The 50th K-9, Hahn Air Base, West Germany: AAF Cadet School

SILVER WINGS

AND GOLD BARS... A Story by Captain Ed Hubbell, Ret.P-47 Pilot, 313th Fighter Squadron 50th Fighter Group

The following story is taken from Ed Hubbell's forth coming book on his wartime experiences in the 313th Fighter Squadron during WWII. We're very pleased to be the first to publish this advance extract on the web. Thanks Ed!

Cadre Training School Army Air Force School of Applied Tactics The P-47 Thunderbolt...the JUGS! Las Vegas...Here We Come! Texas prior to joining the service and I guess I was kinda home sick. I hoped I was that much closer to those Silver Wings and began to think, well...maybe it was possible. I recall laying over for a while in Dallas and some of my friends and I visited the downtown YMCA, where I had lived while attending school. Everyone whom I'd known was gone but I did meet the physical director, whom I'd known real well. We enjoyed a good bull session, me asking, "where is everybody," and him answering, "Hell Hubbell, they're all in the service." He looked at my Aviation Cadet uniform and said, "and I see you're still a buck private." I chose not to tell him I was (hopefully) just three months away from those treasured Silver Wings and Gold Bars... Aloe Field was really exciting. All those AT-6's lined up just waiting for us to jump in them and start 'em up. The North American AT-6 trainer was a great aircraft and even experienced fighter pilots keep a warm spot in their hearts for the old "6." It would be our first experience with retractable wheels, something for us to get used to, as we were to find out. Some cadets were to find out about retracting the wheels the hard way. We were constantly seeing cadets moving about the base lugging a full size landing wheel, signiflying they had indeed forgot to lower their wheels on landing and had "bellied in." We spent the first days trying on the AT-6 and learning its attitude in stalls and spins. We also flew formations, cross-counties and enjoying the free feeling when doing loops, chandelles, slow rolls and extended inverted flying. If we had been under so much pressure, it would have been "flying heaven" for a pilot. In between flying and ground school, we were allowed to visit Victoria to be measured for our officers uniforms, those much sough after Forest Green jackets and Pink trousers. I was still carrying around my negative apprehension that some how, I might not make it. I'd rather have graduated first and then gotten measured for a uniform...I hate to be premature. The best part of our training was still ahead though ...Gunnery and Mock Combat. First we were introduced to "Skeet." No, not another instructor but the use of 12 gauge shotguns and flying targets. Training to illustrate how to "lead" a target (enemy fighter), in order to bring an aircraft's guns to bear properly. Lucky for me, I had an expert hunting buddy, namely Mr. Ben Bradley, Pop to everyone close to him, who had taken me duck and guail hunting many times while I was growing up. I really took to skeet shooting. As I stated earlier, in aerial combat, a fighter plane must either shoot the enemy head on or, get behind him (the normal method), and then, as he turns, "lead" him with your gun sight until you are leading him enough and then fire. Skeet was an ideal method of getting used to leading your target. So now, the two most important aspects of all our training were now on our agenda. Aerial and ground gunnery. The AT-6 was equipped with a single 30 caliber machine gun mounted in the wing. Our first introduction to gunnery was ground gunnery whereby you must make a diving pass at a ground target and center your gun sight on the bulls eye and fire. If your controls were not perfect, too much rudder left and you'd miss left, so everything must come together. Again all that intensive training paid off. Condidentially, It WAS fun... Now the ultimate test...aerial gunnery. We moved down to Matagorda Peninsula for two weeks and flying over the clear bay waters was super. Our insructor was to take off and pull a long target comprised of woven wire and cloth measuring about four feet by twenty-five feet long and towed about fifty yards behine his plane. Not an enviable job with four green cadets shooting a 30 caliber machine gun at the target. I'm not sure if he was ever awarded the Purple Heart. I sure hope not. After finishing our passes, we returned to base and inspected our success or failure. Each planes guns were loaded with 100 rounds of ammunition, whose bullet heads were painted an indentifying color, blue for one, red for the next and so on. This enabled us to see how many hits we scored on the white target. I was lucky the first day, scoring 18 out of 100. Shucks, this was going to be easy. After that though, I was lucky to get 8 or 10 hits into the target. I'd thought it was going to be easy after that first day. So much for my dreamy optimism. One of our group whose name was Hunley, was the best of our group and scored respectable numbers each flight. He was a fine pilot and was retained in Victoria as a instructor. I understand that the best pilots are placed as instructors. I suppose the more foolish, unstable and unpredictable ones go on to make fighter pilots.

