When
Danny Levine walked into our tenth grade English class wearing what
appeared to be a khaki-colored Air Force uniform, I was presented
with a solution to my stuck-at-home problem. I was incredibly
impressed with the sharp crispness of the uniform, its military
image. It wasn't really an Air Force uniform, rather the summer dress
uniform of the Civil Air Patrol cadet program, but you had to look
closely at the insignia and the uniform patches to tell the
difference. I sat behind Danny in one of the few classes I tried to
do well, English. I enjoyed the class, too bad I didn't pay more
attention. It was entertaining and I found I was fascinated by great
writing, and if it hadn't been for my distaste of Shakespeare and the
endless doting on obsolete, medieval writing I probably would have
done much better. How well I succeeded in English is still an
unresolved issue.
I
had no idea what a CAP cadet was or what they did, but I knew it had
to do with airplanes. I pestered Danny the entire class and he easily
convinced me to attend a cadet meeting the next Tuesday night. All I
had to do was convince Versie and Glen to take me to the west side of
the airport for the meeting. Versie agreed, even though she had
reservations about what the program was all about. She assumed it was
something like the Boy Scouts, which both Glen and Versie frowned on.
My dad, as usual didn't seem impressed one way or the other, but he
certainly didn't like the late hour he would have to pick me up. Even
though the meetings were scheduled to end at 10:00pm, he relented and
drove us all over to the west side of Miami International Airport to
look for the one-story, military building that housed the Civil Air
Patrol squadron that Tuesday night that changed my life.
The
building was located on the two-lane road that ran around the west
perimeter of the Miami International Air Depot, home of the US Air
Force Reserve units stationed at Miami International airport. MIAD
was the home of active Air Force reserve units that flew both
twin-engine C-119 Flying Boxcars and SA-16 Albatross Air/Sea rescue
amphibians. The
barren street lights and security lights on the beige colored
buildings gave the place an eerie pale cast. There were two rows of
parked cars on one side, and a group of men in khaki uniforms
standing in rows with their hands behind their backs just beyond the
buildings. Versie and Glen waited in the newly acquired 1956 Ford
that had eventually replaced the old station wagon as I walked
cautiously over toward the group of men standing in the light. The
smells pervading the air were new to me. Aircraft fuel smells and
exhaust fumes hung in the damp evening air like cheap perfume at a
department store ladies counter. I soon recognized Danny in the
group, and I turned and waved at Versie and Glen. OK, you can leave now!
There
were several of us in civilian clothes, newly recruited to join the
cadet squadron. I looked at the formation of men and realized the
majority were not much older than me. They were all high school
students. Some had stripes on their sleeves, and several had
officer's insignia on their collars. They all looked sharp. Shoes
were highly shined, no, they were polished! Absolutely polished to a
sheen I had never seen before. I was to later learn what
“spit-shined” meant. Danny told the new members to stand in a row
off to the side and simply follow what the regular, uniformed cadets
did when commanded by the Cadet Commander. As we shuffled into
position and nervously watched the two young men in front of the
assembled group, we realized we had no idea what to expect. We were
in a new, unfamiliar setting where everyone else was in total
synchronization, while we were in absolute chaos. As the furthest
cadet turned and said, “Lieutenant, call the squadron to
attention,” everyone seemed to tense and prepare for something
important. As the second cadet spun on his heel and faced the
formation of cadets, he called out “Squadron, ATTENHUT!” The
group snapped to perfect alignment, and finally, I had found
something thrilling I wanted to be a part of.
I
embarrassed myself later in the general meeting that very first night
by asking a question about getting a uniform I thought was valid, but
apparently Lieutenant Palumbo, the Commander, Cadet Squadron Two,
thought otherwise. The senior members of the Civil Air Patrol were
all adults, serving in command positions to supervise the cadet
functions. There were Cadet officers and Non-commissioned officers
but they had no real “power' within the actual organization. That
rested with the senior members who ran the meetings.
I
don't remember the question, it was something about how to acquire
uniforms or something, but his blistering answer set a tone with me
that taught me caution in all dealings with superiors that became my
standard throughout my time in the Civil Air Patrol and the US Air
Force as well. Palumbo looked silently at me at first, and when the
theatrical impact was perfect, he caustically and loudly said, “What
the Hell does that have to do with windshield wipers on a duck's
ass?”
