I Want to Fly!
One day they posted a new notice on the bulletin board. They were accepting tests for aviation cadet. The qualifications were high school graduate or college. And with a warm body. I figured who the hell knows whether I went to high school or not. So I went in and said, “I want to sign up and take the test to get the hell out of there. I want to fly.” So they gave me the paperwork. I filled it out, and a week later they held the test.
There must have been 20 of us from the base who took the test. It was the only way off the base; otherwise you were stuck there for life. Five of us passed the test. Three had been to college, myself and this other rebel hadn’t actually even gone to high school.
The next step was the physical. The paperwork took a few days. All the guys I worked with were rooting for me – you’re going to get off the base. I was like, “No problem, I am going to fly.”
Well, I went for the physical. I knew the flight surgeon and he knew me as the crew chief. He said, “So you want to be a cadet. Good.” He went through this routine of testing. The only thing that would not pass was my heart. He said there was a bit of a murmur. So he said, “tell you what, I won’t put these papers through. Come back tomorrow, I think you’re a bit nervous.” I said, “I am. I want out of here.” So I went back, and he told me to come back tomorrow. I did, and then again.
I went back four times. Four days in a row. Same thing, everything else is fine. He said he’d give me one more shot. “Either you pass it tomorrow or you don’t go.”
That night back at the barracks, the boys got me some moonshine and such, and we had a little party. When I got up in the morning, I didn’t feel so great. But at least I was relieved of duty because I was now an Air Corps cadet candidate.
I went to see the flight surgeon, and he had me run up and down the steps and all that stuff again. And he listened to my heart again. He said to me, “Tell you what I’m going to do, because I like you and I hear you been pretty decent. I’m going to pass you through.” He said, “Let them catch you further down the line, at least you’ll be out of here.” I shipped out to Columbia Airbase the next day.
Aviation Cadet Training
At Columbia Airbase I met up with a bunch of other people. There were about ten of us in the barracks, all aviation cadet replacements waiting to be assigned. The only duty we had while we were there was to go to class in the morning for two hours of algebra and math. Then you had to go swimming for two hours. The rest of the time was yours to do what you want.
There were a lot of guys there, and we got pretty close. One of the guys, Dick Mackey, had been on 25 missions in North Africa. He was there because he wanted to become a pilot. There was another guy who was a radio operator, his name was Gerald Pine, GI Pine. The three of us got close. We did a lot of terrible things. I’ll tell you about one instance.
It was hot, so Dick Mackey and I decided to go to town. We showered and put on our class As. The rest of the guys figured it was too hot, and they were laying on the bunks. We were just getting ready to leave. As we passed by the barracks we looked through the little window from the front office and saw they were all laying in their bunks, most of them stark naked. So I asked Dick, “What do you think’ll happen if I holler Attention?” He thought it’d be a good idea, so I made some noise so they’d know someone was there. Then Dick slammed the door and I hollered “Attention!” They all jumped down stark naked and stood in front of their bunks at attention, waiting for someone to walk in.
In the meantime, Dick and I cracked up. I tell you there were a dozen naked guys chasing two guys in class A uniforms down the street. We were laughing so hard we could hardly run. They caught us and into the showers we went, clothes and all. We never did make it to town that day.
Another problem we had was money. Nobody there came from a rich family, so our big problem was who’s got any money so we can go to town and have a few beers.
We would walk around the base. There were all these B-25s, like the ones that bombed Tokyo. Myself, and another aircraft mechanic, we were listening to the airplanes thinking they’re killing those engines, so we go out to the flight line but they wouldn’t let us too close. We’d see them sitting there winding up the engines and then letting go with the brakes. Of course we didn’t think aircraft carriers, but they had their runway marked with great big yellow bands across it. That’s where you start and stop, and if you go past that point you’re in the drink. That’s all they were doing at the time. We didn’t know that so it looked ridiculous to us.
Anyway, there was a permanent ground crew there, and we’d ask them for money – asking them if they had a dime or a nickel. Basically we’d walk around begging and we’d wind up with some money, and we’d go to town. While we were in town, we’d walk in and have a beer or something, and we’d ask the waitresses and barmen, “You got any pennies?” And they’d give us pennies. We came back and told the guys. They thought this was a good idea, we could make some money this way. So we started. I was the custodian of the money. If people didn’t have any pennies and they had a nickel, we’d say well then give me a nickel. It was for a good cause and they would make a contribution.
Eventually a bunch of us got shipped out and ended up at Michigan State College for a pre-flight engineering course, which lasted five months. It was equivalent to two years in college. This was one of the original West Point of the Air Colleges, which we didn’t know anything about.
All the previous classes had been ROTC and they were all kids. Quite a few of the guys in my squadron were not kids. We were 22 years old, they were all 18 year olds. And we all had stripes. The first thing these kids did was stand at attention. We looked at them wondering what was on their collars – nothing that we knew about. They had diamonds on their epaulets. The night we got there, someone boomed out, “Rip those stripes off mister.” You go to hell was the general reply.