Graduation was nearly upon us now, but we had one last test to undergo. Mock aerial combat with our instructors. We both took off in separate aircraft and climbed to about 10,000 feet. We then separated and he turned 180 degrees away from me and at the proper radio signal we turned toward each other at the same altitude. We approached each other head on about 100 yards apart. As we passed, we turned toward the other and the general rule in aerial combat was to climb and try to gain altitude on the "enemy." My instructor gave his plane full throttle and began his climb. I honestly did not have a battle plan, but if he expected me to climb, I figured I'd try something un-expected, so I shoved the throttle forward and went into a steep diving turn toward him. The results was, I gained a lot of speed and when I reached the bottom of my dive, I began climbing, I had gained a great deal of mometum, and after a couple of turns with half flaps down, to increase my turning ability, I was firmly on his tail, signifying a "win." He congratulated me and we returned to base. We rounded out our training with ample time in the "Link" trainer (a full scale enclosed cockpit with all the controls and instruments as in a conventional aircraft) and it responded accordingly. Each maneuver was recorded and the radio operator monitoring the flight would later explain should you make any errors (there WERE plenty of errors). The "Link" was used to help us be proficient in instrument flying in bad weather and at night, such as flying the "light line," a series of beacons and radio signals, each with a blinking Morse code identification so that at night, by following our maps and codes, we could fly from Victoria to Houston, which I was ready to do at any time. It also trained us in flying the "radio beam" so that in inclement weather we could orient ourselves to the proper position. GRADUATION DAY!!!!!!!!! Well, its about time. No one was more ready for it than I. However, the night before, my buddy Quentin Clift, (you remember, he was the guy responsible for getting me into this predicament in the first place and whom I had not seen in nearly a year, and who was ALSO graduating, called me from across town. He was stationed at Foster Field and invited me to meet him in Victoria. We joyously met and after getting caught up in our Primary, Basic and Advanced flying experiences, we proceeded to paint the town red, white and blue. I'd never heard of a product called "Sparkling Burgundy" before, but I became WELL acquainted with it before the night was over. We finally said our goodbye's and each returned to base. I hit the sack and as soon as my head hit the pillows, some guy began tootng his horn in a crashing rendition of "reveille." I some how struggled up and after a cold shower managed to perform the difficult maneuver called "walking." At the appropriate time, several of us walking wounded did indeed "fall in" (literally). We marched to the parade grounds where the entire base complement, including the band, all the other attendant personnel and the top brass were assembled to pass out those cherished "Silver Wings and Gold Bars" for which we had worked so hard. It is difficult to describe the euphoric feeling of having accomplished my goal and to be standing there with all those other friends, hearing music and inspirational speeches and above all, realizing I no longer had those negative feelings of "I don't think I'm going to make it." So, April 1943, Class of 43-D was now a part of Aviation Cadet history but unknown to me at the time, the following class, 43-E would graduate another cadet, who would be a world wide celebrity in the years to come and in a manner which we, at the time, could not have imagined. --------------- In the early 1980's our family owned a lake house on Lake Conroe, 50 miles north of Houston, Texas and I became friends with the marina manager, Joe Guarino. We often fished together and one day he called me and said a friend of his, was attending a seminar at the April Sound facility; and asked Joe, if after the seminar was over, could Joe take him fishing? Joe explained, he had to work but he had a friend, who could take hilm. Joe called me and said he would appreciate me taking the fellow out, to which, I ageed. A short while later, the door bell rang and I opened the door to see Joe and his "friend." Joe introduced us saying, "Ed Hubbell," this is "Deke Slaton." My jaw dropped and I stammered something and shot Joe a dirty look. Joe was enjoying my initial shock at meeting one of the original seven Mercury Astronaults. We all laughed and soon Deke and I were out fishing and telling flying stories and in general having a great time and enjoying each other's company. Deke, truly eptiomized the phrase, "right stuff... What a privilege...Deke will be sorely missed by all. TOP OF PAGE --------------- Army Air Force School of Applied Tactics The day after graduation, we received our orders and I was a part of a group which was to report to AAFSAT (Army Air Force School of Applied Tactics), in Orlando, Florida. It didn't sink in then, but I was to learn this was a premium assignment. We would be flying and training under some of the best pilots in the Air Corps, and in the newest and best airplanes which were then available. How lucky can a fighter pilot get? Who was to know at the time, that Orlando was to be the home of another magic show, namely Disney World. Orlando was the center of Air Force technology. All the latest combat information and tactics were funneled into this huge complex. The latest German and