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    I'm not going to detail to you my itinerary. You have all seen the routine played out many times in the movies. I can only say, it is all true, and you rapidly learn the rules or you don't survive. I did survive; then, during our classification interview my flying experience was taken into account. I was promised training to be an air traffic controller. At the end of basic training I was transferred to Laurie Field, closer to the city of Denver--as a student at their clerk typist school.
You're In the Army Now
    To avoid being assigned to the infantry I joined the Army with their promise that I would be assigned to the Air Corps.  On April 6, 1946 I found myself on a Greyhound bus from San Diego to Los Angeles where I was sworn into the United States Army. From there, along with a hundred or so other draft age boys, I boarded a train and  travel across the west by day and night, up into the Rocky Mountains, and down into the great plains to Denver Colorado.
    We stepped off of the train and into busses awaiting our arrival. It was about 4:00 a.m. when we entered the gates of Buckley Field. From that moment on I ceased to be an individual and became one part of Flight Squadron 5. The first objective of Flight Squadron 5 was to mop our assigned barracks floor, a job that was finished that morning about 6 a.m. We heard our first call to reveille and fell into formation as best as we knew how from seeing war movies. The Flight Sergeant in charge tried to keep us in line as he marched us to the chow hall. We were all more interested in sleep than food, but the walk and the food pepped us up. After chow we fell into formation again and were marched to the supply hangar where we were issued our duffel bag, uniform, fatigue clothes, and bedding. With our clothing stuffed into our duffel bags and the bedding over our shoulders we were marched once again to the barracks were we were taught the Army way to make beds, and pack footlockers, and hang our clothes always facing to the left. No, we did not try out our new beds. We were assembled outside and marched off to the drill field to begin our training in the art in following orders. After our 6 p.m. chow we were dismissed to return to our assigned quarters on our own. I never slept so soundly before. But, not long enough. At 4 a.m. we were rudely awakened by a glare of light and the shrill sound of screeching whistles and told to fall out.
    Only a short time later a notice arrived from 8th Air Force Headquarters thanking me for my desire to become an aviation cadet; however, due to budget cuts all pilot training had been canceled. So, there I was in the middle of Arizona watching over acres and acres of surplus airplanes. Several classic aircraft  sat there rotting away. There was the B-19, the biggest airplane built to that date. The Enola Gay was also there. We would patrol the area each morning and evening.
    After seeing how the Army, and then the Air Force worked, I decided I should try to upgrade my position. After applying for Air Traffic Control school only to be  assigned to Clerk Typist school, and then became a Photo Lab technician; afterwards, when assigned to the fire department as a fire fighter, I was ready for another change. I heard  the Air Force was again accepting applications for Pilot training. I applied, went before the review board and passed. Obtained all the required letters and passing a High School equivalent test and waited for my orders to go to San Antonio for flight school.
    While awaiting a class date I worked in the butcher shop, Officers Quarters, or any other job that came up. Laurie Field was a Training Command Field training for all types of jobs. I did some nosing around and found out there was no way to get into the bombsight maintenance class, but I was able to finagle a spot into a Photo Lab class. For the next eight weeks I was marched back and forth between the barracks and the Photo Lab classroom. I graduated as an Air Force Photographer (The Army Air Corps had now become a separate branch of service.). With a cameraman emblem on my uniform sleeve I boarded a train headed for Davis Monthan Air Force base at Tucson Arizona. Upon arrival I was assigned to be a fireman in the crash fire Department. One has to be the best one can be, whatever the situation, so I settled down to becoming the best fireman I could be.
    The United Service Organization or USO was founded in 1941 by congress to boost the moral of the service men by providing entertainment to the troops and other services. The USO is still very active today arranging entertainment for service people around the world. They also provide lounges at many airports for service personal during their travels.
