After an interview with the good Col. I was accepted to be a squadron commander and was allowed to pick a man to become the operations officer. My professional dream had always been to fly those beautiful P-38s. The wing was being formed at George Air Force Base at Victorville, California, and I assured that orders would be coming within a few days. Sure enough in about a week or two, I received orders to Albuquerque, Kirtland Field, for bomb pilots approach school. “Well,” I thought, “They are going to teach me to be a better bomb dropper so our Squadron can be more proficient at fighter-bomber type missions.” So we prepared to go to New Mexico for training. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We had to give up the house, of course, and pack all of our possessions in the old black Chevrolet. The speed limit had been established at 35 miles per hour to save fuel. All of the guys that had been selected for Col. Rogers’ P-38 group were so assigned. We drove separately from the others, although we all had to report at the same time. To make driving easier, we prepared a picnic basket full of goodies to make lunches from. Syl cooked a huge ham to eat on the way, which she put in a basket, with a cake, and stored it in the window deck of the car. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The first day of travel went pretty good. We were careful because Syl was five months pregnant with our first born. We stayed the night in Kingman, Arizona. The next morning we started east from Kingman on the old road toward Williams. The road wound up a terribly crooked canyon up to the high desert of central Arizona. The windy road and the smell of the ham in the window getting warmed by the beautiful Arizona sunshine were too much for Syl’s stomach. So we had to stop many times before we reached the top for her to fertilize the desert. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We finally reached Albuquerque and found an apartment near the center of town. We then sought out the Church and found they had just completed a brand new church across the road from a beautiful new park. The church had a new organ and that was the first time Syl had belonged to a ward with an organ. She promptly arranged lessons from one of the good sisters and was soon playing the organ for meetings. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">My work in Albuquerque consisted of checking out the twin engine beach AT-11 type aircraft and learning to operate the Norden Bomb sight in the ship. In addition, since were classified as students, we were given the business by the locals. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">First we each had to be assigned a BOQ Room for which they assessed us $15 a month for cleaning services even though we had no furniture and didn’t live in the room. We also had some classroom activities and supervised physical training. None of us got to upset because we were all looking forward to our new fighter groups. It took only a couple of weeks to complete the transition and the course then rest of the time we flew bombardier students. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Albuquerque was a new experience for both of us, although we were both from the West. The Indian culture around Albuquerque was different. The whole town seemed to live by capitalizing on Indian artifacts. This was apparent in the décor of most buildings. One night at the movies, we were waiting for the show to start and were talking about this fact, when Sybil said, “Indians, Indians, Indians, everywhere.” Whereupon a big man sitting in front of us, turned around, and just glared at us, then turned again and sat down—another Indian. We were both embarrassed for we really had nothing against Indians. But it was funny afterwards. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">During our short stay there, we became good friends with Jim and Nadine Burton, a local couple of young kids, about our age. They were really active in the Church and helped us feel at home in the new crowd. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After a month, each of the 60 students was directed to return to his original base. So we packed up the car again and headed back to Merced. But this time, by way of Utah where we stopped a couple of days to see my folks. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">While we were there, we found my younger brother had forged his birth certificate and joined the Navy although he was 15 years old. </span></span></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-62928067461391557962011-01-11T18:06:00.000-08:002011-01-13T15:29:02.126-08:00Chapter 23<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Well, fate, and the blessings of the Lord, stepped into the battle. The Japanese fleet was intercepted by what naval forces where available and augmented by B-17’s flying from Hawaii. The armada turned north toward Alaska. Their aircraft began pounding our base at Dutch Harbor [Aleutian Islands, Alaska] and they appeared to be headed for the Alaskan mainland. The battle was now joined by all available aircraft in Alaska. There was a B-26 squadron there and they picked up the battle until there was none left. Severe damage had been done by the B-26’s and B-17’s sinking and damaging many of the Japanese ships. But there remained two aircraft carriers from which the planes were daily attacking Dutch Harbor. One night the Air Force flew a squadron of P-38s from Port Angeles, Washington into Dutch Harbor late in the evening. They were loaded with bombs and took off before the Japanese bombers’ arrived at Dutch Harbor. The next morning, the P-38’s flew under the cloud cover and caught the remaining fleet completely by surprise. They attacked and sank both carriers. When the Japanese pilots returned to their armada, there was no place to land and they were forced to ditch in the ocean, ending the air threat to our Alaskan bases. Without air support, the fleet was powerless to defend itself and retreated. As they left, a large group of Japanese army troops were put ashore at Adak Island where they remained until near the end of the war. Never again could the Japanese fleet venture into Alaskan waters to rescue the troops and they were no threat to us. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After the battle was over, the base operations returned to normal and, of course, it was not necessary to move the training bases so we remained at Merced. This made it convenient for Syl and I and we continued to plan our marriage, which she had set for 14 October 1942. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The summer went fast. We dated most every night. Some times at the club on Saturday nights, or whenever something interesting was going on. Sometimes to a show, but often just hunting. The surrounding area abounded in ground squirrels and rabbits and often we would go hunting in the evening. We often went hunting at night for rabbits. Jack lighting has since become illegal, but then the farmers were happy to get rid of the rabbits and the law didn’t care as long as we stayed away from town or houses. Sometimes we even ended out jack lighting even after a formal dance. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">One weekend a group of the married folks from the Church were going to Yosemite National Park and we went up there with them. Another weekend we drove to Visalia where my cousin, Keith Johnson, was in training and went to Sequoia National Park. Another weekend we went to San Francisco to see Aunt Mary and Uncle Bill. They took us across the Bay to the top of the Mark Hotel for dinner. I was in a summer sun-tan uniform with short sleeves and I thought I’d freeze before we got started home. As soon as I started to drive home, I got conjunctivitis [Pink Eye] from the smoke in the dining room and could not see so Syl had to drive home and she had never driven in the big city before. But we made it safely home. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6-rg7XKR0MP5157-x3MW4uN8qpZWGmQuD8pJ6NBow3J1q2JC8eWCdawzYczNLsQe0vqyU4k6lurunnWHulD1hO5gXvWylQQz6tUKuDCxpl3nUgzUb5e_C0CjEMHmkVL9isu0FdZ_engA/s1600/Vern+and+Sybil+in+Sept+1942.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="222" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6-rg7XKR0MP5157-x3MW4uN8qpZWGmQuD8pJ6NBow3J1q2JC8eWCdawzYczNLsQe0vqyU4k6lurunnWHulD1hO5gXvWylQQz6tUKuDCxpl3nUgzUb5e_C0CjEMHmkVL9isu0FdZ_engA/s320/Vern+and+Sybil+in+Sept+1942.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vern & Sybil at Sequoia National Park, September 1942</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGaDimasjyoVlUTQIZ8lsCOHYTq7VR8Bcz_ncikP_k86X2EI8KngEAEkPUIL6KI8Ez3YNtEaNOSllderVwNFzVSgrcd3XAMbWQO6WyYrd3VSmdvTc6pC0s0moTp4Aj2Up1EMIHI-OwiTk/s1600/Vern+and+Sybil+in+Sequoia+in+Sept+1942%252C+feeding+deer.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="222" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGaDimasjyoVlUTQIZ8lsCOHYTq7VR8Bcz_ncikP_k86X2EI8KngEAEkPUIL6KI8Ez3YNtEaNOSllderVwNFzVSgrcd3XAMbWQO6WyYrd3VSmdvTc6pC0s0moTp4Aj2Up1EMIHI-OwiTk/s320/Vern+and+Sybil+in+Sequoia+in+Sept+1942%252C+feeding+deer.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vern & Sybil feeding deer at Sequoia National Park, September 1942</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz20IKA2F2hxuPJ849mmxjnJbjxnsnmwENCZ4F92mqW9hpEobTKsP1s5UfVKJGKxa8M9KEKvfNMO7Mkxq-y2xvqVrWEnOeQ7B8dnmCcHWxu3dLkWiXgNSI-eCHTXehQgAxcCd43bNHLik/s1600/Vern+and+Sybil+in+Sequoia+Nat%2527l+Park+in+Sept+1942.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz20IKA2F2hxuPJ849mmxjnJbjxnsnmwENCZ4F92mqW9hpEobTKsP1s5UfVKJGKxa8M9KEKvfNMO7Mkxq-y2xvqVrWEnOeQ7B8dnmCcHWxu3dLkWiXgNSI-eCHTXehQgAxcCd43bNHLik/s320/Vern+and+Sybil+in+Sequoia+Nat%2527l+Park+in+Sept+1942.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vern & Sybil on their trip to Sequoia National Park, September 1942</td></tr>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">During the late summer I was underfoot so much that Mom St. Jeor decided to put me to work. I volunteered to paint the kitchen for them. I had completed the walls and about half the ceiling, being very conscious and not spilling a drop. Saturday morning, I was painting and Dad St. Jeor came home for the weekend. He was the boss of the Yosemite Valley Railroad construction crew and came home only on weekends. I was about half way across the ceiling when he came in, looked at what I was doing and stated, “That’s not the way to do that.” Whereupon he seized a can of turpentine, dumped it into the paint can, stirred it up a bit and started swinging a brush like he was painting a railroad bridge. To the last time I was in that house, there was still a line dividing the ceiling and paint spots on one half of the kitchen walls. For a time I debated whether Sybil was going to lose a husband and a father, but then reconsidered both alternatives. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3D1o3F49eaR0fyDlK-VhVIKUwX_xyr-2EhVlggVbOEK7Ax3dfPW1Ku4bSC2p97IK89jXaBmm6rTv2-nWMn2miXnME1vYzYXXpCg_xNW0zqBXPF0XPlL5EZ4liGnkW6ubWzduXX5O3tzA/s1600/Vern%252C+Mable+Catherine%252C+and+William+de+St.+Jeor+1+Sept+1942.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="226" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3D1o3F49eaR0fyDlK-VhVIKUwX_xyr-2EhVlggVbOEK7Ax3dfPW1Ku4bSC2p97IK89jXaBmm6rTv2-nWMn2miXnME1vYzYXXpCg_xNW0zqBXPF0XPlL5EZ4liGnkW6ubWzduXX5O3tzA/s400/Vern%252C+Mable+Catherine%252C+and+William+de+St.