by Dorien Grey
At the rate I’ve been saving money, I should be able to afford a second-hand tricycle about the time I get my commission.
Code is driving me slowly nuts! I just can’t seem to get it. Oh, well.
Well, at least this is something, even though not much—I’d better sign off for now. I’ll try to keep up a little better than I have been.
Until I hear from you, I am,
As Always.
Roge
Saturday, 26 February, 1955
Dear Folks
Well, here I am at long last—my “$70.000 hat” in my hand, pawing sheepishly at the ground with one foot, and trying to look as apologetic and humble as possible
I am one of America’s children. She’s a loving parent, but very strict and demanding. Like the mothers of ancient Sparta, she sends her children off to war and expects them to return with their shields or on them. Around her spacious house she assigns her sons and daughters various chores, and she is meticulous about them, even though there are cobwebs in the corners and several skeletons in the closets. My duty is to learn to fly. So I do my best. But, like learning to count or to read, learning to fly can put the student in a form of lethargy wherein he doesn’t much care if school keeps or not.
So there rests my case—when I’m not flying (which is most of the time) or studying for a flight (which is not as often as I should), I must be doing something—but I’m not sure what.
Also, when I’m down here, I don’t have a home or a family or a pair of dogs—I have a battalion and a bunk and a paycheck every two weeks. A sort of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde type of existence. You’d be surprised how odd it seemed to be home at Xmas—at least right after I’d gotten off the plane. It’s like changing channels on TV to a program you used to always watch but hadn’t seen for a long time; it’s familiar yet strange.
The moral to that little story, my friends, is that I should see you more often (hint!). Oh, well….
Now, about the band—the first inkling we got that all was not as it should be was Monday morning at formation in the hanger. Mr. Barnes made several thinly-veiled allusions to the outcome of a meeting that afternoon at 1520 with somebody at Pre-Flight. At 1615 we all arrived from Corry, walked in the band room, and were greeted by a new director and Cdr. Logan, who was smiling and being overly-friendly as usual. Cdr. Logan had been appointed Liaison Officer for the band about three months ago. We’d seen very little of him, but when we did he usually went out of his way to be nice (“Any time any of you boys have any problems about anything, you just come on over and see me—my door is always open”).
Ensign Barnes, it seemed, had too much to do, and they thought it only fair to take the load off his shoulders. (Actually, in Miami two of the band members had been talking with Mr. Logan at the officer’s club; Logan was half-potted and was boasting about how much he had done for the band and how it was his band and he didn’t want “any damned Ensign” to try and run things.) He ushered us all into the band room, introduced Lt. Stokes as our new director, said “Well, you can take it from here, Bob,” and with a wave of his cap and a big buddy-buddy smile, beat a hasty retreat. Mr. Stokes thereby informed us that it was a Pre-Flight band and only a Pre-Flight band; that we at Corry weren’t worth the powder to blow us to hell, but that we could, if we really wanted to, come over and play any time until they got the band built up at Pre-Flight, and then we could go jump. I don’t think he (poor guy—he didn’t know what was going on—he was just singing the song written and composed by Cdr. Logan) or Mr. Logan expected our reactions. We nearly had a riot on our hands and told him Pre-Flight could take their precious band and shove it. The Pre-Flight cadets in the band were ready to walk out because the word had been that no-one else from the band would go to Corry—they only had the honor of being in the band with no privileges attached.
Somewhat taken aback, Mr. Stokes promised to try and get someone down to talk to us Wed. And with that, we all stormed out of the building.
Came Wed. afternoon, and every member of the band arrived on time for a change. And everyone carried their gloves and leggings, ready to turn them in. I was all set to pack up my clarinet and send it home.
So who should be there to greet us? Cdr. Logan popped in for a moment, mumbled something to Lt. Stokes, to which he replied “If they say the right thing, we’ll have a band—if they don’t…,” and ran out. When we entered the band room, the brass and gold braid made us almost blink. Stokes, it appeared, had called out the militia in the form of Captain Strean (in person) and a full Commander whose name I can’t recall.