I
was stunned, absolutely shocked I had misread his question of “Any
Questions?” Obviously, that was not what he meant! A couple of the
older Cadet officers chuckled, but most simply sat, staring straight
ahead. After the meeting was over and we walked to our waiting
parents, several of the regular cadets came over and told me not to
take Palumbo's rebuff personally, it was a standard response from
some senior members. One of those cadets was Cadet Lieutenant Scott
Stoddard, who later became Cadet Commander. My dumb-ass question won
me several other sympathetic friends that meeting and we remained
friends until we left the CAP.
That
night was the beginning of a wonderful time in my life, it helped
mold me in more ways than one. Happy times were here again.
The Drill Team
New cadet, 1957
Sometime
during the first year of regular meetings at the squadron, I
volunteered to be on the squadron drill team. Every cadet squadron
competed in annual drill competitions held at state level. Winners
then competed regionally, with the best ten teams going on to
National Competition at Rockefeller Plaza in New York. We practiced
for an hour extra every Tuesday night, every Saturday, and sometimes
even on Thursday nights between the dark, empty warehouses of the
freight terminal. We all got along well, and we were good. In fact,
we were very good. Almost all of us became good and fast friends. The
more we practiced, the better we got.
When
Danny Levine walked into our tenth grade English class wearing what
appeared to be a khaki-colored Air Force uniform, I was presented
with a solution to my stuck-at-home problem. I was incredibly
impressed with the sharp crispness of the uniform, its military
image. It wasn't really an Air Force uniform, rather the summer dress
uniform of the Civil Air Patrol cadet program, but you had to look
closely at the insignia and the uniform patches to tell the
difference. I sat behind Danny in one of the few classes I tried to
do well, English. I enjoyed the class, too bad I didn't pay more
attention. It was entertaining and I found I was fascinated by great
writing, and if it hadn't been for my distaste of Shakespeare and the
endless doting on obsolete, medieval writing I probably would have
done much better. How well I succeeded in English is still an
unresolved issue.
I
had no idea what a CAP cadet was or what they did, but I knew it had
to do with airplanes. I pestered Danny the entire class and he easily
convinced me to attend a cadet meeting the next Tuesday night. All I
had to do was convince Versie and Glen to take me to the west side of
the airport for the meeting. Versie agreed, even though she had
reservations about what the program was all about. She assumed it was
something like the Boy Scouts, which both Glen and Versie frowned on.
My dad, as usual didn't seem impressed one way or the other, but he
certainly didn't like the late hour he would have to pick me up. Even
though the meetings were scheduled to end at 10:00pm, he relented and
drove us all over to the west side of Miami International Airport to
look for the one-story, military building that housed the Civil Air
Patrol squadron that Tuesday night that changed my life.
The
building was located on the two-lane road that ran around the west
perimeter of the Miami International Air Depot, home of the US Air
Force Reserve units stationed at Miami International airport. MIAD
was the home of active Air Force reserve units that flew both
twin-engine C-119 Flying Boxcars and SA-16 Albatross Air/Sea rescue
amphibians. The
barren street lights and security lights on the beige colored
buildings gave the place an eerie pale cast. There were two rows of
parked cars on one side, and a group of men in khaki uniforms
standing in rows with their hands behind their backs just beyond the
buildings. Versie and Glen waited in the newly acquired 1956 Ford
that had eventually replaced the old station wagon as I walked
cautiously over toward the group of men standing in the light. The
smells pervading the air were new to me. Aircraft fuel smells and
exhaust fumes hung in the damp evening air like cheap perfume at a
department store ladies counter. I soon recognized Danny in the
group, and I turned and waved at Versie and Glen. OK, you can leave now!