    In 1947 they sponsored dances at the Davis-Monthan Air Force base in Tucson. They would make arrangements with local Tucson clubs for young ladies to be bussed to the air base and returned before curfew. On Fridays many of us would go to the service club to see if we could get up enough nerve to ask one of the girls to dance. I had no idea how to dance, and still don't, but I finally got up enough courage to ask one young Miss. if she would care to dance with me. She graciously said thank you but she thought she should sit this dance out. I then offered her a Coke. She consented and we retired to the refreshment room where there was a Coke machine. I put a dime into the slot and a bottle of Coke slid out of the opening. I took it out and using the bottle cap opener attached to the side of the machine, with a continuous motion took the bottle from the slot, put the cap under the opener, and pushed down opening the bottle, and swung it around to hand it to her. In doing so the Coke foamed up and out of the bottle spraying Coke over the front of the girls dress. With much apologizing and wiping with paper towels the dress was a mess.
   And, that is the first impression I made on my wife. About three months later I borrowed fifty dollars and we teenagers were married, on June 6, 1947.  That was 54 years ago. After three children, and five grandchildren we are still a couple.
    Meanwhile, at the east side fire station, I was  on duty 24 hours and then off for 24 hours. I spent my 24 hours off romancing my bride to be, and searching the airbase for a better position. I finally found an opening in the propeller department located in the main hangar. After convincing my CO that with my aviation experience I would be a better asset to the Air Force working in the propeller shop than playing hearts in a desert fire house. He felt the same way and approved the move.
Next to the main hangar was the static flight trainers (The latest in Link trainers.) refresher building. At every opportunity I would visit the flight trainer building and became friends with a couple of the trainer instructors. They would keep me advised when their training loads were light and on many occasion allowed me to teach myself instrument flying using the trainer.
    Each airplane contained some fuel in their tanks. We would drain as much fuel as possible from each airplane into 52 gallon drums. Every few days we would dump several barrels of the reclaimed fuel into a pit surrounding the hull of an airplane that was used for fire fighting practice. The fuel would be lit and we would attempt to fight the fire by trying to blast it away from the airplane using high pressure water hoses and foam. The theory was good but the one time we tried to use the procedure on a real crash we were unable to blast the flames away from the airplane or smother them with foam.   I regret to say that the airplane and its crew were all lost. It was also a sobering experience for all of us evolved.
    Smoking in the hangar was not permitted, except in the prop shop. Every morning and afternoon the smokers would come crowding into the shop to have their smokes. We had an electric hot plate and a large GI kettle of boiling hot coffee. The coffee was purchased using money dropped into the kitty next to the pot. At this point I was married and living off base. One afternoon on my way home I stopped at a donut shop to check on what time he opened. Driving to work in the mornings I had noticed a closed sign in the window, but his lights on. We arranged for me to knock on the back door and he would sell me donuts, if I ordered and paid for them on the way home the night before. I placed my order for two dozen and picked them up the next morning. I put the donuts next to the coffee pot with a sign, 5 cents each. The first 20 GI's in the shop took the 24 donuts and the rest of the hangar jumped all over me for not getting enough. On the way home that night I ordered 5 dozen and picked them up on the way into work early next morning.  The 5 dozen almost made it through the morning coffee break. The next day 7 dozen lasted into the afternoon break. I found that I had to adjust the quantity depending on the time of the month. On the first of the month, payday, I would start the month with 18 dozen and end the month ordering only 4 or 5 dozen. This sweet arrangement went on for the summer and into most of the fall until the PX heard about it. The next thing I knew I was doing dishes in the kitchen for violating some rule. The GI pot was confiscated and smoking was no longer allowed in any part of the hangar, including the prop shop.

     When I finished my 7 days of KP I returned to the prop shop only to find that my position had been filled by a sergeant (the rank I would have gotten without the donuts and coffee mess) who moved over from the motor pool. I then found myself assigned to the motor pool as a truck driver. I finished my time in the air force as a motor pool driver. After three years in the post world war military I had climbed in rank all the way to corporal. I bypassed the reserve desk on my way out with an honorable discharge and three hundred dollars severance pay plus credit to the GI bill.

     The Army experience was not the high point of my life. However, as the saying goes, I would not take a million for the experience and knowledge that I learned, not to mention the extra time to grow up a little, but I would not give a nickel to do it over again.

    
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