The tune they played was entirely different from Monday’s battle. All was forgiven, and Corry welcomed back into the fold with open arms. We were, as appeasement, offered two trips to California—one to Hollywood on March 25. Still, a lot of the guys dropped out. I’m staying in only for what I can get out of it. I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could throw an SNJ.
Friday I took off well for the first time—the hop was going very well until my right earphone went out on me and, since I couldn’t hear a word my instructor said, we had to run back to Corry.
I’m sure you’d enjoy some of the maneuvers we do in that thing—especially the spins, where the plane heads straight down and turns around like a top. You’ve got to recover from it before you’ve done an absolute maximum of five turns or bail out. It’s the oddest sensation when pulling out of a dive—all the forces in your body tend to keep pulling you down, and when the plane starts coming up, you feel compressed—everything gets grey in some of the worst ones. But it’s fun (I guess).
Well, I am going to close now—I’ll try to write oftener, I promise. Till then, I am
Always
Roge
P.S. I’ve got to get a car. Pensacola has the worst bus service in the entire South, which is noted for its slow traffic. I’ve got $120 saved, but I’ll have to get insurance and plates, etc. Oh, well….
Monday, 28 February 1955
Dear Folks
Somewhere in a very remote section of the mountains is a secret, and yet very well fortified, cave. Inside this cavern are miles and miles of gleaming machines, boiling vats and steaming test tubes. In the middle of all this is a four-foot high stool. And on this stool sits a little green mad scientist. And all he does all day long is invent menus for the Navy mess halls. I never have been overly fond of rice, and have developed even a greater dislike for it while in the Navy. Whenever they serve rice, I look at the meat suspiciously—I have a nasty feeling they’re trying to hide something.
Now don’t get me wrong—I’m crazy about this military life. I’ve always wondered how an ant colony functioned. And the horrible part about it is that the NavCads have it head and shoulders above the other services. I don’t think I could stand it now to go white-hat (regular navy swabbies).
Actually, when you come right down to it, I guess it isn’t so very bad—but I cannot stand to have people tell me what to do and how and when to do it. Captain Zagrodsky from Pre-Flight had the right idea when he would say “Tonite is the Smoker (boxing competition between Battalions, held once a month). You will go to the smoker. And you will enjoy yourselves.” So we all went (we were locked out of the Batt.), but a few of us cheated and didn’t enjoy ourselves—I felt very guilty.
We’ll soon be moving again—some people play chess; our Captains play “let’s move the cadets.” This time we get to lug all our gear from one building to another.
Sunday I decided I’d wander around the base—so armed with my trusty camera, I headed out into the boondocks. Naturally, being a military base, Corry has been completely surrounded by a ten foot high wire fence, with a barbed-wire top. Its purpose is, to the first impression, to keep people out. But it also serves marvelously to keep people in.
The wilds of Florida, as seen through the fence, are very wild and amazingly uninviting. It’s one of those “pretty-to-look-at-if-you’re-not-too-close” situations. I imagine that tall, straw-colored grass hides a wondro
us multitude of unattractive beasties, and hundreds of colorful but dangerous members of the reptile family.
During my wanderings, in a far off corner of the field, I came upon a sign saying “Restricted Area—Do Not Enter.” So, naturally, I entered. I could soon see why they had no desire for eager young NavCads to come browsing about. Like the African explorer (as I somewhat fancied myself) who comes upon the burial ground of the elephants, I stumbled onto the burial ground of the airplanes which have met an untimely end. With only a bleached and twisted tail assembly to act as a tombstone, three planes (their remains) lay about the field.
One, the most complete of the wrecks, sits upon a concrete platform, reminding me of a mounted fish over a mantlepiece. I took some shots of it--and if the Navy ever found out about it, they would take a few shots of/at me.