There
were several of us in civilian clothes, newly recruited to join the
cadet squadron. I looked at the formation of men and realized the
majority were not much older than me. They were all high school
students. Some had stripes on their sleeves, and several had
officer's insignia on their collars. They all looked sharp. Shoes
were highly shined, no, they were polished! Absolutely polished to a
sheen I had never seen before. I was to later learn what
“spit-shined” meant. Danny told the new members to stand in a row
off to the side and simply follow what the regular, uniformed cadets
did when commanded by the Cadet Commander. As we shuffled into
position and nervously watched the two young men in front of the
assembled group, we realized we had no idea what to expect. We were
in a new, unfamiliar setting where everyone else was in total
synchronization, while we were in absolute chaos. As the furthest
cadet turned and said, “Lieutenant, call the squadron to
attention,” everyone seemed to tense and prepare for something
important. As the second cadet spun on his heel and faced the
formation of cadets, he called out “Squadron, ATTENHUT!” The
group snapped to perfect alignment, and finally, I had found
something thrilling I wanted to be a part of.
I
embarrassed myself later in the general meeting that very first night
by asking a question about getting a uniform I thought was valid, but
apparently Lieutenant Palumbo, the Commander, Cadet Squadron Two,
thought otherwise. The senior members of the Civil Air Patrol were
all adults, serving in command positions to supervise the cadet
functions. There were Cadet officers and Non-commissioned officers
but they had no real “power' within the actual organization. That
rested with the senior members who ran the meetings.
I
don't remember the question, it was something about how to acquire
uniforms or something, but his blistering answer set a tone with me
that taught me caution in all dealings with superiors that became my
standard throughout my time in the Civil Air Patrol and the US Air
Force as well. Palumbo looked silently at me at first, and when the
theatrical impact was perfect, he caustically and loudly said, “What
the Hell does that have to do with windshield wipers on a duck's
ass?”
I
was stunned, absolutely shocked I had misread his question of “Any
Questions?” Obviously, that was not what he meant! A couple of the
older Cadet officers chuckled, but most simply sat, staring straight
ahead. After the meeting was over and we walked to our waiting
parents, several of the regular cadets came over and told me not to
take Palumbo's rebuff personally, it was a standard response from
some senior members. One of those cadets was Cadet Lieutenant Scott
Stoddard, who later became Cadet Commander. My dumb-ass question won
me several other sympathetic friends that meeting and we remained
friends until we left the CAP.
That
night was the beginning of a wonderful time in my life, it helped
mold me in more ways than one. Happy times were here again.
The Drill Team
 |
| New cadet, 1957 |
Sometime
during the first year of regular meetings at the squadron, I
volunteered to be on the squadron drill team. Every cadet squadron
competed in annual drill competitions held at state level. Winners
then competed regionally, with the best ten teams going on to
National Competition at Rockefeller Plaza in New York. We practiced
for an hour extra every Tuesday night, every Saturday, and sometimes
even on Thursday nights between the dark, empty warehouses of the
freight terminal. We all got along well, and we were good. In fact,
we were very good. Almost all of us became good and fast friends. The
more we practiced, the better we got.
We
flew from Opa Locka Naval Air Station to Orlando Air Force Base in a
Navy R5D, their version of a DC-4, for my first state level drill
competition. It was my first ride in a big, four engine airplane. We
sat sideways, sitting in canvas strap seats, wondering why we were
flying Navy instead of Air Force, but apparently they were the only
ones who could supply a flight to Orlando.
We
lost. In fact, we lost badly. How we lost changed everything. We were
better than any other team there, but we got burned by something we
hadn't counted on: Orlando Air Force Base used a grass drill field.
The reviewing stands looked better suited for a football game than a
drill competition. We had practiced all year using only silent drill!
We counted our moves by the stamping of our feet, which couldn't be
heard in the soft, irregular sod surface, so once we got off cadence,
we were lost. It cost us the competition, but taught us a good
lesson. From then on, we counted softly among ourselves as we
maneuvered through our Queen Ann’s salutes and counter moves. We
developed a system where one cadet in the center of the team would
initiate the count, and the whole team would lock on his mark
counting quietly in unison.
The next year, we competed at West Palm
Beach Air Force Base, at that time the home of the WB-50 Hurricane Hunters, and we walked away, literally, with the state
championship. We worked hard and long, and we were determined not to
lose. We could have competed in flip-flops on the beach in the sand
and we would have kept our cadence. From there we were scheduled to
compete against the other Southeast region state winners at the next
big competition to be held at Memphis. I worked harder at being a
good drill team member than I ever worked at school work, but I had
to keep up passing grades or my dad would have stopped me from going
to the meetings. My grades improved, but my averages would never
recover from my tenth grade years.