Japanese tactics were studied and then methods were introduced to thwart their impact. The fighter planes and bombers stationed in the surrounding areas were the instruments used to develop counter strategies. Our group, the 50th Fighter Group, had three squadrons spread out over the Florida countryside. We, the 313th Fighter Squadron, were stationed at Leesburg, a nice little town in central Florida, next to Lake Harris, with one little restaurant and known world wide as The Bass Capitol of the World. The airstrip was actually surrounded on three sides with lakes. When we had to use the East/West runway, traffic on the main highway through town had to stop because the runway crossed the highway. The 81st Squadron was stationed at Cross City and the10th Squadron was stationed at Zephyr Hill, on the west coast. The first few days at our new base, we were introduced to the resident pilots on our base and we felt properly intimidated by the likes of Captain Bull, Schneider, Jackson, Finnegan and Cowper, all very experienced pilots, some of whom had flown our P-40s in the Pacific Theater. After we were made to understand we were still "lower class men," we were also introduced to the P-40 Warhawk of Flying Tiger fame in the China/Burma Theater. After the AT-6, with its 450 horsepower engine, that long 1,200 HP in-line engine looked quite formidable.

We began our cockpit training, which was all we would get before solo-ing in the P-40. Remember, the AT-6 was a two place aircraft, allowing an instructor to ride along to help. The P-40 did not offer that luxury, being a single place plane, consequently, you had to know every instrument and control before assuming take off position. Several pilots had ground loops whereby the plane would spin around on the ground and one pilot went off the runway into Lake Harris and flipped, drowning the pilot. As Emmett Wyttenbach described it, "This was a time when newly assigned pilots were receiving initial checkouts and both ruways, at one time, were blocked with P-40s ground looped, nosed up and one off the end of the runway in the swamp." After several days of careful study, I was given the OK to takeoff. I strapped myself in, started the engine and checked everything out. I began to taxi, which it did very well, once you got used to that long 'Pinnochio nose,' and the engine sounded OK, so I nudged it into take off position, (that danged nose again). Well, here goes nothilng, I shoved the throttle forward and we began to roll. Man, the torque was fierce. I quickly trimmed the rudder and as the end of the runway was looming, I faintly remember pulling the stick back and we began to rise. That animal was roaring and I just sat there and let it do what ever it wanted to do. I finally remembered to lift my wheels but it just flew itself until we reached about 300 feet. I was terrified!!! If it had not been trimmed perfectly, I'm sure I would have gone into the Lake. I finally exited the pattern and began to climb and as the altitude increased, I began to wake up and relaxed abit and by the time I reached 10,000 feet, I was actually smiling and began to enjoy the ride. I made some turns, stalls and slow rolls and all the training I had received began to show some results. Exhilaration slowly replaced fear and I began to teach that brute a thing or two and like a trained puppy it began to respond to my every wish. My first experience in a real combat aircraft was coming to an end and it was time to return to base. The fun part was over and the tough part was just beginning. Nearly anyone can fly and airplane after it leaves the ground but the real test is getting it back on the ground safely! I entered the pattern on the down wind leg and made my turn onto the base leg. Ok so far...but as I began to make my turn onto the approach leg, I suddenly realized I was way too low and had to jam on full throttle in order to climb up over the tall pine trees at the end of the runway. I managed to struggle up and when I could see the runway again, I lined up and cut the throttle as I eased the stick back and settled on the runway for a half way satisfactory landing. When I taxied up and parked, my crew chief jumped up on the wing and said, "Lt. Hubbell, we had already started to call the emergency crew, when you disappeared behind those pine trees on your approach. Sure glad you made it." I feebly replied, "me too." Thank you Lord. Well...most of the hard part was over and now it was time to begin real "Army Life," you know, we had to inspect the enlisted men's barracks, drill, study manuals, along with our flying duties, and, oh yes, getting eaten up by bed bugs for several nights. We had to evacuate our barracks for 24 hours, so they could exterminate the hungry little buggers... One of the hardest lessons I had to learn came about one day as four of us were being driven to our barracks. I was reading a letter from home and when I finished, I crumpled up the envelope and tossed it out...BIG mistake!!! Captain Schneider, one of the older pilots was riding in the front seat and he yelled for the driver to stop. He turned to me and said, "Hubbell, get your ass out and pickup that trash." You know, I don't think I have littered in all my years since. That brings something to mind that my sweet wife, Vivian, likes to quote; "A part of me is left in every place that I have been, and every place that I have been is left in me, be it a tear, a smile, or a long last look at faces that once were dear. So, neither is the same, the place nor I, and neither can return to its simplicity before I came."