We were quartered and then we were called in for orientation. This Air Force captain, who I guess was being punished by being stationed there, was the only military person there. He explained it was a West Point of the Air College, that everything was on the honor system, if you screwed up you got gigged.
So you know the next day, GI Pine, Dick Mackey and I got gigged – but good. A gig was like a demerit. For each demerit, you had to walk around the tennis courts for an hour on your free time, but with no gun and no pack. You were a cadet.
Every Saturday morning we had parade and review. After passing review, if you didn’t have to walk around the tennis courts, you could go to town. You had to be back by 9 pm. On Sunday, you were off again and could do the same thing. So we walked around the tennis courts for as long as we had to and we went to town.
The campus was beautiful. It was gorgeous. Every day we marched as a class. We got up at 5 in the morning and had roll call outside in the cold, went to breakfast, and then marched in formation to class.
The college at the time was all girls. We were not allowed to speak to any of the coeds. In the corridors, we marched from one class to the next at attention. All the student officers, as we called them, were very strict. If you got caught even winking at a girl, you got a demerit and another hour of marching around the tennis courts.
While we were at Michigan State we would go into town and have a good time. The townspeople loved us. On one occasion we took off on a Sunday morning and we heard about a good place to have lunch. So we hitchhiked and got there, quite a ways from town. It had a bandstand, but they were open for Sunday lunch. Big restaurant. The five of us walked in at around 11. The place was just opening.
One of the fellows, Hank, from some place in Arkansas, looked at the bandstand and spotted the guitar. He walked over, picked it up and began strumming away while perched on the edge of the bandstand. So we went and sat down at a table by the bandstand. We were the only ones in the place. We all ordered beer and lunch. We told Hank to play a song. He could sing, he was good. In the meantime, the local people started coming.
The next thing we know all kinds of bottles of beer are coming to the table. Each civilian that walked in had to buy us a bottle of beer. We had more bottles of beer on the table than we had anything else. Time went by and we had a very good time, until we realized we better start heading back. In the meantime, a couple of the boys had made a couple of friends and left with them.
There was a 9 o’clock curfew, and if you didn’t get back and sign yourself in by 9 o’clock you were in trouble. Myself and one other fellow thought we better get back. We got split up somewhere along the way and I wound up in Lansing. It was late and there were no buses. So I walked across the street to a local pub and called a taxi. They said they’d get one there as soon as they could.
I’m waiting and waiting, and there’s a young lady across the street with a suitcase waiting at the bus step. Being a normal American male, I went across the street to inform her that there are no more buses. I kept looking at my watch, it was getting late.
I was still talking to little Miss Audrey, who also needed to get to the campus, when the taxi finally showed up. I asked the cabbie if he could hustle because I thought I was going to be late. He said he’d go as fast as he could, but there was no way I’d be there by 9 o’clock. When we got close to the campus, he asked where to go. I told him it didn’t matter anymore that he should take Audrey to her dorm. We exchanged phone numbers and whatever, and I got back in the cab. I told him to take me to my barracks.
Customarily, we had guards around the dorm. You weren’t allowed out after 9 pm. It was already 9:20, that late and you were sure to get bounced. So the cabbie asked, “Which end of the dorm do you want me to drop you off at?” – because it was customary to try and sneak in. I told him it didn’t matter anymore that he should just drive up to the entrance. So he did.
I paid him, and he wished me luck. I marched up the front walk. The guard standing there went through the motions: “Halt, who goes there,” “Advance and be recognized,” and so on. I walked in to the Charge of Orders. I signed the book, and the guy sitting there said good night. I went to my room and I looked at the guys, who all figured I’d had it, and I asked who arranged for me to get in. None of them had, and nobody could explain why I was not immediately nailed. Never could figure that one out.
We learned to fly at Michigan State. I had my check flight on New Year’s Day, 1944, after New Year’s eve in Detroit. It was cold and the civilian instructor had us all go up. The whole squadron. He called for us to do “stalls and spins” and I did a couple of them, and then he said, “I want to see a three-turn spin.”
I’ll never forget it because I climbed up, got altitude and went into a spin, and then I pulled it out. The instructor asked me what the hell was the matter. I said, “If you want me to try that again I’m going to puke all over you.” So he told me to take it down.
When we get down on the ground he said, “I’m going to write you up.”
I said, “Hey, what the hell did you do last night. We were out celebrating. This is unreal that you call for a check flight on New Year’s Day.” Anyway, nothing happened. A little reprimand, but nothing serious.
Cadets Don’t Get Emergency Furloughs
When we finished up at Michigan State, we were shipped out to San Antonio, Texas, to Randolph Field. At Randolph Field, the only thing we had to do was wait. All we did for three weeks was run around the base every single morning. The PT officer was a football player, a rebel football player, he drove a convertible, and nobody liked him. Whether it was raining or not, you got up and ran around the base. That’s all you did and the rest of the day you didn’t do nothing. You couldn’t go to town. You couldn’t do nothing.
While we were there, I received a telegram from home informing me that my brother Phil had been killed in the South Pacific. At first I was a little upset. So I went to the CO and requested an emergency furlough, and he said you can’t have one – you are a cadet. Cadets don’t get emergency furloughs. From there I went to the chaplain, to the Red Cross, and they all said the same thing. No furlough.
