Note:  Milt's Memoirs are published here with the kind permission of Mr. Zack.   [The Webmaster]

For primary flight training, we reported to Dorr Field in Arcadia FL. There we bunked in barracks with 8 to a room. We found out that the upperclassmen were the same class from Maxwell, but we were physically separated enough during the training so they weren’t able to harass us.

The water was the worst I’ve ever tasted. It had a high sulfur content and tasted like rotten eggs. We would fill up any container we could find and let it sit overnight so some of the sediment would settle to the bottom. It helped a bit, but not much.

We were first given class assignments, where we got very abbreviated courses on aircraft engine function, aerodynamics, and other topics to give us a basic understanding about how an airplane works, and how and why it gets off the ground. Then we were issued flight gear. This consisted of the old WWI type leather helmets with the goggles strapped through them, the kind Snoopy always wears. We didn’t get a long white scarf, but we did get sunglasses in cases that strapped horizontally onto the belt. (To this day I carry my glasses in the same type case strapped to my belt, and these cases aren’t always easy to find.) We were ready for our first training flight.

We were shown the plane we would be training in. This was a Stearman Primary Trainer, a single engine prop with a two seat open cockpit. The instructor sat in the front, the student in the rear. Before we boarded the plane we were shown the various parts like the elevators, rudders, landing gear (which was fixed on that plane) and so forth. It was the first time I had ever seen a plane on the ground and I was pretty overwhelmed to think I would be flying this machine.

Then we boarded and learned how to start the plane from the cockpit. First the pilot (instructor or student) had to go through the sequence of switch off, throttle cracked open and gas on. Then a mechanic had to crank the engine from outside, like an old Model T Ford, and the pilot would yell "contact switch on" and with luck the plane would start.

My first flight is an indelible memory. I can still feel the takeoff, where it felt like the ground was dropping away rather than the plane rising. What a rush!! Not scary, but a bit unnerving. On the first flight, the instructor told me to keep my hands and feet lightly on the controls so I could get a feel for the motion as he did the flying, but to do nothing. We flew for about an hour, doing slow circles and moving up and down slightly. We were warned that many of us would become airsick on our first flight, and if this happened, we had to clean up after ourselves on landing. Fortunately this did not happen to me, but it did to quite a few of the other cadets.

The field itself was one mile square and had no runways. In the middle of the field was a wind direction device that you had to refer to on takeoff and landing, as these maneuvers were always done into the wind. So you never really knew until the time came which direction you would be taking off or landing from. You would take off straight, reach an altitude of 500 ft, then make a 90 degree right turn, holding at 500 ft, hold the turn for a time, then break to the left when instructed to from the front seat.

The instructors were actually civilians contracted to the Army for pilot training. The training was to be around 10 to 12 hours of dual flying, then the cadet would go up for solo flight. However, after about 11 hours of dual flight training, I knew I wasn’t going to make it. Among other problems, I could never figure out a correct landing pattern based on wind direction, and I was always lost in the air. So when the instructor told me I would have my checkout flight with the chief civilian instructor, I knew my time was up, and I was right. I flunked.

The final step was a checkout by an Army pilot. In my case, he knew there was no real reason for the flight, but we had to go through the motions. So when we reached flight altitude, he took over the controls and went through every acrobatic maneuver the plane was capable of. Talk about fun, it was the greatest ride I ever had. When we finally headed back to the field, he let me take over and land. Of course, I made my one and only perfect landing. After taxiing to the park position, I got out and saluted and said "Lieutenant, thank you very much for the ride." That was the end of my dream of being a pilot.

As it turned out, it was also the end of a dream for two more cadets from my room, so a total of three out of the eight of us washed out at that time. We assumed that was also the end of cadet training, and it would be regular army for us, which was a very depressing thought. But a day or so later I was requested to report to headquarters, where I was advised I had also passed the tests for navigator and bombardier training, and given a choice which I would like. Without thinking, I said Navigator, (which was a strange choice for someone who was always lost during flight training), and shortly received orders to report to Selman Field, LA. I was still an Aviation Cadet.

I arrived at Selman Field in July 1943, and reported to my barracks. Much to my surprise I found out that all the cadets in my barracks were washed out would-be pilots. This was second choice for all of them. These were the most pissed off guys in the US Army Air Corps, greatly in need of attitude adjustment. It turned out that most of the men in the other barracks were also washed out pilot trainees. We began to wonder if they didn’t flunk a certain percentage just so they would have enough navigators or bombardiers.

We started Navigation Preflight training, but in short order the powers that be realized that we had just gone through that in pilot training, and decided that all future navigators should learn how to handle a 50 caliber aerial machine gun. So we had hardly had time to mess up our cots at Selman when we were transferred to Tyndall Field in Florida for aerial gunnery school.

At Tyndall Field, there was open animosity between officers, enlisted men and Aviation Cadets. Our cause wasn’t helped by an incident that occurred on our arrival at around 1:00 or 2:00 AM. We were tired, hot and cranky, and the first thing they did was put us in formation, and subject us to some BS from a Second Lieutenant which started out "I went to West Point, and (blah, blah, blah)". Somewhere in the middle of this a voice from the rear ranks shouted "F**k you!!"

This wasn’t the smartest thing to do, since it turned out he was our squadron tactical officer and we were totally under his control. We later learned that he did, indeed, go to West Point, but only for a couple years before he flunked out.

There is no fraternization in the Army between officers and enlisted men, and the Aviation Cadets were treated as a third group, with no fraternization with either of the others. For example, there was a beach, part of which was for civilians and part for the Army. The Army section was further divided into three parts; officers, enlisted and Aviation Cadets. It was a nice, sandy beach until you got to the Cadet part. This had mud up to the ankles, and no one used it.