One morning, right at sunrise, our flight of four P-40's took off and I was flying Captain Jackson's wing in "tight formation" which meant, the wingman, me never looks at where we were going but total concentration is needed to keep in the proper relationship to the leader and keeping my wing inside his wing 4 or 5 feet away from his plane. After flying for 30 or 40 minutes, Captain Jackson called to me, "OK Hubbell, take us home." Gulp...for the entire flight my eyes had been glued to his plane and I didn't know where we were. I did remember though, he had been silhouetted against an absolutely magnificent sunrise coming up over the Bahamas, so I knew we must have been flying in an easterly direction. I took up a heading of about 270 degrees (due west), I imagine Jackson was getting a kick out of his effort to embarrass me, but he soon took back the lead position. I thanked the Lord for brilliant sunrises... We absolutely and thoroughly enjoyed our flying while stationed at Leesburg. The townfolks were great and the central Florida location, though hot during the summer months (as was my hometown of Houston), was delightful, otherwise and the flying was out of this world. Shortly after the learning experience with Captain Jackson, the first time it happened we newcomers didn't know what was going on. Four P-40's came over our airstrip at 0 altitude, I mean ZERO!!! Props barely clearing the ground and we rookies were about to hit the deck, when or senior pilots remarked...blankety blank 81st Squadron had just "strafed" us. We learned that several times a week, one of our sister squadrons in our group, would wake up the "enemy's" base, with a low level strafing run. So...soon it would be our turn to beat up the other base. TOP OF PAGE The P-47 Thunderbolts...The "JUGS!" About July 1943, our P-40's were replaced by the new, faster and more modern P-47 Thunderbolts, or as we affectionately referred to them...the "JUGS" as they resembled a milk jug. They were equipped with the Pratt & Whitney, 2,000 HP radial engine with super chargers and water injection and were capable of flying over 400 miles per hour...and they were BIG! We were really overwhelmed with them but at the same time, angry too. They weren't the prettiest of the new fighters. The P-51 Mustangs ad assumed that role. We were tee'd off because or sister squadron, the 10th, had received the Mustangs. Little did we know how this would end. Well...that just meant that we would keep them awake more by strafing more often. We did get our revenge on them though. You see, while we were logging precious hours in the P-47 and learning her little idiosyncrasies, and the 10th was playing with their Mustangs, there was a real surprise awaiting them when they arrived in England...they had to convert to the P-47, and start from scratch. Ah ha... We quickly fell in love with our new crafts however and developed a fondness for that smooth running radial engine and that wide, heavy duty landing gear Landing it was easy but, if you did happen to make a mistake, (like dropping it in from a stalled position 50 feet over the runway, as one of our pilots did, it would, as the modern day commercial says, "take a licking and keep on ticking." When it came our turn to return the favor of strafing our sister squadron's base, I remember one such mission. On our leaders instructions, we would spread out four abreast about 30 yards apart and he would lead us, at ground level, (to keep under radar), to a position several hundred yards from the target and on his command, "bounce," we'd jump our planes up to about 300 feet and then be in position for firing. Well, on this particular mission when he called "bounce" I did and as I leveled out and started down, there were these two monstrous pine trees directly in front of me and only about 50 feet apart. No way could I fit my wings between them and the only alternative was to "cross control" (applying left stick and right rudder), so that I slid through with wings perpendicular to the ground. As I related before, all that good training really paid off..."Thank you Lord." Back at the base, our barracks was just afew feet from the lake, which looked real "bassy" especially to a kid who had roamed the creeks around