We
flew to Memphis for the Regional Drill Competition on a C-119G Flying
Boxcar of the 76th Troop Carrier Squadron of the 435th Troop Carrier
Wing. It was my first flight in one of the lumbering twin-engine
transports, the workhorse of the Korean War, and I loved it. We flew
from Miami to Memphis, stopping to refuel at Maxwell Air Force Base,
just outside Montgomery, Alabama. It was hot at Maxwell, we were all
ready for something cold to drink. Actually, anything to drink. It
was a long, dry flight, but most of us cadets loved it. The several
adults who accompanied our cadet drill team looked like they would
have rather walked. The big, twin engined transports were slow,
cruising along at less than 170 miles an hour and never getting above
9000 feet because they weren't pressurized. Today's jets would have
been in New York by the time we got to Alabama.
C-119G Flying Boxcar
The
Boxcars were usually stuffy, smelly airplanes, ventilation wasn't
their strong suit. There were permanent, cupped vents in Plexiglas
windows in the back that the adult smokers would throw cigarettes out
of as we monotonously droned along, but they weren’t enough to keep
the air inside the airplane from going stale. Everyone had to sit
sideways as the canvas seats ran along both sides of the big, square
fuselage. The square, dingy Plexiglas windows were hard to see
through, but there was always one or two clear ones and I would sit
as close to one of those as I could. There were steel cables that ran
from the front of the plane to the back at the top of the cabin.
Those were the “Jump lines” the static lines paratroopers would
hook their parachutes to when they jumped out of the back of the
plane. We didn't have any paratroopers with us, so the cables were a
great place to hang our dress uniforms.
The
problem with the refueling stop at Maxwell was no one was allowed off
the hot, foul-smelling airplane. We had the side door open, and both
of the personnel doors in the big clam-shell doors at the back. The
Cadet Drill Commander, Lt. Terry Thomas, was allowed to leave the
plane with orders to pick up as many soft drinks and candy bars as he
could carry from base ops. He brought back a couple of drinks which
went to our senior members, the rest of us had to wait. While we were
being refueled, an airman standing outside started yelling at the
cadets standing in the open doors in the back of the plane. A couple
of the cadets had thoughtlessly used the relief tubes that hung on
detachable hooks in the back of the airplane. There were two of the
relief tubes, side by side, mounted on the center brace, a part of
the door system. They are black, funnel-like pieces of plastic
attached to rubber hoses running below the airplane into venturis
used vaporize the urine in the air during flight. However, sitting on
the ground, no vaporization takes place and yellow puddles began to
form on the tarmac around the back of our airplane. We were soon
lectured by a stern U.S. Air Force sergeant who boarded the aircraft
to inform us we were really, really grounded, and to stay the hell
away from the relief tubes! Apparently he didn't know we couldn't get
off the airplane anyway. I think they were glad to see us leave.
The
landing at Memphis was another highlight in my Civil Air Patrol cadet
career. We got busted! Some of us, anyway. After the Air Force
reservist flight crew finally got our lumbering beast parked and shut
down in the transient area of the flight line, they loaded all their
gear in a waiting blue pickup truck and left. Someone from the air
base led the senior members off toward waiting cars and trucks, and
they too, were soon gone. The rest of us were on our own to carry
dress uniforms and duffel bags behind an unhappy airman who led the
way across the big, open flight line toward our white, wooden two
story barracks off in the distance. We all trundled along like good
cadets until we passed behind a twin-engine C-123 sitting with its
back to us with the personnel door open. Myself, Gerard, Benson, and
five or six others piled our gear on the tarmac and climbed in. We
had never seen a C-123 before, and besides, no one was going to miss
us anyway.
We
sat in the pilot's and co-pilots seats, tried on the radio head sets
and generally acted like 15 year olds left in a big candy store. Then
someone found a survival kit under a seat. There was a Very flare
pistol with a collection of flares, all kinds of first aid stuff, and
small packs of camel cigarettes packed in cosmoline paper. We were
totally engrossed in our wonderland when two Air Policeman stuck
their heads in the back of the plane and wanted to know who the hell
we were and what we were doing in the airplane. At least we didn't
have to walk to the barracks, we were taken in station wagons to the
Base Provost Marshall's office. That's where our Commander picked us
up, fuming we were already at two strikes and we hadn't even gotten
there yet.
