Chet Hanson, the station agent, turned to his helper and said, “There goes another one off to war. Gonna be hard on Carol, her with a sick dad as her only family.”
Bill Matson said, “Well, she’s got Clint’s folks. She can lean on them.”
“It ain’t the same thing. When a woman’s man goes off and leaves her, she ain’t gonna find no satisfaction in nobody’s family. A woman needs a man. You’ll find that out if you live long enough.”
Although Clint had some apprehensions about basic training, there was an excitement in him as he found himself among hundreds of other young men from all over the country. He had been sent to Camp Robinson, just outside of North Little Rock, which was no great distance. The camp was under construction, and it took no more than a few days for Clint to settle down in the barracks that contained ten double-decked bunks per room and a clothing locker for each man. The toilets were adequate, with open showers and numerous sinks for washing and shaving. Clint found the lack of privacy the hardest thing to bear, but he soon was too busy to think much about that.
One thing that pleased Clint became evident from the very first. The young men who came in from the farms endured basic much better than the city men. Long hours of hard work in the fields, early risings before dawn, tramping in the woods hunting for endless hours had produced in Clint and his fellows from the rural areas a toughness that stood them well. On the first hike, carrying a full pack, Clint was somewhat shocked to see some of the men falling out after no more than five miles. He himself found it pleasant and caught the eye of Sergeant Jones. “You’re in good shape, Stuart!” Jones said approvingly. He looked around and saw the pale, sweating faces of some of the men and shook his head. “You’re in better shape now than these weaklings will be when they get out of here!”
Jones’s words proved to be true, and Clint actually enjoyed basic training. The food was plentiful, though somewhat strange to his taste, and he missed the good cooking of first his mother and then Carol.
He was careful to send Carol a letter at least twice a week, and in one he said:
Dear Carol,
I was so glad to get your letter and the package of food. It went down well with me and my buddies. You are the greatest cook in the world (but don’t tell Ma I said that!). I’m sorry to say it didn’t last the day, but you can remember that you made some lonesome fellows very happy here for at least a while.
The worst part of basic is over, and it wasn’t bad. Not at all like I thought. Some of the men got weeded out, just not able to take the physical hardship. Harold Barton was sent home yesterday, and he actually cried, but he really wasn’t able to take the hard physical exercise. I’ll miss him, and feel sorry that he won’t be going with the group.
Tomorrow I start taking aptitude tests. Don’t know what that means really, but I guess it will settle my future with the army. The scuttlebutt around here is that if you do well enough, you could go on to officers’ training school, but I doubt if I’ll be doing that. My head’s too hard for that, and I wouldn’t like to be an officer anyhow. Maybe, though, I can work up to sergeant. The pay would be a little better so I could help you more at home.
The letter went on for some time and was filled with small details as Clint searched his brain for something to fill out the pages. Actually his days were very much the same. He did spend a large part of the letter telling her about the church services that he had found very satisfying at Camp Robinson. He ended by saying:
The chaplain here is a great preacher. I wish he’d go on wherever we go from here, but he has to stay and preach to the next bunch of recruits.
I must go now for we’ll have a full day with taking tests. I always did hate tests in school, and these will be very important. I love you very much and will write again day after tomorrow. Keep your letters coming, and keep praying for me.
Your loving husband,
Clint
He signed the letter, slipped it in an envelope, addressed it, then licked the seal, and affixed a stamp. Making his way out of the barracks, he joined several of his buddies who were on their way to take the aptitude tests. One of them, from Mobile, Alabama, said, “Here’s where us city boys get it over you, Clint. You’ve outmarched us, I’ll admit, but now we get down to the book work, and we’ll see who comes out first.”
“Probably right, Mac,” Clint grinned. “Who knows, I may be saluting you pretty soon!”
“Private Stuart?”
“Yes, Sir, Lieutenant!” Clint had entered the officer’s office and saluted smartly. “Private Stuart reporting as requested, Sir!”
