A World Ago

by Dorien Grey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Till next time, I am

  Always

  Roge

  P.S. By the way, we’re going to Calif. On the 26th of May.

  Sunday, 3 April, 1955

  Dear Folks

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

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

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

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

  Well, I’d best close now and get dressed. Till next time, I am

  Always

  Roge

  April 12, 1955

  A HANDY GUIDE TO NOWHERE

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

  I hope you enjoy them.

  Yours

  Roge

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

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

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

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

  Now comes the half taken at home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  16 April, 1955

  Dear Folks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Till I hear from you, I am

  Always

  Roge

  18 April, 1955

  Dear Folks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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