Landed twelve times today—once good. I’m getting so that I can even take off without weaving all over the runway. But I still do little things like switching gas tanks from a full one to a near empty one, or taxiing into the wrong chocks. He (my instructor) said today that my flying was improving but my headwork was getting worse.
Oh, well.
Saw pictures of Franson’s accident and read the report on it. He got fifty feet into the air, stalled, spun to the right—hit on his right wingtip, still turning plowed a hole one foot deep and eight feet long with his prop, bounced seventy-two feet, landed upside down (“in an inverted position”) at a 45 degree angle, flipped over forty-two feet, landed on its belly, and skidded backward twenty feet! Well, as usual, I shall end on a happy note.
Till next time, I am
Always,
Roge
9 March 1955
Dear Folks
At the moment, I am seated on a marble doorstoop inside the base barber shop waiting, along with fifteen other guys, for a haircut. Tomorrow is the Admiral’s annual inspection, and of course we all must look out best. So here I sit, waiting for a haircut I don’t need.
Now, about the car—I don’t know how long it will be till I get to Saufley, but the week before I go, I’m definitely buying a car! As I’ve tried to impress upon you, Saufley is 25 miles from anywhere, and I most certainly have no intention of walking back and forth every time I go somewhere. Also, how do you think I’m supposed to move out to Saufley? The Navy doesn’t care how you get there—they aren’t going to take you. So please talk to Clarence about having my insurance taken care of and the policy sent down here so I can show it to them. Besides, poppa, I’m not planning on buying a Cadillac—just something that will get me where I want to go. Pensacola, without a doubt, has the lousiest bus service of any city in the South, which is noted for its casual transportation system. They have one bus serving a ten-mile stretch, and it goes and comes whenever it pleases. No matter what time you try to catch it, you’ve just missed it.
Weather down here has been clear, fluctuating from winter cold to summer heat. No clouds to speak of, but lots of smoke from burning forests and swamps. This morning at one of the outlying fields we were shooting landings, and could hardly see the runways.
Finally saw the film I’ve had down here. I won’t send it home till I can get it spliced—even if you saw it you couldn’t know what everything was without a running commentary from me. They turned out pretty good, considering. I do jerk too much, though. One half-roll I had a kid take for me of the Friday parade at Mainside and the band. They came out very well except that he held the camera sideways so you’ll have to lay the projector on its side to see them. Most of the footage I took of the wrecked plane was ruined by sunlight. The ones of me in the plane came out very well, but for about five feet there, you can only see half the picture—the other half is the guy who took its’ finger.
While watching the first roll I took down here, all of a sudden the picture became very dark, but you could make out a woman in a white dress bending over doing something—I thought “My God, they’ve switched film on me during developing.” Then there was a large woman in a blue and white apron and three small kids. I recognized the apron right away—it was Aunt Thyra—then there was a shot (all dark, of course) of Cork carrying Mom. Then came one of you (both) and me. Real nostalgic—it was nice to see you again, though.
If all goes well (which it probably won’t) I can solo Friday. That will be a day for great celebration and joy. Of course, I’ll probably get a “down” on it, but if I do I won’t worry too much—I’d rather take a couple extra hops rather than solo and get myself killed.
Well, enough for now. I’ll write again soon.
Till then, I am
Always Roge
21 March 1955
Dear Folks
I was planning on waiting till I soloed to write you. Well, at that rate, you’d never hear from me. Since I’ve been here, I’ve averaged one hop a week. I’ll still be here next Xmas.
Absolutely nothing has happened of importance—except that I’ve just been skipping from one frustration to another. Believe me, which I get out of this Navy, I am going to be one of the most bitter and pessimistic people you can ever imagine. And no condolences, please—I’m not mad or disheartened or anything—just so bitter at life in general that I can’t see straight. Of course, I’m making it sound much worse than it really is, but if you knew how it is to run madly down to the hanger every morning and have to sit around all day wondering if today might be the day. And it’s triply maddening for me, since I can’t stand to wait for anything. With all my heart and soul, I hate the Navy!!!! That, incidentally, is not an emotional outburst—merely a calm statement of fact.