Lieutenant James Redd nodded at a chair, “Sit down, Stuart; be at ease.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Lieutenant Redd picked up an envelope lying on his desk, opened it, and stared at it for so long that Clint was afraid the lieutenant had forgotten that he was there. Finally he looked up and studied the private, saying, “You ever been to college, Stuart? Your record doesn’t show anything about it.”
“No, Sir, just high school.”
“Amazing!”
Clint shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He could not, for one moment, imagine what had singled him out for Lieutenant Redd’s personal attention. None of the other men, as far as he knew, had been called in for a personal interview. The results had been posted on the board, most of the men going on to combat infantry units, a few being sent to specialty schools. Clint had been disturbed to find that his name had not been posted. Several of his friends, including the one from Mobile, had teased him saying, “I guess you country boys just didn’t do well enough even to get sent to infantry school. You’ll probably be cleaning out the latrines—permanent latrine orderly, I reckon!”
Clint had laughed along with the men but had been puzzled. The sergeant had said, “Report to Lieutenant Redd, Stuart!” And now as Clint sat studying the officer, he had qualms. “Is something wrong, Lieutenant? Did I do so bad that you can’t even find a place for me?”
Lieutenant Redd, a short, chubby man with a round face and mild blue eyes glanced up over the papers and shook his head. “Nothing like that, Private. As a matter of fact, just the opposite.” The lieutenant’s eyes went back to the papers, and he shook his head in wonder. “You made the highest scores in the mechanical part of the test of any of the new recruits. How come you know so much about engineering?”
“Engineering? I don’t know anything about engineering!” Clint was astonished. He blinked with surprise and shrugged his shoulders. “I read a lot, and I always wanted to go to school to be an engineer. Always liked to fool with things, but that’s it.”
“Whatever you’ve been reading must’ve stuck in your head. Look at these scores. I’m not supposed to show them to you, but I don’t suppose it matters.” He reversed the papers, and Clint ran his eyes down the figures and listened as Redd explained them to him.
“Well, I’m glad I did so well, Lieutenant.”
“You did better than well—you knocked the top off the test!”
“What does that mean, Sir? My name wasn’t posted anywhere.”
“I didn’t know what to do with you.” Lieutenant Redd grinned abruptly. He looked more like a cherubic angel than a soldier, and now there was an odd, humorous look in his face. “I’ve got a proposition for you.” He leaned forward and folded his short, rather fat fingers together. There was a picture of a pinup girl on the wall to one side, and he glanced at it for some reason, stared at the long-legged bathing beauty, then sighed. “This hasn’t come up since I’ve been here, but the Air Corps needs engineers, mechanics, things like that I guess to keep the planes flying. Would you be willing to transfer to that branch?”
“Why, I guess so. I’ve never flown in a plane, but I have a cousin who is a flier—a lieutenant in the Air Corps as a matter of fact.”
“Well, let me put it like this. The safest job in the whole war will be working on airplanes. They keep those bases back far enough and protect them with fighter planes so you wo
n’t be slogging across Germany in the mud or fighting in the jungles against the Japs.”
“I’m not too good to do any of that, Lieutenant.”
“Well, seems to me the best job you could do for Uncle Sam is to keep ’em flying. It’s all settled then? You’re willing?”
“Yes, Sir, I am!”
“All right, I’ll get the papers started, and you’ll be leaving right away. You’ll be shipped to Shepard Field down in Texas. That’s all. Good luck to you!”
“Thank you, Lieutenant, I’ll do the best I can!”
Only three days later, Clint got another surprise. He had arrived at Shepard Field and had undergone further testing. These tests had been more advanced, but he felt that he had done well. Finally, he was aware that men were being assigned, and although he had not had time to make any close friends, he said good-bye to a tall, young man named Paul, from Missouri. “Looks like you’ll be all right, Paul,” Clint said with a worried look, “but they haven’t said anything to me yet.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll find a place. Well, so long!”