The mess hall had two separate entrances and sections, one for enlisted and one for Aviation Cadets. It didn’t take us long to learn that while Aviation Cadets were not allowed seconds on any food, the enlisted men could have as much of anything they wanted. But being the clever chaps we were, we noticed that the only way we could be differentiated from the enlisted men in our fatigues was by the cadet emblem on our hats. So the hats went into the pockets, and we went into the enlisted men’s entrance. At least we ate well.

We kind of escalated the animosity between us and the officers when our Aviation Cadet flight leader made up a song. Every time we went past headquarters he would halt and give us a left or fight face to wind up facing headquarters, and we would serenade the officers. The song, sung to the tune of Darling Clementine, went as follows: "I’m a washout, I’m a washout, I’m a washout, I confess. But I’d rather be a washout than a jerk from OCS." OCS, of course, being Officers Candidate School, a three-month course, where most of them came from. (They were commonly referred to as 90 day wonders.) Of course, this was not allowed to go on too long. We eventually received an order that there would be no more halting allowed in front of headquarters. In addition, if a cadet wanted to go anywhere, including the PX, there had to be at least two men going, one to lead the other(s), count cadence and march us back and forth. The only exception to this was a visit to the latrine.

We were the first class to consist entirely of cadets, and the enlisted men held a grudge against us although we never could figure out why exactly. Maybe they were jealous of our special treatment, although our special treatment at Tyndall Field was all negative. It couldn’t have been our arrogant, snobby attitude which, in spite of several setbacks, we had managed to hold on to. They were quick to tell us that two out of three never graduate from gunnery school, and were no doubt waiting eagerly to see us drop like flies.

When we first started training, most of us had never shot any kind of a gun before in our lives. So we started with 22 caliber rifles shooting at moving targets, like at the amusement parks. From there we went to moving targets on a rifle range. Then we learned to shoot the 50 caliber machine guns at stationary and moving targets on the ground.

In the air we could only use 30 caliber guns because the training planes couldn’t carry the larger 50 caliber units plus 4-5 trainees. From these planes we practiced on air targets being towed by another plane. Needless to say, these were attached as far away from the towing plane as physically possible. Each student had his own colored ammunition, so after each flight we could tell who had how many hits. We also trained on stationary targets in the ocean from a two-seater trainer with the machine gun mounted on a semicircular ring type arrangement in the rear seat. This ring was so set up that the machine gun could not be positioned in such a way as to shoot off the wings or tails of the trainer. I always wondered which came first, the design of the mount or an indication of the need for such a design.

We also trained on the ground with shotguns mounted on an airplane type turret, doing skeet and trap style shooting. We had two houses releasing the clay pigeons, one low and one high. This was the most fun of all, and I got quite good at it, in spite of a rather frightening incident. The turrets we used had Plexiglas shields, usually broken to some degree, to protect us from flying pigeon pieces. One day when I hit one of the birds, a shard came through one of the holes and hit me in the eye. When I opened my eye, I couldn’t see anything out of it. It was like staring at an opaque white sheet with no objects or details on it. I was terrified. I dismounted the turret and ran to the range office and told him what had happened. He immediately called an ambulance, which whisked me off to the hospital. There they found that the piece had hit the eyeball, but fortunately just missed the pupil, so they felt no permanent damage was done. Later that day I began to see about half of what I was looking at, and within a couple days had regained by sight completely. But that was a very panicky time, not only because of the fear of losing my sight, but maybe more so fearing it would be the end of my military career.

On the skeet range we also used jeeps, holding a shotgun while standing in a supporting ring. When we were using vehicles, we were told to only load one shell at a time. However, when no instructor was riding along we’d put in 2-3 rounds, and rapid fire at the same target, really pulverizing it. Of course the instructors could hear what was going on, but no one would ever admit to it.

We were scored on our performances in each day’s training, either by an instructor if one was present, or by keeping our own score. The base had a monthly newsletter, and the last page was devoted to Gunner of the Month, including a picture. The last month we were there, there was a close match for this honor between another trainee and me. However, the final tally gave it to him, and I can still remember how disappointed I was.

I did get some unique attention for another reason, though. Because of the heat in Florida, our fatigues were always completely saturated with sweat, and the first thing we did on return to barracks was to strip, shower and put on clean fatigues or uniform. In spite of this, I still managed to get a severe case of jock itch. It became so excruciating I went on sick call, where they gave me a solution to apply to the affected area. Well, the solution was bright red and remained so when applied, so for a while I was routinely referred to as "the baboon" in the shower. It did work though, so it was worth putting up with the teasing.

Part of our training was to learn to disassemble and reassemble the 50 caliber machine gun. There were two methods. One was detail stripping, which consisted of taking every removable piece off. The second was field stripping, which was disassembling to the point where a jammed gun could be cleared and reassembled under combat conditions. One of the qualifications for graduation was to detail strip a gun, and then reassemble it, changing the direction of the ammo feed (right to left or left to right), all blindfolded. I very meticulously set aside each section in a little pile in order on the bench, to make it easier to reassemble. Then along came the instructor and just as meticulously mixed everything together. Well, it took awhile but I did manage to get it back together, and I guess it was OK because I passed.

Then came graduation and we added aerial gunner wings to our uniforms. We found out later that our class had been the best Tyndall Field had ever had, and as far as we knew, no one in our class had flunked out. So much for the 2 out of three statistics we were given on our arrival. We also found out later that Clark Gable had gone through the same training we had at Tyndall Field. But somehow he became a Lieutenant when he graduated and we were still Aviation Cadets. And we still had our advanced navigation training to go through, so we received orders to report back to Selman Field.