Houston with my fishing and hunting mentor, "Pop" Bradley. I wrote my folks..."Have fish, send rod and reel." They quickly did and on our time off, Hotton and some of our buddies would begin chunking baits at those big bass. I remember one nice 5 or 6 pound bass, we took to the base cook and asked if he would cook it for us, which he did and it was good...tasted alot like home. Our missions were generally dictated to us by AAFSAT headquarters in Orlando and the "British type War Room" mentioned earlier. They would order a squadron or group of B-17s to take off and would give them a target. In the war room, there would be 30 to 40 people scurrying around, some marking on a huge plate glass map on the wall of the entire area around Florida and some would be moving these little miniature planes and ships around on a monstrous table map indicating where the target and planes were. In the meantime, several pilots of our squadron would be lounging around the "ready hut" at the end of the runway. Some of us would be reading, playing cards or just lounging around, but all of us were ready to take off at a moments notice. So...when the klaxon horn sounded and the radio blared, "scramble, scramble" we would run to our planes along with our crews, jump into our seats as our crew chief helped us buckle on our chutes and start the engines and in seconds our leader, and we wingmen, would be rolling down the runway and be airborne. Our leaders would then contact headquarters by radio and HQ would vector us (compass heading) toward the bomber formation already on their way to their target. All of the enemy tactics which AAFSAT had studied and designed counter measurers for, would be put into action and we, acting as enemy fighters would intercept the bombers and make the prescribed passes on the bombers to give their crews experience in combating their tactics. It was on one of these mock skirmishes, that one of my best friends, Lt. Paul Muckleroy, was injured. He was making a head on pass on the B-17s and got caught in the propwash of a preceding plane and rammed the tall tail fin of a 17. Fortunately, due to his flying ability, he was able to land safely, as did the B-17. We trained in a variety of ways and tactics but I must tell you about one of our most typical types of flight, one which we performed nearly every day after our scheduled mission was over. We continually had cadres of pilots scheduled to go overseas visit with us for 2 or 3 weeks training, and they would fly with us and learn the newest tactics, formations and maneuvers with which to meet our enemies. After completing a mission, our leader of the day would call us to form up single file, each plane following the plane ahead and it would quickly turn into a huge "rat race." Wherever the leader went and whatever the leader would do we'd follow. We may start out at 20,000 feet and we would snake around and across the sky in a long line performing slow rolls, loops chandelles and even some unintentional tricks. One such unintentional tricks happened when a visiting squadron leader was invited by our leader to take over. He accepted and we followed our new leader through several maneuvers and suddenly, after diving several thousand feet, he pulled straight up, (remember, these were not jet aircraft and propeller driven planes had their limits). This particular trick was called a "hammer head stall" and it could be thrilling when a single plane performed it, but it became terribly dangerous when more than one plane attempted it. Imagine 12 planes going straight up and all of a sudden the top plane put on the brakes (which was what happened when a plane stopped going upward and began to fall backward). When the plane loses speed, all the controls are useless, no rudder, ailerons or elevators, and when it begins to fall backward, the planes immediately behind and below scramble to get out of the way of the higher falling planes. All of the following planes began to dodge and scramble to get out of the way of the planes falling into them from above. Fortunately, we all escaped crashing into each other and our original leader immediately took back the lead position and we wiped the sweat from our brows and re-grouped. Again...Thank you Lord.