For the rest of the day, Clint roamed around the base, watching the planes take off and land out on the airfield. He spent most of the evening writing a long letter to Carol and went to bed, uncertain and unhappy.
Early the next morning, he reported to headquarters again, where a small group of some fifteen men were being processed. A door opened, and a voice called out, “Stuart!”
“Here, Sir!”
“Go down to that door on the left.”
“Yes, Sir.” Clint made his way to the room, and when he stepped inside found himself facing another lieutenant, this one tall and lanky with a shock of black hair. “Private Stuart, Sir!” Clint said.
“I’m Lieutenant Ramsey. I’ve been looking over your papers, and you’ve done very well. I can’t believe you haven’t had more experience and some college.”
“Wish I had, Sir. Some day I’d like to be an engineer.”
“Well, you could be one now, if you want to—of a sort.”
“An engineer, Sir?”
“Yes, I think you might qualify for aerial engineer.”
“Aerial engineer—what’s that, Lieutenant?”
“Basically it’s a flying aircraft mechanic, who’s also an aerial gunner.”
“An aerial gunner? You mean I’ll be flying on combat missions?”
“Yes, but you have to qualify for that. Are you interested?”
“Yes, Sir, it sounds great to me.”
“All right, we’ll check you out, and if you qualify as a gunner, it looks like your career in the Air Corps is all settled.” Ramsey hesitated, “There’s some danger in it, you know. It’s not quite like working on an airplane back on a base. You sure about this?”
“Yes, Sir, I am!”
“Good man!” Ramsey shuffled through his papers, rose, and said, “Come along, we’ll get you started.”
For the rest of the day, Clint went through the tests, which included dry runs in a large room with a .50-caliber machine gun that was wired electronically to score hits. Then he was taken out to actually fire one.
“Well,” his sergeant said, after Clint had fired the exact gun, “you must be a hunter.”
“Yes, Sir, I am.”
“I figured that. You can track pretty good with those fifties.”
“You mean I passed?”
“Yep, you passed. Go ahead and take these papers back to the lieutenant.”
Two days later, Clint had his papers stamped by Lieutenant Ramsey. “All right, you’re qualified for flight engineer, gunner. Good luck, Stuart!”
“Thank you, Lieutenant!”
“You’ll be leaving for England right away. You got any letter writing, I suggest you do it quick.”
“You mean I won’t get any leave?”
“No, sorry about that. They need crews right away. Things are getting pretty hot. Get that letter writing done.”
Clint hopped around with all the energy he had for the next two days. The hardest thing, of course, was writing to Carol and saying that he would not be able to come home on leave. He tried the best he could to explain his position:
I think, in a way, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, not getting to come home to see you, Sweetheart, but I’ve got to do it. This is what I do best, or so the tests show. I will miss a leave that I would have gotten otherwise, but I know you’ll understand. I have no idea when I will get a leave, but I love you and nothing will change that.
Clint looked down at the paper and realized how futile the words would be as Carol read them. He was, in effect, pulling out what little support he had to offer, but he felt that this was something he had to do. He sealed the letter, then got up and went to mail it.
The next day he boarded a transport plane and was on his way to England.
General Ira Eaker had arrived in England on February 20, 1942. He had been ordered by Hap Arnold to prepare the way for the arrival of the Eighth Air Force in Britain. He had been given a very difficult task, for the assault against Germany was to be carried on by day for greater bombing accuracy, despite the fact that the German Luftwaffe’s fierce antiaircraft fire and cannon-firing bombers had already forced Britain’s Royal Air Force to give up daylight missions and bomb only by night. And Eaker was to accomplish this task fast, within a year if possible.