There were only two of us in these two whole squadrons who didn’t really want to be officers – all we wanted to do was fly. That was me and my buddy GI Pine. The next morning – that was a tough night – when it was time to fall out for PT I said, “I ain’t falling out for PT.”
GI Pine stayed with me because he didn’t want to see me go over the fence. He asked me what I was going to do. I told him I was going to put on my class As and head down to the other end of the field where there’s normal people. No cadets. And I’m going to go to the PX. So he said he was coming with me and that we should go have some of that lousy beer. We got dressed and we were walking across the field, when the PT officer came driving by and we got into big trouble.
We had to report to the base commanding officer – Major Snow, he was from Boston. Major Snow was an upstanding gentleman, because he first listened to the PT officer and then he called us in one at a time. He called me in first. He had all my records there. He asked, “What’s the problem” and I explained. “We have been told we are going to be here for six weeks before our next class. There’s nothing to do until then. All I asked for was an emergency weekend. I haven’t been home to see my parents since the day I left. It’s been almost two years. My brother was killed in action. I would like to go home and comfort them.” He said, “You’re a cadet. It’s not permitted.”
“Look,” he said, “According to your records you are qualified for all three – pilot, navigator or bombardier. There’s a navigator class opening in three weeks. Are you willing to take the punishment and go to navigator school?”
I said, “No, I don’t want to go to navigator school. If I take a voluntary ‘wash’, will I go to gunnery school?” He said I could go to gunnery school, which would last about six weeks. Then I could go on furlough for two weeks. I said, “Good, I resign. But don’t hold anything against Gerry Pine, he was staying with me so I wouldn’t go over the fence.” He said he understood. When I left Major Snow called in GI Pine. GI Pine told him he didn’t want to be an officer, he only wanted to fly, and that he wanted out. So he left too.
I was shipped to gunnery school in Laredo Texas. When I got there I was very bitter. Oh, so bitter. I got into all kinds of problems with the pilots that were flying the ships for training. Called them names, but they were all screw-ups too – that’s why they were on that job.
Still it was interesting down there. I was no angel. No way was I an angel. One morning I woke up on the grass in front of the barracks without knowing how I got there. But I was only there for six weeks and then I went home for two weeks.
Next, I was assigned to a flight crew in Sioux City, Iowa. When I got there I was put together with a crew. I told no one that I could fly or had training. I didn’t tell them anything.
The first thing I did, because all the boys on the crew were 18 years old, and they hadn’t been anywhere yet and didn’t know anything yet, is I got us all class A passes so we could go to town. We went to town, we invaded the Bomber Room, the Dugout, the Bomb Shelter, and a few other places.
One day, me and my tail gunner went to a carnival. We weren’t drinking. We were cold-stone sober and we were behaving ourselves. We were just having a quiet day at the carnival. As we were leaving, there were three girls coming down the walk. For one reason or another, one of them said something about “oh, just a couple of soldiers.” I screamed at them, “Just a cotton pickin’ minute, we’re not just a couple of soldiers.” I said, “You’ve got no right, you may have met a few bad ones, but we are not bad ones.”
To make a long story short, we took two of them home. I became very fond of one of them – the boys called her the blond bomber. I would go to town all by myself, stop at the florist, buy her a rose, and go to her house. She lived with her aunt, uncle, and little niece. Her niece was three years old and cute as a button. Every time her niece saw a bomber up in the sky she would holler “That’s Ricki, that’s Ricki.
” They were nice people.
Shipping Out
We got our orders to ship out after extensive training. I had never told anyone I could fly, or that I had ever been near a plane – nothing. I was the flight engineer and I did what I had to do. It was none of their business.
But one day in Sioux City, after we’d been through training, we were told that the Colonel was going to do a check flight on a crew. That meant that when he came out, we were all supposed to be standing at attention, all that military baloney, which we did. We finally loaded up the airplane, I’d already pre-flighted it.
The Colonel got into the pilot seat, and the pilot was about to get in the co-pilot seat, when the Colonel said, “No.” He pointed to me, I was always up on the flight deck, and said, “You, get in the co-pilot seat.” I got in there and he asked, “Are we ready?” I said, “I’m ready if you are.” He said, “So let’s go down the checklist,” which was standard procedure, which we did.
I informed him that I had already pre-flighted the airplane. He said, “Ok, let’s start’em up” so we went through the procedure, started all four engines, and checked them out. And I figured, I’m all done. He’s going to tell me to get up and let the pilot in so they can taxi.
In the meantime the Colonel called the tower and asked for permission to taxi, and the tower answered it was okay to taxi (and the runway details). The Colonel looked at me and said, “Ok, taxi.” So I taxied that B-17 all the way to the end of the runway. In the meantime, the pilot, Dick, is standing right behind us, and he’s sweating it out. We get to the end of the runway, and the standard procedure is to run the engines out, so I ran them out.
Ever the Patriot: Recollections of Vincent J. Riccio, World War II Veteran and POW Page 2