Well, onward—
Friday we’re going to Miami again. Hope we’ll have all day Saturday liberty—maybe even Friday night. We’ll be coming back Sunday at 4:00. Of course I can’t afford it, but last time I was there I only spent eight dollars, and this time I plan to break that record.
Found out anything about the Corvette, poppa? Listen, if that deal doesn’t go through, don’t try to get me a car up there—I’ve really got to have one as soon as possible. By the time I get to Saufley, everyone I know will be well on their way to Corpus Christi. So I will have no way to get out to Saufley. If you can’t get the Corvette, all I want is a ‘46, ‘47, or ‘48 Ford or Mercury. And if I had to wait till you came down, I’d never get out there—besides, I hate to be stranded out there for weeks with no way of getting into town.
Weather down here is hot and lousy. Every morning the sun comes up in a beautifully clear sky—by the time we get to the hanger, there are a few wisps of cloud on the western sky. Fifteen minutes later and the clouds are everywhere.
Never rains here—well, almost never; when it does (at night) it is like someone had pulled a plug somewhere. Clouds, always clouds, but never rain. I miss it.
To keep from slowly going bats, I’ve been reading a little. Right now I’m on “A Short History of American Diplomacy,” “Greek Made Easy,” and “Windows for the Crown Prince,” which was on the best seller list last year.
Well, I’d better close now—I have so much to do! Oh, yes, I’ve also been writing a little.
Till next time, I am
Your Disillusioned Son
Roge
Every NavCad had his photo taken in full flight gear for distribution to family and media back home as part of the Navy’s recruitment effort.
23-29 March, 1955
Dear Folks
As of today I am the proud possessor of a small gold bar about 1 ½” long, with a small silver oval in the center adorned with an anchor and twisted rope. This is my reward for seven months and ten days service; I believe I’ll wear it to bed with me.
This morning began just as the preceding five days had—I woke up at 5:45, dressed, washed, and ate breakfast. At 6:30 we mustered and marched to the hanger where, at 6:45, another muster was held. Upon checking the board, I found I had been assigned an instructor—Lt. Ashbridge. As he is a new (to Corry Field) instructor, the usual flourishing grapevine, which supplies all d
ata on moods, temperaments, and generosity of all instructors, could not help me. At 7:15 I had the L-11 lecture for the third time. This lecture is given every day you are assigned an A-20 (first solo) hop, and you keep taking it until you finally get the hop. Subject matter is a summary of all the other lectures you’ve attended; what to do when, if and how.
(FIVE DAYS LATER) The lecture was over about 0815. I raced out to the board and met my instructor—a short man with greying hair. I told him I hadn’t flown for five days; he said he didn’t expect too much and that he’d take the five days into consideration. He said “Climb on up to 8,000 ft. and do a spin, then we’ll do some high work and go on over to 8-A and let you take it.”
Our plane was CA100—a plane borrowed from BTU-4. It was parked as far away as it is possible to be. I pre-flighted it (checked to see everything was OK), got in, started it, and went to report over the mike to my instructor—but when I reached for it, it wasn’t there. Since we were parked way out in the middle of nowhere, and had to take a bus to get to the plane, someone would have to run all the way back and get one. We sent a plane captain (enlisted man who helps strap you in and stands by with a fire bottle while the plane is starting), but he took too long, so the instructor said to taxi the plane to the hanger and get one.
Lt. Ashbridge is new here at Corry—he’d just come over rom Whiting; so he wasn’t certain of our taxi patterns. As a result, he had me taxi against traffic to get to the hanger. Fortunately, no other planes were coming toward us, because those taxi-ways are not wide enough to let two planes by comfortably.