Our
punishment was two-fold. The whole drill team was confined to
barracks and prohibited from the welcome mess, or banquet, held for
all the teams. In addition, we were given coal duty. The old coal
furnaces at each end of the two-story, wooden barracks had to be
filled every four hours or so, and part of our punishment was stoking
duty, even though being from Miami, none of us had ever seen a
furnace, much less coal. I'm pretty sure the furnaces were the hot
water heaters as it just wasn't cold enough to heat the barracks.
We
were shown the furnaces in four or five of the wooden, two story
barracks and told not to let the fires burn down as they were hard to
restart. We honestly did not know, not one of us, that stuffing the
entire furnace with coal would put it out. We just wanted to save
time so we absolutely packed the furnaces solid. We hammered some
pieces of coal into what ever cracks were there. Within an hour or
so, we got called back out again, and once again we were dressed
down, this time for putting out the fires in all the barracks. When
we protested we didn't do anything wrong, it finally dawned on the
powers that be that none of us Florida teenagers had ever seen a
furnace, or for that matter, even a piece of coal. We were relieved
of coal duty, but we were still confined to the barracks. Except for
Lt Thomas, our cadet Drill Instructor, who was being afforded all the
niceties the rest of us were being denied. So, after he left with the
senior members of the squadron for the formal dinner, we removed his
bed.
We
were way past lights out when Cadet Lt. Terry Thomas returned to the
barracks, gloating he and he alone had the privilege of being
entertained as a fine, upstanding future officer in the Air Force.
But it slowly dawned on him he had no where to sleep. All the bunks
were occupied. Everyone on the team was involved as we shuffled all
the remaining beds to take up all the extra space. At first glance,
both sides of the bay looked the same, only when you did a bed count
could you tell one was missing. We had taken his bed apart and
stuffed pieces in the latrine, even in the furnace room. The laughter
went on for ten minutes before all the pieces, including the
mattress, finally reappeared on his side of the barracks. When it was
all over the next day, we were unceremoniously marched to the flight
line and closely watched as we were put aboard the old C-119 for the
return flight to Miami.
By
the way, we won the regional drill competition at Memphis. The
original bad boys from Miami. The winners everybody stared at and
wondered who the hell are those guys? Aren't they the ones who were
confined to barracks the whole time they were here? Yep,
that was us.
On
June 11th, 1959, a bright, cloudless Thursday morning, a beautiful,
four-engine Super Constellation, a “G” model, arrived at the
Miami International Air Depot to fly us to New York City for the
Civil Air Patrol National Drill Competition. The chartered flight
originated in San Juan to pick up the Puerto Rican drill team, which
naturally made themselves comfortable in the front, first class
section of the aircraft, so we had the back, coach section. It
didn't matter to us, we were going to sit facing forward in real
recliner seats! The flight to New York aboard the last magnificent
flag-ship of the propeller era was first class by comparison to
flying sitting sideways in a C-119.
We
boarded through the rear passenger door carrying all our dress
uniforms and duffel bags. When we disembarked at Mitchell Air Force
Base on Long Island, we used the aft door and they used a separate
ramp at the front. We did not meet them again until the compulsory
part of the competition on Friday.
We
stayed in old wooden, two story barracks at Mitchell Air Force Base.
A highway ran through the area separating our billets from the main
base, so we were sort of isolated from the real Air Force. We had an
Air Force mess hall near the barracks activated just for the cadet's
stay at the drill competition.
All
ten teams were given plenty of free time to see Hempstead the first
evening, but we had a last call, a “lights out,” at 11:00 pm, the
latest light's out we ever had. We all made it back on time. The
second floor of our barracks was unoccupied, our reputation may have
preceded us. Sometime
during the first night, long after the base had gone eerily quiet,
somebody threw one of the big, metal trash cans out of a second story
window above us. The racket when the can hit the pavement was
incredibly startling. Lights came on all over the barracks area, but
the culprits were not caught. Who would want to wake up a bunch of
sleeping, dorky cadets is beyond me.