Back to our rat race. After zig zagging across the sky for miles we'd finally wind up on the deck, whizzing along at tree top level and sometimes below, doing 250 or 300 miles per hour. Many times, we'd fly across the lakes and spook flights of ducks and waterbirds and they'd try to take off but get caught in the propwash and when you looked back, they'd be twisting and turning, upside down and crash landing. Have you ever seen a duck fly upside down? Some of the pilots when flying across the lakes would lose perspective and get too low to the water an tip their props into the water and upon landing, they'd find 4 or 5 inches of their propellers rolled back. I don't know what our trainees learned from all this, but I do know one thing. They sure learned how to fly low level missions. I'd be stretching the truth if I said we didn't revel in the "hot pilot" reputation we had earned and we were highly excited when we received an order to fly a demonstration mission to Louisville, Kentucky in a show of Army Air Corps fire power. We flew tight combat formations over the crowds, made some passes at some tanks and in one demonstration, targets were set up several hundred yards in front of a huge grandstand overflowing with people and we came in at tree top level from behind and bounced up to about 300 feet above the grandstands and four planes abreast, unloaded our 32 machine guns at the targets out front. I often wondered if any of those spent cartridges fell on those seated in the stands. "Pop" Parsons tells of his experience when we went to Louisville, KY. The 313th Fghter Squadron history book records it like this; "A group of us went to Fort Knox, Kentucky to show the tank crews what it was like to get strafed by low flying aircraft. After we had spent most of the day harassing his troops by making them hit the dirt, a young Captain asked if Percy and I would like to take a ride in a tank. We thought he would just take a run around the airfield so Percy got in the co-drivers seat and I got the top turret seat. That Captain took out across ditches, hills, ravines and creeks and he went straight through all of the bushes and trees that were in his path. Trees fell on my head and I almost ate the rim of that "manhole" I was in. I never wanted out of anything so bad in my life; and I have hated tanks forever afterwards." "Pop" Parsons Don't you know that tank Captain got a laugh on "Pop" and Percy after the harassing the P-47's pulled on his troops?

Shortly after returning from Louisville, I experienced the closest call I had in all my flying experience, even 96 combat missions. We were ordered to spend two weeks at a jungle type strip in Bushnell, Florida and the engineers had hacked out a landing strip and covered it with PSP steel mesh. It kind of undulated and was pretty short but it accurately imitated the metal strips we would be flying off of when we actually did get into combat. Prior to take off on one mission, I taxied out to the end of the runway and following normal procedures, checked out all my instruments before taking off. One magneto did show slightly more drop than usual but, what the heck, I was young and fearless, (not to mention dumb), so I lined up with the runway and shoved the throttle forward. As I gained flying speed, I eased the stick back fully expecting her to begin climbing but she just fell back to the runway. I tried again with the same results, (all this taking places in just seconds). There was a big drainage ditch across the end of the runway and all the dirt which had been removed from the ditch was piled up on the other side and little bushes and trees were growing on the top. The end of the runway was coming up fast and I decided I wansn't going to plow into that ditch, so I put down half flaps to increase lift and, the next time she laboriously struggled up a few inches, I yanked up the wheels and nursed her up a little, trying to "feel" her attitude with my fingers and seat. As that ditch leaped at me, I cleared it by inches and took some of those little willow trees with me. I climbed up slowly to a respectful altitude and limped around the pattern, belching black smoke, coughing and spitting, and me, exuding great beads of sweat, but I managed to get on the approach and executed a feeble landing, thankful to be back on the ground. When I taxied up and parked, my crew chief jumped up on the wing and yelled, "Gosh Lt. Hubbell we thought you were a goner for sure." Quite frankly, so did I. Once more...thank you Lord. TOP OF PAGE Las Vegas...Here We Come! Sometime in late 1943, a request came down from headquarters for two P-47s to fly to Las Vegas, Nevada on a special mission and Lt. Thomas Personnett was chosen to go and he asked me if I would like to accompany him. I, of course, jumped at the chance and expressed my thanks to him for asking me. We began our cross country journey and stopped on the way to visit my folks in Houston, Texas. This was about September and leaving warm Florida, I didn't realize how cold it got out West. All I had was my summer uniform, so I scrounged a brown suede jacket from home to keep me warm until my winter clothes caught up with me. I remember walking down the street at one air base on the way to Las Vegas and as I saluted a Major, he called to me. I stopped and turned around and he asked, "Lieutenant, that's