But when General Eaker reached England, he had no planes, no crews, no airfields, no repair shops, nothing. America was woefully short of everything that an air force needed. Eaker, however, went quietly to work. He was a courtly, soft-spoken officer with a law degree and a model of diplomacy. His first job was to construct enough airfields to accommodate a projected force of thirty-five hundred bombers and fighters, and Eaker estimated there would be no fewer than 127. Putting that many runways, control towers, barracks, and mess halls into a nation smaller than Alabama—and already crowded with airfields and buzzing with air traffic—presented problems enough in itself.
Construction of the initial fields took time, and it was during this early period that Clint Stuart arrived at Ridgewell Airdrome in England. Shortly after dusk, a vehicle pulled into the base, and Stuart and a few others piled out of the truck that had brought them from another landing field. Looking around, Clint’s first impression was of prefabricated metal buildings thrown hastily on top of English mud. A major appeared, examined Clint’s papers, and said briefly, “You are now assigned to the 381st Bombardment Group at Ridgewell Air Base.”
“That’s a relief!” a man standing next to Stuart said.
“Why is it a relief?” Clint asked.
“Because this isn’t one of the high-loss groups we’ve been hearing about.”
The major said, “I’m sending you to the 533d Squadron, under the command of Major Hendricks. They’re low on crews. A driver will take you to the squadron headquarters. Good luck on your new assignment!”
“Major,” the man standing next to Stuart asked, “what kind of losses have we been having?”
The major hesitated, then indicated a large chart on the wall crowded with names. “See that chart? That’s a combat roster. We’ve been here sixty days, and so far we’ve lost a hundred and one percent of our combat personnel.”
“Why, that’s impossible!”
The major said briefly, “You’d know it anyway in two or three days. Our strength is down, and we’re happy to have you with us.”
Clint glanced at the other men, noting that the color had drained from their faces. He himself felt somewhat shaky. “A hundred and one percent! What chance does that leave a man?” He struggled with the figures and finally was led to station headquarters where he was greeted by the operations officer. “I’m Lieutenant Swifton—welcome to the 533d Squadron!”
From that moment on, things went faster than Clint would have imagined. He was taken to a field, practically shoved out of a truck, with no instructions except, “Find your crew, then find Lieutenant Stratton; he’ll be you
r pilot. He’ll fill you in.”
Clint made his way through a milling bunch of enlisted men and officers and finally asked a corporal, “Can you tell me where I’ll find Lieutenant Stratton?”
“Yeah, go down this line of planes; find one that says “Last Chance” on the nose. That’ll be him.”
“Thanks!”
Clint hurried down the line of B-17s until he came to the one with Last Chance painted in black letters on the nose. He was somewhat shocked to see that the name was framed within the outline of a coffin. Cautiously he approached two officers who were arguing loudly about something and waited until one of them turned. “Yes, what is it?”
“Clinton Stuart reporting for duty, Sir! I’m looking for Lieutenant Stratton.”
The two men turned to examine him. The shorter of the two said, “I’m Lieutenant Stratton; are you the replacement engineer?”
“Yes, Sir!”
“You took long enough to get here!” Stratton was a short, stubby man with blonde hair and the red eyes of a drinker. “This is Lieutenant Simmons, copilot.”
“Glad to have you here, Stuart!” Simmons said. He was a tall, lanky man with red hair and harried-looking blue eyes. “Get your gear on board; we’re ready to take off!”
Clint blinked with astonishment, “But, Sir, I haven’t been trained—”
“Get on the airplane, Stuart!” Lieutenant Stratton snapped. “You can learn as you go!”
“Yes, Sir!”
Clint scurried to where he saw a sergeant standing under the plane and said, “My name’s Stuart; I’m the new engineer.”
The sergeant pulled something out of his pocket. Looking closely, Clint saw that it was a Moon Pie. The sergeant took a bite out of it and studied the new recruit. “My name’s Jim Wilson—everybody calls me Moon—on account of I like Moon Pies. I come from Florida, Pensacola. Where you from, Stuart?”
Winds of Change Page 11