+Jeor+1+Sept+1942.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vern, Mabel & William (Sybil's parents), September 1942</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In September, a group of instructors were selected to transfer to Marano, Arizona to start a new basic training school and my name came up on the list. The following Saturday night were at the dance and had just traded a dance with Capt. Hollaman and his wife. The subject of the transfer came up. Both Syl and I were negative about it so Don asked, “Don’t you want to go to Marana?” To which I answered, “No, not till the wedding, anyway.” Next Monday, my name was off the list and a classmates name was substituted for mine. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">As our marriage date approached, we combined our checking accounts and started house hunting and started the procedures for Temple recommends. But I still couldn’t believe she would marry me. It just seemed too much to be true. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">About a week before we planned to leave for Salt Lake city to be married in the Temple, a friend of mine came to me and asked if we were looking for a house. I assured him we surely were and he rented me his home because he had just been transferred from Merced. He had been a local bank president before the war, and had received a direct commission. The house was a beautiful three bedroom home finished in knotty pine paneling and in a very nice neighborhood, just a couple of blocks from the church. So, one big newlywed problem solved. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We had to receive recommends before going to the Temple. Since my membership was still in Utah, I had to write to my Bishop and Syl had to visit the Merced Branch President. After her interview, President Johnson made the statement that I seemed to be a pretty good egg and that I was marrying the salt of the earth. How right he was. When we got to Payson, my home, I had an interview and received my recommend, also. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">A big problem in our wedding was getting to Salt Lake City, both transportation-wise and leave-wise. We had the car, but gasoline rationing was being planned. But we were able to get enough gas to make the trip. The leave was something else. Whereas, instructors were generally give a week off between classes, no instructor had ever been given leave during the class training period. Even the base commander was on my side and after talking to me on my reasons for going clear to Salt Lake City to be married, he signed my leave, but only for seven days. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Finally we were ready to go on our trip to be married. Syl, her parents, and I left Merced on Saturday and drove through to Salt Lake City where her folks stayed with her mother’s sister and she and I drove on to Payson to meet my folks. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">When I introduced Syl to my folks, my dad asked, “Your dad isn’t Bill de St. Jeor is he?” An affirmative answer brought a loud exclamation. “Bill de St. Jeor, the cowboy, from Lyman?” Syl answered, “Well, Dad was from Lyman, but I don’t think he was any cowboy.” It turns out that her Dad, in his younger days, had been a world champion class cowboy and had at one time set a world records for the calf roping event. He had traveled all over with the Buffalo Bill Wild West show and had never mentioned it to his family. My dad had been a gun fighter, cowboy, and rancher in the same area and knew all about her dad. My dad was raised in Woodruff, only about 50 miles from Lyman where her dad was raised. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We were married on Wednesday, 14 October 1942, in the beautiful Salt Lake City Temple ceremony. We entered the temple about 8:00am and finally finished at 2:00pm [they also received their endowments that same day]. Syl and I cut out from the rest of the family, visited about Salt Lake City and finally had dinner and stayed our wedding night in the Newhouse Hotel in Salt Lake City. It really had happened. She really married me. How lucky can a man get?</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm4d6vl-kEgh9Nu14-GUaHERfnnc7mX6jkWKiBGvfC2_9HGart0162B_JPf2QF0h8etIlz8WQUDkuCZkUQrtTY1MYK_c1IyqPcazMiGQA6tkwH3ZRilwG-ipMcgv3YGLLieEXBlaew0Jw/s1600/Vern+and+Sybil+15+October+1942%252C+Payson+UT.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="257" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm4d6vl-kEgh9Nu14-GUaHERfnnc7mX6jkWKiBGvfC2_9HGart0162B_JPf2QF0h8etIlz8WQUDkuCZkUQrtTY1MYK_c1IyqPcazMiGQA6tkwH3ZRilwG-ipMcgv3YGLLieEXBlaew0Jw/s400/Vern+and+Sybil+15+October+1942%252C+Payson+UT.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vern & Sybil, October 15, 1942, Payson, Utah. The day after they were married. </td></tr>
</tbody></table></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-71541847013096320582011-01-11T15:40:00.001-08:002011-01-13T18:19:06.515-08:00Chapter 22<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">On a Tuesday night the last week of February 1942, I polished my brass, put on my full dress uniform and went to M.I.A. I arrived a bit early, not being sure how long it would take me to find the church in Merced. There were just three other people at the church when I arrived, the Branch President and two beautiful young ladies. After meeting the President, I was introduced to the young ladies. For just a moment, the though raced through my mind, “Which one shall I date?” Then as instantaneously, the decision followed —“the tall one—that’s the girl.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">My romance with The Girl had begun months before, long before I had even considered joining the Air Corps. I had a dream in which I went to California and when there I would meet two girls, both would be tall, and beautiful, but the second girl was the one I fell in love with and who would become my wife. I guess the only one who knew of my dream was my younger brother. The girl was tall and straight with chocolate brown hair and blue eyes, long flowing hair below her shoulders. She had very classically features and just a trace of freckles. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The picture had always remained with me although probably couldn’t remember any other dream I ever had. When I walked into that church and tall doll turned around to meet me, I knew she was the girl. The only problem was she didn’t know it yet. After being introduced, I sat down with the girls and the girl was rehearsing a poem she was to recite in the meeting. She kept rhyming the poetry in a sing-song fashion and I promised if she sang it in Church, I would lead it. I think just to test me, she did and I did. She also lead the music and her friend, “Wuz” played the piano. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Sybil de Saint Jeor was born in Merced, of goodly Mormon pioneer parents. She had lived on the same street, in the same house all of her years. Her mother was a dynamic redhead that was credited with financing the building the church and who had been a long time Relief Society President of the Branch. Her father had been Branch President of the Merced Branch for 17 years, but had been recently released. Sybil had been well schooled in music in school, and through private lessons, and both sang and played the piano. She had sung leads in school operettas and had been featured vocalist on a radio program for a period of time. She was a very poised, confident, and beautiful lady. </span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSHXxbor60cpE5hHq_rIzV4C28W8AKnGC6I7unoc7_wZ98VJxBVrMBiryueUFeYH1vDMBhBNgYlwtQ119MgCgDJys-V4rUW1Q7ZZhERCvKp_sxWnLktYO3IjnBd7kgczNasjubHNXlp4/s1600/Silk+Painting+of+Sybil+Bryson.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSHXxbor60cpE5hHq_rIzV4C28W8AKnGC6I7unoc7_wZ98VJxBVrMBiryueUFeYH1vDMBhBNgYlwtQ119MgCgDJys-V4rUW1Q7ZZhERCvKp_sxWnLktYO3IjnBd7kgczNasjubHNXlp4/s320/Silk+Painting+of+Sybil+Bryson.JPG" width="272" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A silk painting of Sybil</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Of course, when it could be discretely done, I asked her for a date after Mutual, which she promptly turned down. I ended up going to a party with the rest of the Mutual while she and her friend went elsewhere. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Next day, I confided in my next door neighbor and good friend of the beautiful girl I had been introduced to. My friend and I played ball together, hunted together, and ran around together on stag affairs. He was engaged and about to be married so we parted on dates. The following Saturday, my friend, Skinny and I went to the local movie and were ushered to our seats by “the girl.” I told Skinny that was the girl and he went ape. He opined that she was the most beautiful thing that had ever been seen in Merced yet. Still she would not make a date with me. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">On the fifth of March, I remembered that I hadn’t sent anything home to my kid brother so I decided a telegraph message would be appropriate. I went to Western Union and there she was again, working as a teletype operator. I’m sure I took longer to write that ten word message than anyone in history, but by the time I had finished, she had accepted a date after she finished work. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I picked her up at 9:00 and we went to a coffee shop for a bite and then for a car ride out to Yosemite Lake. There we walked along the beach and sat and talked for what seemed like only a moment when suddenly she looked at her watch and it was past one o’clock, we rushed home but it was two before we could say goodnight but she had agreed I could have another date the next night. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">When I dropped her off that night, I was met by a red-headed buzz-saw and told emphatically that I would not see her daughter again and please leave. Her mother didn’t know either! I very humbly but firmly said I was sorry for being so late and that I would see her daughter again what may. This rather startled Mom and we settled down to discuss the matter. We finally agreed that she could go with me but I would have her home by 10 o’clock. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The more I knew Sybil, the more coincidental was she and the dream. Then after a few more dates, I told her of my dream and told her I was going to marry her. Only she wouldn’t believe me. Over the next couple of months we went out as often as we could. We would go to the Officers’ Club for many events but we also went hunting a lot. And she was an excellent shot. </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Sybil became well known to all my fellow officers from the occasions at the Officers’ Club and I guess it became obvious how I felt. I t started with the Base Commander’s wife. We were playing Ping-Pong one night and a bossy Mrs. Bailey said, “Sybil, you should marry Bryson.” I was most embarrassed but I agreed with what she said. My friends in the squadron liked the idea to our obvious embarrassment. So everywhere one of them would meet Sybil, they would call to her, “Sybil, when are you going to marry Bryson?” The idea quickly spread until all the officers on the base were pulling for me the same way. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Near the end of May we were at the base one evening and I had Syl (her new nickname) drive my car. It was planned that I was to fly the following night and didn’t expect to be able to go to town. However, that night, flying was suspended for some reason and I decided to ride into town with one with one of my friends to pick up my car. My friend dropped me off in front of the house as I went up the path, I could see Mrs. St. Jeor was hosting a bridge club that night. When I knocked, Mrs. St. Jeor came to the door and informed me Sybil had gone to a graduation party for Wuz with another guy. I asked if she knew where my keys were and she couldn’t find them, concluding Sybil must have taken them in her purse. There I was, stuck with no way back to the base and my girl with my keys, off with another guy. Without any fuss, I quietly said I’d have to wait for her to get home. I went out to the car parked in the street and sat inside waiting for Sybil. Mother must have become nervous for she telephoned Sybil at the party and informed her I was there eat the house. [Note from Sybil: Mother did not know where Sybil was. Sybil was at a place that had an old wind-up crank-type telephone and called home just to use the old phone.] As I sat there, the temper kept rising like steam in a boiler until when Sybil arrived, I was thoroughly angry. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">She and I had a few choice words. When her date wanted to join in, I cocked a fist and invited him into the party, but he promptly declined. Eventually she gave me my keys and my guns which she had been keeping for me because of base security and she went her way, and I went mine, but thoroughly convinced that ended that. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Half way back to the base, the thought struck me like a lightening bolt, “That’s the most wonderful girl you will ever meet and you’ll never find a girl like that.” I stopped the car and thought and prayed a little then swallowed my pride and returned to watch her house until she had again returned from the party. Then I went to her window and asked if she would see me for a few minutes. I apologized and told her how much I loved her and she forgave me. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In the first part of June, things on the war front started to get exciting. We had discovered a large Japanese Naval fleet in the North Pacific headed for our West Coast. There were a large number of aircraft carriers and all the support for a major invasion. We didn’t know if they were coming to the mainland or Alaska, but they were coming. All of the bases went on 24 hour alert and all personnel restricted to the base. They prepared a plan to hang a 500 pound bomb on each of our BT-13 aircraft and briefed all pilots on attack strategy in case the tactical commands couldn’t stop them. It was further planned that all training bases would be immediately moved further inland and we were scheduled to go to Arizona. As the battle of Midway took shape, hasty plans were developed to convert training planes to fighter bombers and to move to training bases. Everyone was going about their business quietly, not knowing when things would break loose. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The first evening of alert, I called Syl to break our date and to talk to her about us and what if I did have to move, and to add a few endearments. As we talked, she suggested I might buy a ring and when things got back to normal, she would come and we would be married. Wow! She said she’d marry me! A wonderful, beautiful, talented girl like Sybil said she’d marry me, a dumb old country kid! How about that. I couldn’t believe it could happen. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The next morning I asked the boss if it would be possible to get a two hour pass at noon to go to town to by Syl a ring. Since this romance had become a public affair, he assured me, he’d go clear to Col. Bailey, if necessary, to get permission. And he did. I drove into town, met Syl at the telegraph office where she was working and we walked across the street to the bank and then to the jewelers and bought a beautiful, but modest, engagement ring. Which I promptly placed on her finger, kissed my fiancé, and returned to the base. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8-P3nMHLwsw6lMF04kJmdAXZa1JiPouTQyT5JwDVd5qGTLUGhs5KfDqy2BdK53GNOVuIXQtXehpcSi4gInHqATS2RPwUSAB-y2NUo5uIP3vO8XqAzJdy7nTY7bIEjlR8LOrvz63ZKSCw/s1600/Sybil+and+Vern+in+1942.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="263" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8-P3nMHLwsw6lMF04kJmdAXZa1JiPouTQyT5JwDVd5qGTLUGhs5KfDqy2BdK53GNOVuIXQtXehpcSi4gInHqATS2RPwUSAB-y2NUo5uIP3vO8XqAzJdy7nTY7bIEjlR8LOrvz63ZKSCw/s400/Sybil+and+Vern+in+1942.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sybil and Vern shortly after their engagment. They were at Sybil's home.</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-28666659203740548992011-01-11T15:37:00.002-08:002011-01-13T15:20:23.252-08:00Chapter 21<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">On Saturday night, Del and I always dated together in our car. We would share the driving until he started to feel too high then he wouldn’t. Then I would because he was drunk—and me a good Mormon teetotaler. On Sunday, the car was mine to go to Church. There were three branches of Mormons in Sacramento. I started to attend the North Sacramento branch and be came acquainted with President Larson and his family. Although I had attended Church in Santa Maria when I could, and at San Jose while in Basic, I now had wheels and could go every week I was in town. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Of course, we did travel a bit. We both bought our uniforms from a tailor in Stockton and had to go there every Saturday for about a month. Then we would often go on to San Francisco after that. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">As time passed, the instructors formed a basketball team to represent the field. Most of the players were young officers but the team was open to anyone. Don Cosner of Montana State University was the coach and the athletic officer responsible for physical conditioning of the cadet corps. Very shortly Del and I, of all the cadet corps, were invited to play with the Mather Field pilots. They practiced off base and Don gave us permission to go practice a couple of days a week which gave us liberty a couple of evenings a week. Occasionally we would see other cadets who didn’t have liberty in town until it seemed like half the corps were out every night. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">As October came, war talk was more and more dominant in news. Japan, Italy, and Germany had signed a tri-axis against all the free world. England was taking an unmerciful beating from bombing and now missiles. It seemed pretty obvious that we were soon going to be dragged into the War if England was to be saved or the axis ever stopped. In China, Japan was stepping up its long time offensive and it’s only obstacle was the Flying Tigers, a group fighting American pilots flying old P-40 obsolete aircraft, but doing a whale of a job stopping the Japanese advance. Del and I decided we would join the Flying Tigers as soon as we graduated, 30 October 1941. We even made application and were tentatively accepted, but on 15 October 1941, the war was so imminent that the army refused to release any more pilots to join the cause. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">About this time, our instructor friend on the basketball team arranged to have both Del and I assigned to Mather as instructors. This sounded good to me and I was looking forward to a fun basketball winter. But it didn’t work out that way. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">A few days before graduation, our friend informed us that the base commander had heard about our basketball deal and raised Cain with the conniving [instructor]. Of course, the last week or two was all excitement; each pilot wondering where he would be assigned and the assignment list was kept very secret by the commander. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The last few days before graduation were exciting, but relaxing. Flying was finished, ground school was over. Just a couple of lectures on being commissioned and dry runs for graduation. Uniforms were complete and brass and wings all purchased. I had invited Aunt Mary and Uncle Bill to come—[it] was too far for my folks to come. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The morning was a cool clear October 30<sup>th</sup>. Graduation exercises started at an unbelievable 0900 and nothing to do except eat a luscious breakfast prepared for graduating cadets. Put on the beautiful hand-tailored pink and green uniform with Sam Brown belt, swords were not required. Everything less bars and wings. Many of us stood around out in the area talking and visiting for the last time. We all knew we were parting but no one yet knowing where we would be assigned. Everyone expressing his hopes and dreams. Most of us wanted to be fighter pilots, but secretly wishing we would make the grade to be chosen as instructor pilots. The priority of selection was that the very best pilots were retained by the training command, first going to basic training and secondly to advanced. Since Del and I had come under the Commander’s wrath for the basketball deal we both expected a tactical assignment. Since we were the supposed bomber advance, we expected to go to bombers somewhere. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">At the appropriate time, my guests arrived and I escorted them to favorable front seats and lined up for the exercises. With due waiting, we filed in and were seated. They had a few remarks by local and visiting brass. Then the Adjutant proceeded to read the lists of assignments. The Adjutant drolling: “The following 2<sup>nd</sup> Lieutenants will report to Moffet field no later than 2 November 1941. Andrews, Bryson—YIKES—second on the list among the top assignments to basic school at Moffet Field. I had enjoyed Moffet and was pleased to return there. A few minutes Del received his assignment to Mather Field and we were parted. But like opposite particles, we always seemed to bounce back together. Del’s family and Salt Lake girlfriend were down and his mother pinned on his wings. Then we went alphabetically down to me where Aunt Mary pinned on my wings and bars and I was a brand new 2<sup>nd</sup> Lieutenant, United States Amy Air Corps. We all received orders to active duty on 31 October 1941. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Del and his family were eager to get away to Salt Lake for the weekend and I planned to go back to Oakland where Uncle Lou had reservations for all the local clan at an expensive restaurant. I don’t remember much from that weekend, but survived the danger of a mental explosion until I reported for duty at Moffet on Monday morning. None of my real close friends had been assigned to Moffet but I knew nearly everyone in the class to a more or less degree and several casual friends were assigned there. When we reported in, we were told that we could live on base, or off, at our choice. A couple of people I had played ball with a lot were getting an apartment and they talked to me about joining them. I looked at the apartment in nearby Mountain View and decided to join them. </span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Many of our class were assigned to the Philippine Islands to either the 19<sup>th</sup> Bomb Group or to fighters on the same field. They were given leave for two weeks and sailed for the Islands on 19 November 1941. Of the thirty one assigned, only one, Lt. Beck ever returned home and he was killed in a flying accident shortly after returning. Other pilot groups were leaving San Francisco for assignment in the Pacific area on the 9<sup>th</sup> of November 1941. One of these knew one of my roommates and came to our apartment to visit him. He had a pretty young wife of a month and she had to go back to Texas while he went overseas. During the discussion, they said they had to sell their car. John [my roommate] suggested I might be interested, so I went out to look at it. It was a coal black 1941 Chevrolet Club Coupe with read seats and lots of trim and white sidewall tires. It was a beauty. As we talked, he said he owed five hundred and fifty one dollars and needed $150 to get his wife back to Texas. Well, I had saved $150 and signed over his loan and I owned a beautiful new car. He had bought it after he graduated a month ahead of me and just drove it from Texas to California—less that four thousand miles. There wasn’t a scratch on it. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The services an officer had was unbelievable. We had unlimited credit at the P.X. and were provided with a long list of local merchants and restaurateurs who would give us 40% off and bill the P.X. Then we only had to pay the P.X. on payday. The military were very popular at this time and were treated very well by everyone. A far cry from a still-present sign on a bar in San Francisco that advertized, “Dogs and dogfaces keep out.” Dogface being a nickname for soldiers in the pre-World War II era. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I went regularly to Church in the San Jose branch and started to play basketball for them. We had a lousy team and were just able to field five players. At the same time, I was playing for the Moffet Field Flyers who became the California service champions for that year. During the year, the San Francisco branch was the big winners in the Church league. When they were supposed to play San Jose, we could only get three players that night. The coach asked me to get some of my friends to play with the Branch team. So, naturally, I recruited four or five players of the Flyers. We started with the Branch team and substituted in the Flyers and really shoe-laced San Francisco. You never saw such mad losers in your life. They had previously beaten San Jose badly and then to get waxed. Sure was fun from our point of view. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">About a month went by of living in Eden. On Sunday, 7 December 1941, I had a date in San Francisco. As I drove up, I turned on the radio and heard [the Japanese] were bombing Pearl Harbor. I cut my date short and returned home to listen to the news. They didn’t know where the Japanese fleet was and [we] afraid they were coming to California or at least the West Coast. Much excitement. The next day all officers (unmarried) were ordered to move into the BOQ.s (Bachelor Officer Quarters) and a few days later it was announced that the Air Force was closing Moffet Field and moving all training bases further inland where they couldn’t be reached by carrier-born aircraft. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">While I was living in the BOQ, I met an Airman 2<sup>nd</sup> Class named Jimmy Stewart. He was the famous movie star who had enlisted to serve his country. A group of officers took a special interest in him. Since he already had 1500 hours flying time in civilian aircraft and Lt. Sperry and Lt. Barnes coached him in BT-13s until he passed the examination and was given a direct commission, whereupon he moved into the same BOQ as I lived in—just a few doors away. I came to know him quite well. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">However my stay there was short become on January 2<sup>nd</sup>, I was transferred to Merced Air Base where they were opening a new basic training school. I had been hand picked on the cadre of 80 officers to open the field. I wasn’t too happy about leaving Moffet and the San Francisco area, but then it was pretty close and no chance of staying anywhere closer. So, after New Years Day, I deported Moffet, and reported into Merced the same day. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Merced was also a new base such as Mather had been but at least I was now an officer and someone else had to clean my room. But it was back to living on a G.I. cot and eating at an officers’ mess. Most messes are we named. The area round about had been dug up for construction and there was no grass yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there was the wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two conditions made the field area less than inviting. We normally flew one half day and half free so many of us started heading for the mountains. Since I wasn’t interested in bars, I went along with those who went to the mountains hunting squirrels, of which there were millions. And the ranchers were tickled to death to have us hunt squirrels and rabbits. And thus ended a very dull winter. </span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmSGF4IlyiwSKPPkF2-BQuYtpjoMKgLuTKTPrdnTnhVnXZZcpQelIfOhLlPr-58t5N_IHC_8pFuwaBeY742_7zh-rYMTUM_vxgGjvQHoDCOqjlF9u8R8ozRxBnxRAWX4rIG8xRxfJInKY/s1600/Officer+Vern+Bryson+in+1942.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmSGF4IlyiwSKPPkF2-BQuYtpjoMKgLuTKTPrdnTnhVnXZZcpQelIfOhLlPr-58t5N_IHC_8pFuwaBeY742_7zh-rYMTUM_vxgGjvQHoDCOqjlF9u8R8ozRxBnxRAWX4rIG8xRxfJInKY/s320/Officer+Vern+Bryson+in+1942.JPG" width="249" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vern, 1942</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-7581816239767439572011-01-11T15:37:00.000-08:002011-01-13T18:17:17.032-08:00Chapter 20<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I was able to keep my nose clean and finally in August we graduated from Basic training. After graduation, my roommate, Del Anderson, and another friend, Cleve Jones, started for Utah before reporting to advance training at Mather Field. Cleve had been assigned to Luke Field for advance training and Del and I to Mather. Cleve had an old 1935 Ford coupe which he could not drive very fast because it threw too much oil. It took us 35 hours to drive the 700 miles to Salt Lake City. Fifty miles an hour down the road and every 50 miles we had to stop to add a quart of oil. Del and I jointly bought the Anderson car that they were trading in on a new model. It was to be in Del’s name, but we were to share payments and I was to have half-interest in the car. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In Utah, I had a very short visit with my folks and we had to start back for school. So my family drove me to Salt Lake to Del’s home to meet him. There in front of the house was <u>our</u> car—a 1940 Packard straight 8 convertible. It was shiny black with read real leather seats. What a car!</span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">There wasn’t a mark on it and I couldn’t believe such power. Del drove out to the salt flats then invited me to drive a while. I put it in gear and started out and Del warned, “You started in high, don’t try to shift.” It started in high as easily as any car I had driven would start in low. During the trip home while Del was driving, I dropped off to sleep. When I woke up, the speedometer was registering steadily at 100 miles per hour. Del said, “I’ve been doing this for an hour.” I drove 60 m.p.h., he drove 100. We had an interesting night, both afraid we would scratch that beautiful car, and both completely exhausted. We had to report at Mather Field in the morning. Sometimes one would drive slowly and the other would run along the side to wake up. We made it in a reasonable time and managed to reach the field without a catastrophe. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After reporting in, we were assigned to a brand new cadet barrack. For the first time, we ran into the new wartime construction program. The barrack was of the typical two-story type, put together in a rush contract to make room for the mushrooming Air Corps. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We were among the first reporting in so we claimed a northwest corner room on the second floor. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The place had never been occupied and the surrounding area was all torn up due to construction. In the rush to get the building completed, the usual problems of construction were abundant—like doors and windows not fitting. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In Sacramento, the winds-blow and the windrows of sand from the construction site was two inches deep from both sides of each window. There was even a windrow of sand out in the hall where it sifted through the door that didn’t fit. Del and I were both dog tired from traveling all night and, of course, there was no air conditioning in the building and it was August in Sacramento. It was hot. We had to work all afternoon to get the room and hall fit for pigs to live in. To that date, it was the most miserable day in my life. But come evening, the weather cooled down and it became very pleasant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At meal time, we went across to the also new mess hall to a very pleasant surprise. The place was immaculate. Food was served family style by uniformed waiters and the food was excellent. One of the waiters was immense. It turned out to be Buddy Baer, brother of ex-world heavyweight boxing champion, Max. Buddy was a fair brawler in his own right, but here he was waiting on cadets. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Advance training was much more relaxed—why, they almost treated us like people. Still we were confined from Sunday night through Saturday noon and there was always and inspection and parade Saturday morning. Bu the flying was fun and diversified: instruments, formation, and cross-country. Then there was the preparation for graduation. Uniforms to be made or fitted, applications for commissions, all very exciting with firm knowledge we had it made. It gives one a bit of confidence to know that we were one in 50,000 American young men who could get into the flying cadet program, and one in about four who could get into the flying cadet program, and one in about four who could make it through and to know that Uncle Sam had spent $50,000 on your training. But we still had to complete training. </span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">My own advance training was very quiet and error-free but some of the other cadets were still having problems. Our first cross-country was uneventful, but then we progressed to our first night cross-country. One Cadet Wiser ran into an interesting problem. The trip was planned for each cadet flying solo to take off from Mather at Sacramento, fly Northwest to Willows, California, south to Pittsburg, California near Oakland and return East, Northeast to Sacramento. Mr. Wiser was flying well ahead of me in the line of aircraft following each other by about five minutes. I had just made the turn at Willows and headed for Pittsburg when I heard Wiser on the radio call the tower and tell them he couldn’t find the field. The instructor in the tower quietly told him to find Sacramento and Wiser said he was over the center of Sacramento. They told him to fly eleven miles due east and look out the right side of the plane for the field and they would flash the runway lights. This didn’t work so they told Wiser to turn on his lights. Still no success. After many more tries, Wiser panicked and said he was going down. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The rest of the story is from Wiser’s own story. He saw a lighted football field and decided to try landing in that. He started in an approach altitude but just before he flared out, the lights went out. Next he saw a row of dim lights that he thought might be a private runway near where the football field had been seen. So he proceeded to land along this row of lights. It turned out that the row of lights was a number of smudge pots along the top of a row of dirt from a trench throughout the football field parking lot and he had landed on the trench side. That had been barricaded from parking traffic by the trench. On the other side of the row of lights, cars were parked side by side, but he had picked the vacant side. He came safely to a stop, killed the engine, and climbed out to learn he was at Stockton, not Sacramento as he thought and naturally, Mather field was not eleven miles east of Stockton. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">To finish the take of woe, the next morning being a Saturday two instructors were sent to return the downed aircraft. It was a time when all of the cadet corps was out on the ramp for Saturday morning parade. The aircraft landed and began taxing to the parking area. The pilot’s attention was diverted by the distraction of the cadet corps and he taxied right up to the wing of another T-6, the propeller throwing slices of wing like sawdust from a buzz saw, completely destroying one aircraft and the engine and prop of the other. This little story is included to demonstrate the perils that awaited unthinking cadets or pilots. </span></span></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-81341530742984217542011-01-11T15:36:00.000-08:002011-01-13T14:54:59.716-08:00Chapter 19<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Night flying brought on an embarrassing episode for me. When it came time to make our first night flight, the instructor flew the first couple of flights with the student. In my case, Lt. Buckner took off, flew around the pattern and made a landing. Took off, flew once more around the pattern crawled out and turned it over to me. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Night flight is a beautiful thing. The air is always very calm and comfortable cool. The earth looks different at night. A great black void punctuated by small stars both above and below. In the San Francisco bay area, the flying was exceptionally beautiful because of the tremendous light patterns provided by the many cities in the area. Each city is unique in its pattern and size, but each one is as a diamond with an indefinite number of faces, each with its own tiny light. I was so entranced with the view for the first time and the excitement of the night flight that I probably forgot to pay much attention to the aircraft. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After Lt. Buckner turned the bird over to me, I taxied out, criss-crossing the taxiway to clear ahead of the aircraft, lined up with the take-off field, got clearance from the tower and poured on the coal. As the plane lifted off, I became aware that the exhaust manifold was putting out a huge steam of fire that extended back alongside the aircraft. There didn’t seem to be any loss of power and it flew alright but I thought maybe I should check it out. I picked up the mike and asked the tower if this was normal. I was assured by the duty pilot in the tower that was normal and to continue the flight. I then continued to fly the traffic pattern and make the required three take-offs, approaches and landing then taxied back to the ramp area and shut the bird down, filled out the form and walked into the ready room. There the vultures were waiting for me. It so happens that the biggest thrill an instructor pilot gets out of night flying is to listen to the cadets report his airplane is on fire. Of course, there is much harassing the dumb dodo that does. I was it for my class. I was nicknamed, “Touchy” and required to write an official report in rhyme before next day’s flying session. That I night, I spent a few hours composing a not-altogether-serious poem no the thrills of night flying. The next day none of the cadets or ground instructors even mentioned the incident until I got to the ready room for flying in the afternoon period. I, there, presented my paper to Capt. Holstein, the Squadron Commander, and thought the incident was finished. Not so!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">All the instructors marched in to the ready room from their more private lounge and the boss announced that I would stand on the table and read my report. The poem seemed to be fairly humorous because everyone had a good laugh, except me. We then went about our usual business without further comment until the class book came out and there I was on page 2 with my infamous poem signed “Torchy Bryson.” Then a few weeks later a national magazine picked up the story and ran the poem. So I was branded for many years with the nickname “Torchy.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">During basic I also became acquainted with some of my long lost relatives. I had an Uncle Bill, my father’s brother who lived in Oakland with his third wife, Mary. Seems Uncle Bill had three wonderful wives and within my family different age groups knew different ones. My oldest brothers said Aunt Naomi, his first wife was the most wonderful woman in the world. My sisters and some of the brothers held the same view of Aunt Helen, the second wife. After that summer at basic, I became convinced Aunt Mary was the greatest. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Years earlier I had met my uncle and Aunt Mary when they visited our home in Utah and I remembered her as a very beautiful woman. When I moved to the Bay area, my father suggested I go visit his brother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a brief phone call, I was invited up to their home for a weekend. I arrived Saturday afternoon and after searching through many of the Oakland hills, I finally found their apartment overlooking beautiful Lake Merritt. I was received most graciously and made to feel completely at home. To my surprise, they had another nephew living with them, my cousin Chet, whom I hadn’t seen since I moved from Woodruff eleven years before. We had been great friends as kids and had a marvelous time getting reacquainted. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In the evening, Uncle Bill and Aunt Mary took us to a dinner with a group of their friends, all of whom were middle-aged married couples and one widow, who, with her husband had been good friends with this crowd. There were all people of consequence and it was rather expensive get-together which the group had each month. Even though I and Chet were twenty years junior to the crowd, we were made to feel completely at home and treated as if we had been friends forever. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I was invited back for another weekend later with a promise that Aunt Mary would get a whole bunch of my relatives together. When the next weekend came, I was back again to meet another of my cousins just younger than I and an older cousin and his wife. All my life I had heard about two cousins, Lou and Newell, that had lived with our family for several years while they were growing up and had been like brothers to my older brothers and sisters. Newell had grown up and was the Fish and Game Commissioner for the State of Utah. Lou had gone to work for Safeway Company and had advanced to be Vice-President and General Manager of the Western division. He made some wise investments and was accredited with being a multimillionaire. My father had often said Lou was the only one of his sons that had amounted to anything. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The other cousin was Cousin Lou and his wife, Gert. Even though they were my first cousins, they had always been elevated to Uncle Lou and Aunt Gert. They, too, were very gracious, but down-to-earth people. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In addition to my relatives, Aunt Mary had invited her sister and family, Mr. and Mrs. Ellis. At the time, Mr. Ellis was National President of Federal Land Bank. Of course, they were very wealthy, also. The Ellis’ had a son and two daughters about my age. One of which turned out to be my date on several future occasions. It was interesting to meet the financially successful part of my clan and find they were very fine people. </span></span><br />
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</div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-70727490656112899322011-01-11T15:35:00.000-08:002011-01-13T14:53:12.722-08:00Chapter 18<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While things were going great in the in the sky, things weren’t going so good on the ground. The school work was a piece of cake, but the military was something else. For every military mistake, you were assigned so many demerits, or “gigs.” For each “gig” you spent one hour marking in full uniform with a rifle on the ramp. I received a few gigs for not making my bed right or not shining my shoes right but very few. They announced a policy of awarding ten demerits for each “Form 1” error and I collected 30 hours before the policy was announced but the error were discovered after. (Form 1 is the aircraft log filled out by the pilot.) Then one day I was asked to run an errand for one of the instructors while I waited to fly. I was sitting on an outside bench with my parachute waiting to fly. Being a good little cadet, I jumped up and started on the errand, leaving my parachute on the seat. Only while was gone, it started to rain. One of the military officers awarded 20 demerits for getting the parachute wet. There was a rule if you received more than 60 demerits, you automatically met the Board for elimination, but the Commandant looked at my reasons for the demerits and didn’t even form the board. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">As the end of Primary training approached, it was necessary for me to spend every hour of every weekend walking off the demerits. On the last weekend before graduation, I was walking the ramp as usual. By now, we had become friendly with the cook so as we walked around the mess hall, we would duck into the kitchen for a few minutes and the cook would feed us ice cream. I was walking and eating with a friend named Martini (nicknamed Dry). We had just left the kitchen and walked half way around the mess hall to the front of the Headquarters building. As we approached the building, the commander came walking down the steps and said, “I want to see you” pointing to Dry Martini and me. I thought he had seen us goofing off in the mess hall and was going to punish us. We followed him into his the office where there was a photographer and a group of cute little models. The commandant introduced us and said they wanted to do an article on the school and we were to be their hosts. We spent the afternoon showing the photographer and the girls the field and the planes. That night we each were told to escort one of the girls to a dance which was sponsored by a group of starlets from the movies and the models were part of the sponsoring group. The next day, Sunday, the photographer took us and the girls to Santa Barbara to the Ambassador hotel where we spent the entire day swimming, dancing and posing. The next morning the commandant called us into the office (Dry and me) and thanked us for our good job well done and cancelled all our remaining demerits. Some way to be punished. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Without further incident, I finished the last week and graduated from Primary training on schedule with the rest of the class. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIfZXC7ht5ljgiLjhjXcaY7x2nCnSoQnefx3bTq958tPW79rVmJHmlC85jr_bCI4a0pLGHUbkaG4a2HjLRgDECKjTeXmErUMWBfEVqCwvhGA8x9vyEpSB2qCyTy5EXTTNEh3II-aKVBU/s1600/Vern+E.+Bryson%2527s+First+Pilot%2527s+Licence_0.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIfZXC7ht5ljgiLjhjXcaY7x2nCnSoQnefx3bTq958tPW79rVmJHmlC85jr_bCI4a0pLGHUbkaG4a2HjLRgDECKjTeXmErUMWBfEVqCwvhGA8x9vyEpSB2qCyTy5EXTTNEh3II-aKVBU/s400/Vern+E.+Bryson%2527s+First+Pilot%2527s+Licence_0.JPEG" width="285" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vern's First Pilot's Licence</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Between primary and basic training which was the next phase of pilot training, a group of us from Utah cooked up a trip to Utah. Five of us went in an old Dodge coupe with only one seat. We made a bed in the trunk and took turns driving and sleeping. We left Santa Maria on Friday and arrived home about six Saturday morning, and left again Sunday morning to report back to Moffet Field for Basic on Monday. I remember two things of my first trip home. First I had to whip my younger brother to get in the house and second I found younger brother had given Dad so much trouble wanting to drive my car Dad had sold it to get it off the place. I had regularly sent money home to make the payments and a little extra for the folks, but I learned little brother was getting most of both. End of sending money home. </span></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Moffet Field was a combined CAA-Air Corps base at San Jose, California on the south tip of San Francisco Bay. The main features of the base were CAA’s own wind tunnels and the old Macon dirigible [blimp] hanger. The hangar was being used for aircraft maintenance and all flight training was done from the hangar. The aircraft were maintained in the hangar and the various flight squadrons had facilities along the office space long and 300 feet wide and about 200 feet high with half dome shaped doors at each end. Only one set of doors were opened at a time because pilots just loved to fly through the hangar if both ends were open. This was frowned on by the Army.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We were assigned to barracks along the parade ground. The barracks was a large brick building of Spanish tile roofed architecture, large enough to hold the entire cadet corps. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">By now, I had become good friends with another cadet from Utah named Del Anderson. If every two people were dissimilar in social background, we were, but we became life-long friends in spite of that. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Del was the son of a well-to-do merchant who was the intermountain distributor for Maytag Company. The family lived up in the exclusive east side of Salt Lake City, and drove Packard cars. Del had attended University of Utah and belonged to the most exclusive fraternity. He had been the steady boyfriend of Priscilla Lane of the singing Lane Sisters. [He was] extremely good looking with dark wavy hair and about my height but a little heavier. As our friendship developed, Del had an ambition—to get me drunk, which was something he did frequently. My stated ambition was to make a Christian out of that Jack Mormon. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">One of the things Del and I had in common was a love basketball. We got together a basketball group that gravitated to the gym whenever we had spare time, as well as during scheduled physical training. And pilots had to be in good shape. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Our common routine consisted of five days of training, Monday through Friday with drill, ground school taking one half day and flying the other. We flew mornings or afternoons, alternating by weeks. On Saturday we had a morning parade and afternoon Saturday and Sundays were free days, except for those on detention. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The entire basic training was operated by military personnel. The instructors were all officers, the commandant of cadets was Capt. Jumper, a very strict West Pointer. My flight instructor was Lt. Osgood who after a few weeks became squadron executive officer and then Lt. Buckner became my instructor. Evidently, I learned very quickly because I was never in detention in all basic training. The routine was very rigid and took a lot of concentration to keep the rules in mind. I was completely floored one Saturday when we were being inspected by the Commanding General. Earlier in the week I had caught an elbow in the lip which required about a dozen stitches to repair and my lip was still bandaged. As the General came to my bed to inspect our barracks, he stopped to ask how I became injured. I answered, “Playing basketball, Sir.” He said, “Sit down, and let’s talk about it. I love basketball.” After we had sat down on my bed, he quietly explained, “My feet are killing me and I just had to get off from them.” We sat and chatted for perhaps five minutes while his feet rested then he got up and finished the inspection. I learned even Generals hurt, too. But the rumor also spread, Bryson knows the general and none of the upperclassmen were quite as tough as before. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Toward the five week mark of basic, we cooked up an evening basketball game versus the upperclassmen. Del and I were starting guards on our side. It was an extremely good game, being nip and tuck the whole contest. With about 5 seconds to go, and us trailing by one point, I managed to slip in a fast break for a basket to go ahead. As the other team brought the ball in, they passed to a cadet Andrews from Oregon University at about the halfway line. He whirled and shot just as the gun sounded and both teams stopped and watched as the ball arched up and swished through the basket. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Things got easier after the fifth week of basic training. By now, all the remaining cadets had passed the last flying check ride we were to receive. We all knew that as far as flying was concerned, we had it made. Now it only remained to complete the program of training and to not become so cocky we flew a bird into a mountain or something. Pilots have a bad reputation for becoming overconfident when they reach the advanced stages of training and have accidents, usually fatal ones. We still flew regularly as usual, but advanced into night flying cross country, formation flying and instruments.</span></span></div></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-64548976567732270482011-01-11T15:34:00.002-08:002011-01-13T14:50:04.756-08:00Chapter 17<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On the 15<sup>th</sup> of March [1941], I lined up with about 30 other complete strangers to take the oath and we were little tin soldiers. </span></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhmL8UYu7Bi7TeG9ZEPyz5i7Yngx-IxuqI3ELaOFAu5XIimvGL1L-8gFMj7TL40HwR86bIzMUYOZQoMix4xWw6cK-blKJJcChBE1P-aZ3fOO-jnRv6O34zNl8ZxmQBOisBk6g2y-FJbg/s1600/Vern+E.+Bryson%2527s+ROTC+Photograph_0.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhmL8UYu7Bi7TeG9ZEPyz5i7Yngx-IxuqI3ELaOFAu5XIimvGL1L-8gFMj7TL40HwR86bIzMUYOZQoMix4xWw6cK-blKJJcChBE1P-aZ3fOO-jnRv6O34zNl8ZxmQBOisBk6g2y-FJbg/s320/Vern+E.+Bryson%2527s+ROTC+Photograph_0.JPEG" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vern's ROTC Picture, 1941</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The new cadets came from all three Utah Universities. Some of them were college grads, some were big name athletes and some were younger kids from the country like me, or from the city. We all received orders to leave on the train the next day for Santa Maria, California—Hancock Field—where we would begin pilot training. We traveled across Utah and Nevada during the day, but I had seen the desert before. We slept through the Sierras and San Francisco and were traveling down the coast when daylight came. It was, of course, the first time I had seen California and there is no place so beautiful and green as California in the early spring. Everything was lush green, except for the flowers and they were a symphony of colors. Unbelievable to an old desert rat. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When we arrived at Santa Maria we were greeted by a large gray covered truck which was to transport us to the field. Only the truck was already about loaded with cadets just arriving from Texas. We were all crowded on the truck and started for the field. As we rolled along, I was talking to a cadet from Utah I had gotten acquainted with, when from the front of the truck, this Texan proclaimed in a loud, loud voice: “Where’s that damn Yankee? I’m going to whip his ***!” Of course, this added tension to the excitement. When we reached the field and piled out, I kept my eye on him, just in case, and he turned out to be very small, 5 foot 6” and about a hundred and twenty pounds. He made no attempt to carry out his threat. We were all lined up and welcomed in and assigned barracks. The barracks were half full of upper-classmen desiring to make life miserable for new cadets and consequently to teach us military discipline. The training was to start immediately. We were issued bedding and told to make our beds. In the next few minutes, I learned to make a bed you could bounce a quarter off from. Each new cadet had a watch dog who made it his business to see that we learned everything to perfection. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The field was a beautiful place. All the buildings were white stucco with red tile roofs. There were ample lawns and beautiful flowers everywhere in the living area. On the easy side of the living area, along the ramp was the mess hall and the headquarters. Each was flanked by a row of hangers. The aircraft were parked on the ramp in front of the hangars and the ramp area in front of headquarters and the mess hall were reserved for drill and walking. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our military education began formally the next morning and continued for the most part of two days the same way all military careers have begun since they began: March, March, March, March, 1, 2, 3, 4. All underclassmen were required to march to classes or to meals or to the flight line even though they were all within a block or two, but marching we learned. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The mess hall was a very pleasant surprise. I had heard so much bad about military mess halls I couldn’t believe ours. It was immaculately clean, the food was excellent with all the milk and ice cream we could eat every meal. Of course, there were always upperclassmen to spoil life’s little pleasures. We soon learned to eat a slow roll or a loop and to ask for and pass food properly and all the other little games generations of military students have devised to keep new recruits in line. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Flying actually started the following Monday morning. We all donned flight suits and helmets and marched very properly out to our assigned hangar. From which we flew each morning one week and each afternoon alternate weeks alternating with one flight of the upperclassmen. We were each assigned to an instructor along with four other cadets alphabetically. In my group were two people with a lot of flying time and another with a private license and me. I had never been in an airplane before. Because I was first alphabetically, I was chosen first to fly. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We talked on the way to the plane after drawing and fitting parachutes. He explained this is a stick and that is the throttle and here is the switch and we were off. As soon as we were at a safe altitude, he turned the aircraft over to me and we started flying. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I had been assigned to an instructor, a young man not much older than myself named Larry Shapiro. He was a good-looking fly-guy. He talked me through the gausport and talked me down almost to the ground before he took over and landed. That afternoon, I went to my first ground school on being a pilot. All went well for three or four days until we started working on landings. Then the instructor wasn’t happy at all. He talked to me seriously after each of two flights and I knew I had drawn pink slips. Three and your out. On the next day we went back upstairs and things went better. After a half hour, he said, “Let’s go down to that auxiliary field and have a smoke. So he let me land the plane completely by myself and we parked by the wind tie. I waited for the ax to fall. He waited a minute and asked, “Didn’t you bring your cigarettes?” I informed him I didn’t smoke. He stated, “Neither do I.” He then said, “I think I can make a pilot out of you yet.” I began breathing again. “Your trouble is you are ground shy, so we are going to get you over being ground shy.” After some more small talk, we got back into the bird and took off. He directed me to fly down to 50 feet over a river on the edge of the flying area and fly up and down the river making turns to stay right over the stream and I went on my first buzz job. After a few days of buzzing and practicing landings, I soloed. Once you solo, you have a 50-50 chance of making it. So I was half way. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After a few more days of buzzing and aerobatic work, he told me one day, we had been reported for a violation of flying too low over the river. In about two more days, he wasn’t at the flight room when we reported. There was a notice that the other three of Mr. Shapiro’s students reassigned to various other instructors, but nothing on me. My heart sank again as I learned Larry had been fired for buzzing to “make a pilot of you, yet.” He sacrificed his job for me. I sat about the flight room waiting again for the axe to fall and in about 30 minutes, Mr. Ed DeRosa, the wing commander came into the room and walked over to where I was sitting. I popped to and waited. He simply said, “Get your parachute. I’m going to teach you to fly.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ed DeRosa was internationally known as one of the best of the old barnstormers and had won stacks of awards for stunt flying competitions. I was to be his only student. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After that I had no trouble. All of the check pilots were very flattering in discussions after all my check rides and I progressed very nicely. As long as Ed was my my instructor, I don’t think I ever got a 1000 feet high again. One of the greatest lessons I received concerning flying came from Ed. “If you’re buzzing along and you come to a telephone line and there’s any question of whether to fly under or over it, always fly under. Then you won’t fly through it while you are making up your mind.” In other words, plan your reactions before the emergency exists. </span></span></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-30781076269039505102011-01-11T15:31:00.000-08:002011-01-13T14:35:35.232-08:00Chapter 16<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>During my sophomore year, I went back to engineering with more advanced math, algebra, trig, geometry, and physics, with enough outside studies to fill the college requirements. The old gang of kids began to fall apart and only Dickie and I continued to commute to school. We obtained a ride with Keith Perkins, a freshman, and school continued. Var Johnson and Brig Peterson joined the Air Force pilot cadet program and left school. Keith Johnson, my cousin and good friend, started school, but had to drive separately because he had to return at noon to run Var’s service station and eventually bought the station. We took many classes together, but each went his own way. So, the sophomore year came and went. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>During the Summer of 1940, I made an attempt to branch out somewhat. My sister Luella was living in Pioche, Nevada, where her husband, Albert (Pinkey) was working in the mines. He reported they were hiring so I went to Pioche to rustle a job in the mines. I lived with Pinkey and Lou, and their daughter Karen. Each morning, I would go to work with Pinkey and stand out in front of the mine hoping the foreman would hire some. There were about a dozen men each day. Some older men who had worked in the mines, and some were young school drop-outs trying to get a job, and a couple were college students looking for summer work. After the first couple of hours, the foreman would announce no hires today and we would all go home. There wasn’t much work at home either. The house was a small frame home perched on the steep side of a hill overlooking a long narrow canyon which was Pioche. The main street ran down the bottom of the canyon, contained a couple of sycamores and the half-dozen gambling dives. Down at the lower end of town the valley broadened out enough for the Church and the school. All the houses, such as they were, clung onto the hillsides connected by one-lane roads. After a few days, I learned that there was a group of young boxers training under a fairly well-known coach working out each night. So I gravitated to the ring. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some of those boys were fighting semi-professional bouts each weekend and, in general, welcomed a pigeon to box with. They had never learned much about boxing and I could easily beat any of them. The coach, of course, wanted me to join his stable, but no thanks, I had better plans. It was fun boxing with the guys, though, and in general, they couldn’t throw a glove on me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later, the town was putting together a baseball team to play in the local league. Of course, I had to try that and after one practice, became the right fielder. The local talent wasn’t quite up to college standards I had been working with. These were fun pastimes, but didn’t make any money for college. By the Fourth of July, it became obvious that there were more experienced miners than jobs, so I went home to Payson. Some of my friends were working at the college doing summer maintenance tasks so I got a job there. It paid 35<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">¢ an hour, but it provided the tuition and books for another year. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>During the summer, I obtained another job helping to remove the smoke stacks from the old sugar factory. The production portion had been unused for several years and the company I worked for had been contracted to pick up the stacks, lay them down on the ground, and then transport them intact to Salt Lake City. They hired a couple of local men, me included, to help. They used a gin pole to lift the stacks and lay them on their sides. The stacks were 110 feet long top of a 45 foot high building. They were made of steel and were about six feet in diameter. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We laid the first one down with no trouble, and then loaded it onto a truck for transport to Salt Lake. We then lifted the second stack up off the base and cleared the building and put the base on the ground. It was quitting time on Saturday and things had gone so well, they decided they didn’t need the local help and laid off both of us. That ended the best paying job I ever had. I got 70¢ an hour, more than $30 for one weeks work. But then, back to school.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Monday after we were fired, the Salt Lake crew tried to lay the stack down—a very simple effort—but a cable broke and dropped the stack right across the roof of the factory. My job had been to secure a cable and play it out from the factory roof right where the stack fell. For once, I was glad I had been fired. The company tried to ship the first one we removed and had an accident on the way to Salt Lake and destroyed that one. They then abandoned the effort before the third stack was removed. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was only a few days left before school started and I got a job working with my father loading railroad cars with sugar from the sugar factory warehouse. The sugar was produced in other factories and shipped to Payson for storage. The job now was to ship the sugar from the warehouse to fill the company’s sales. The job paid pretty good, too, and helped considerably with school. After school started, they put on a second shift and I was able to work two or three nights a week for a few weeks. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> When it came time to go back to school, there was no one in town going to drive to school that I could ride with. Dad and I decided that it would be best if I sold two of my cows and bought a car and drove myself, taking riders with me. With the help of my brother, Merl, I bought a 1935 Oldsmobile two door sedan. It was in very good shape and I acquired six riders that paid me $7 per month. It cost me about $20 per month for car costs, and $19 for car payments, so I about got the transportation to school for free. Of course, my two cows were gone. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This year I was able to pick up the chemistry course I had dropped my freshman year and finished all the humanities required for graduation. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After about a month, I was hired as a night watchman at the sugar factory. This allowed me about 40 minutes of each hour to study and 20 minutes to make the required rounds. This was an ideal student job. Only it too last a couple of weeks. The manager laid me off and hired his own brother for the job. But two weeks work helped. When the sugar factory went back into production, I got to work on weekends and sometimes at night restacking the warehouse, so my finances were getting very good. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>About November of that year, it was announced that the Air Corps would bring a team of people to BYU to interview and give physicals to any upperclassmen who wanted to join the flying cadet program. I wasn’t much interested, but a large number of my friends were all excited about joining the Air Force. I kidded them and called them little tin soldiers. They retorted that I was just making excuses because I wouldn’t qualify. Just to show them, and since I had to wait for some of them to ride home, I also took the test, then the interview, and then the physical. Of eight of us from Payson, I was the only one to pass. But I still didn’t intend to join the program. Having passed the test didn’t guarantee acceptance so it was not until January I got my letter that Uncle Sam wanted me. I still didn’t intend to go, but then there was the draft law that had just been passed and I would be 21 in the spring, but I still didn’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On Sunday an Air Corp plane buzzed the farm and a short while later my cousin, Var Johnson, who had joined the year before and had completed the program, came driving up in his new Lieutenant’s uniform. Var was a good friend and a bit older and I respected him very much. He spent several hours convincing me of the advantages joining the Air Force. The pay sounded good to an old farm boy. I would receive $75 per month plus clothes, food, and lodging. The prestige of being an officer upon graduation with the increased pay appealed to me also. But the regimentation and the strict discipline didn’t appeal to a wild country boy. The fact [was] that the draft was coming up soon [too]. Everyone had to register for the draft when he reached 21 years and my 21<sup>st</sup> birthday was coming up in May. So, after much consideration, I decided to go. I had before counseled with my folks and they left it strictly up to me. So that afternoon I signed the papers and mailed them in. It was only a few weeks until the appointment came back directing me to report in Salt Lake City on 15 March 1941 to be sworn in. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While all the excitement of the decision to go into the service was being made, another quarter of school had ended and another year came to an end. The quarter had been good for me and both my grades and finances were in good shape. My call to the Army preceded the end of the semester so I decided to withdraw before the deadline for dropping classes so I wouldn’t be given failure marks and I could recover my tuition fees. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The last day of school became a traumatic day as many of my teachers tried to dissuade me from leaving school. I remembered Professor Snell’s argument that I never would finish my education if I dropped out of school. I assured him I had every intention of finishing school and eventually becoming an engineer. He was a good friend and teacher and I respected what he said and remembered our conversation as a guide for many decisions later in life. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I also had an obligation to find rides for my riders but was able to accomplish this in a week or so. I stopped school for the first time I could remember. My idleness didn’t last long and I started working at the sugar factory loading sugar again. </span></span></div></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5213486891438569204.post-65541100620467137542011-01-11T15:29:00.000-08:002011-01-13T14:34:03.968-08:00Chapter 15<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Starting college was an exciting event for a country boy. Not physically frightening, but emotionally afraid of being embarrassed. We all had to take the English test before registering and English wasn’t exactly my best subject. Even though I graduated with honors, I remember being worried I would have to take dumbbell English. But I didn’t. I signed up for the required English, Religion, and Phys. Ed. along with calculus and chemistry, a stiff 18 hour course. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">My friend, Dickie, and I decided to go out for football. Dickie was about my weight, only shorter and I weighed 140 pounds. This wasn’t bad for a quarterback such as Dickie was, but when I told the freshman coach I played tackle, he almost laughed. But he issued the pants, pads, and jersey and told me to play in gym shoes because he was out of my size. We exercised for three days with the squad without seeing any scrimmage at all. Then the coach suggested that we both better wait until we grew up. That was the end of our college football career. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We had made arrangements to commute to school with my old debating partner, Brig Peterson who was a big sophomore by now. He had bought a new 1938 Ford Standard and five of us paid him 7 dollars a month to ride to school. The driving was probably the most fun of going to school. Brig liked to drive a little fast, so we always drove with one guy sitting backwards as “cop watcher.” Of course, a brisk rivalry developed between the town policemen and the college commuters. Due to our diligent “cop watchers” we never had to pay a single fine. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">All freshmen had to wear little blue beanies around school for the first six weeks and be hazed by all upperclassmen. At the end of the six weeks hazing period, all freshman had to climb up “Y” Mountain and paint the letter. On the way up, I ran into my old nemesis Buss Webb and talked and worked with him until time to return. Then, of course, he and I had to have another race back down to the school. 2 ¾ miles down twisting mountain path to the brook that rang along the edge of the campus. So he could beat me at the mile, but not 2 ¾ miles. After we reached the creek we stopped to rest and wait for the rest of the group. The upper classmen had sent about a dozen fellows along to supervise the painting project. All went well for them until the body of the group reached the creek with us. Some bright upperclassman got the idea of throwing some freshmen into the creek for initiation. Only there were several hundred freshmen and maybe a dozen upperclassmen Guess who went into the creek. We then became a mob and started down the campus throwing every upperclassman into the nearest creek, fountain, or any water available. This was my first witness of mob action. The gang just became uncontrollable. And woe unto the upperclassman in the way. We had finally reached the lower campus before a gutsy little student officer finally talked the bunch of us into breaking it up. That was the last time I wanted anything to do with a mob. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After a few days the track coach looked me up and invited me to come out for the cross-country team, thanks to my friend Buss. I ran for about a week and the carpool gave me an ultimatum—Quit track or walk home. That was the end my college track career. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">About this time, sugar beets had to be harvested and I was obliged to help. Only college didn’t have a beet vacation and at the end of one week, I found myself so far behind, I was forced to drop chemistry. But I picked up the other classes and had all As and Bs at quarter’s end. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">After dropping football and track aspirations, I ended up in a boxing class. This was, in itself, fun learning an art I considered I was pretty good at. But the difference was, how I had to learn control. We boxed for then to twenty minutes each period after warm-ups and back work, etc. If anyone knocked his opponent down, he had to box with the instructor or one of the assistant instructors. One of the assistants was a guy named Howards Stutts who was intermountain AAU champion lightweight.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We learned to control ever punch and block. We also learned to punch and regularly measured our punching power. I could do better than most. With my long frame, arms, and farm boy strength, I could hold my own with about any student. One day I was boxing with a friend from Payson when he missed with a long right lead. I countered with a short left hook to his ribs. He dropped like a poled ox. And didn’t get up. I was never so scared standing above my friend wondering if I’d killed him or something. Finally, he moved and I began breathing again. After that, I was much more serious about controlling punches. I got the usual boxing lesson from Mr. Stutts, but he didn’t hurt me so all came out alright. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">During boxing class, I learned an interesting thing about me. It is difficult to take my pulse, and impossible in the usual manner. At the beginning of boxing class we were required to take a physical to be sure we were all able and hardy. So they bought a team of senior football players who were working their way through school in to do the examinations. A big blonde tackle was taking pulses and when he couldn’t find my pulse, he became really mad. He thought I was pulling a joke on him and about whipped me before the nurse came to my rescue.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At the second quarter I had to find another course to replace chemistry that I had dropped. I decided to take Drama from T. Earl Pardoe. It proved to be a very interesting situation. T. Earl was an interesting teacher and had a tremendous amount of experience in the drama field. He was a consultant to Cecil B. DeMille on many of his movies. Dr. Pardoe was smallish, pugnacious little rascal, but Mrs. Pardoe was tall, beautiful, very regal person and she was as famous as he was. Together they were an interesting couple. They directed all the school plays together and I was asked to be in one. Practices were each evening and I would miss my ride home every night. The fascination became so great, I began considering a drama career. Then one day, I looked in the mirror and decided back to engineering. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Each Wednesday evening they had a “mat” dance about 4:00 p.m. and nearly every student went to the dances. They were great fun and very friendly. You could just pop up and ask any girl to dance with you and she would. Everyone was just another student and no snobs. The whole car pool used to wait for the dances. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Another fun time was lunch time. All school teams would meet at the men’s gym and play basketball until the first P.E. class. Since the boxing class was a 1:00pm class, I started to go early and worked my way into the noon-hour games. Pretty soon I was playing with the varsity as well as the reserve and freshman teams. I could hold my own and by the sophomore year had made enough friends that I decided I would try for the varsity next year. But things took a change and plans changed. </span></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854349498610101396noreply@blogger.com0