one hell of a uniform. Would you care to explain?" I guess he thought I was imitating General George Armstrong Custer. I apologized and explained my predicament and he laughed and sent me on my way. Upon arriving in Las Vegas, our planes were painted flat black for photographic purposes. No numbers, insignia or anything and we were joined by several other aircraft. Another P-47 piloted by Captain Robert Johnston, of our 81st squadron, two P-51s and a P-39. Our mission consisted of making passes on a B-24 bomber which had been outfitted with three 35mm cameras mounted in the side bay, the objective being to take photos in 3-Dimensions and later project them on a huge white concave screen giving a very realistic impression. There were two 50 cal. machine guns mounted on turrets at the rear of the theater which were modified to count the number of "hits" each man scored. This was all overseen by a Major Gray, an older gentleman, who was reported to be one of the top camera men in Hollywood. We enjoyed several weeks of flying in the brisk desert air, along with visits to the town (difficult to realize now but Las Vegas, or "Lost Wages" as the natives called it, was a small town at that time. The towns people took us to heart and invited us to dinner and even introduced us to a native drink, called appropriately, "Cactus Milk," which, as you have probably guessed wasn't all milk. Coming from the flat lands of Florida, those gorgeous mountains, especially from the air, were truly breathtaking and hedge hopping assumed a new proportion as we flew twisting and turning just a few feet above the terrain winding our way through the canyons and draws. Oh yes, lest I forget, the visits from some of Hollywood's big stars, one of which I particularly remember, a beautiful actress named Marguerite Chapman. I considered marrying her at the time, but she was taller than me, so I told her "sorry, but no"...she was crying as I left. Back to the flying, after each mission was concluded, we were dismissed and told to return to base. They never stipulated how we were to return so we reverted to our usual tactics which we practiced in Florida mainly, hitting the deck and again exploring those mountains, playing tag with each other and finally down to the flats and chopping grass all the way back to the base. After one such mission upon being dismissed, I was flying Captain Johnston's wing and we did the usual and headed for our base, skimming the mountains and flats and finally climbing up to enter the traffic pattern. Our usual method of landing in Florida was to come over the runway, four planes staggered about 20 feet high then, the leader would peel up and to the left in an angled loop, each of us following at proper spacing and at the top of the loop drop our landing gear and flaps and continuing on to our landing. However, the base in Las Vegas, being a bomber base, would have a base leg about 1,000 feet high and about two miles out and we had to follow the bombers in fighting propwash and boredom. Anyway, we landed, taxied up and parked and immediately a jeep came tearing up and screeched to a halt and a "full bull" (bird Colonel) hopped up on my wing and stiffly said, "let me have your flight log Lieutenant." He read my name and said, "be in my office in ten minutes." Now I know all you majors and colonels out there are chuckling, but you probably don't remember back when you were a Second Lieutenant but this shavetail was plenty shook up... Captain Johnston and I met and went to the colonel's office where we sat outside and waited an eternity. (Colonel Tom Personett told me later, "standard practice"). He finally called us into his office, where we were ordered to stand at stiff attention, while he proceeded to chew us out. As yet we didn't really know what all the fuss was about until he began to rant about their telephone lines being clogged with complaints about his planes chasing cars off the road and some farmers though they were being attacked by enemy planes and we were accused of generally causing panic among the surrounding countryside. After about 15 minutes of this torture, we were told, if we would be off his base by 10 AM the next day he wouldn't press court martal charges. We happily agreed and the next day we bid farewell to the town of Las Vegas and I know if I hadn't lost contact with my buddy Tom Personett, (who was a 1st Lieutenant), when I told him the story, he'd have straightened out that Colonel pronto. Next day as promised, Johnston and I took off and headed for Florida. I had asked him to request a couple of days layover in Houston, which he did, and it was granted. I was eagerly looking forward to seeing my folks again. This was about late November and after taking off we began to run into some bad weather and finally reached a base at Wink. (I think) Texas, where we had to lay over for a couple of days. Finally, the weather broke and about noon we again headed for Houston. All went well but late in the day, we were flying "spread" formation, (each plane... TOP OF PAGE SiteBuilder Note: Unfortunately this was last page that Ed sent me...I guess we'll all have to wait for the book for the ending. Hope you enjoyed the first installment of "Silver Wings And Gold Bars," about cadet training in the forties, I know I did!

RETURN TO SITE INDEX

NEXT PAGE; 10th FIGHTER SQUADRON