The
ride into New York City on Friday was memorable for all of us, but
the bus ride was about the highlight of the first day’s
competition. Our compulsory drill was held in the Park Avenue Armory,
and for some reason, we did poorly. None of us were happy about how
well we did, and we pretty much knew we blew it. That
night we were all taken to Rye Beach where we got to ride the famous
wooden roller coaster. All in all, a really exciting time, even if we were really disappointed in our poor performance.
On
Saturday, the final day, we were taken to Rockefeller Center where we
were in line behind the Puerto Rican team to perform. We watched them
go through their free routine at Rockefeller Center, they even did a
free, optional section to the music of “She's So Fine,” which was
an artistic shocker for us. They were good, but they weren't good
enough. The Hawaiian team did a pineapple formation to perfect
cadence and took first place. The hip Puerto Ricans settled for
second. We came in eighth. At least we beat two teams, both from the
west coast, I think one was from Idaho. When I finally got home, I
slept for twelve straight hours before Versie sent Dean in to wake me
up. They were beginning to get worried I was ill. No, I was just
exhausted.
Above and Beyond
The
76th Troop Carrier Squadron had the distinction of not only hauling
our CAP drill team around the state for drill competitions, but they
also got to fly all the cadets from the Miami area to the two-week
long encampments held annually at different, remote Air Force bases.
The first encampment I attended was at Eglin Air Force Base in the
Florida panhandle in July, 1959, and once again, we flew in a C-119
Boxcar of the 76th Troop Carrier Squadron. The encampment was
scheduled just before we flew up to New York for the Nationals.
Spending two weeks at the Air Force Air Proving Ground Center was a
treat for all of us, but the flight home was really something
special.
We
flew from Opa Locka Naval Air Station to Orlando Air Force Base in a
Navy R5D, their version of a DC-4, for my first state level drill
competition. It was my first ride in a big, four engine airplane. We
sat sideways, sitting in canvas strap seats, wondering why we were
flying Navy instead of Air Force, but apparently they were the only
ones who could supply a flight to Orlando.
We
lost. In fact, we lost badly. How we lost changed everything. We were
better than any other team there, but we got burned by something we
hadn't counted on: Orlando Air Force Base used a grass drill field.
The reviewing stands looked better suited for a football game than a
drill competition. We had practiced all year using only silent drill!
We counted our moves by the stamping of our feet, which couldn't be
heard in the soft, irregular sod surface, so once we got off cadence,
we were lost. It cost us the competition, but taught us a good
lesson. From then on, we counted softly among ourselves as we
maneuvered through our Queen Ann’s salutes and counter moves. We
developed a system where one cadet in the center of the team would
initiate the count, and the whole team would lock on his mark
counting quietly in unison.
The next year, we competed at West Palm Beach Air Force Base, at that time the home of the WB-50 Hurricane Hunters, and we walked away, literally, with the state championship. We worked hard and long, and we were determined not to lose. We could have competed in flip-flops on the beach in the sand and we would have kept our cadence. From there we were scheduled to compete against the other Southeast region state winners at the next big competition to be held at Memphis. I worked harder at being a good drill team member than I ever worked at school work, but I had to keep up passing grades or my dad would have stopped me from going to the meetings. My grades improved, but my averages would never recover from my tenth grade years.
The next year, we competed at West Palm Beach Air Force Base, at that time the home of the WB-50 Hurricane Hunters, and we walked away, literally, with the state championship. We worked hard and long, and we were determined not to lose. We could have competed in flip-flops on the beach in the sand and we would have kept our cadence. From there we were scheduled to compete against the other Southeast region state winners at the next big competition to be held at Memphis. I worked harder at being a good drill team member than I ever worked at school work, but I had to keep up passing grades or my dad would have stopped me from going to the meetings. My grades improved, but my averages would never recover from my tenth grade years.
We
flew to Memphis for the Regional Drill Competition on a C-119G Flying
Boxcar of the 76th Troop Carrier Squadron of the 435th Troop Carrier
Wing. It was my first flight in one of the lumbering twin-engine
transports, the workhorse of the Korean War, and I loved it. We flew
from Miami to Memphis, stopping to refuel at Maxwell Air Force Base,
just outside Montgomery, Alabama. It was hot at Maxwell, we were all
ready for something cold to drink. Actually, anything to drink. It
was a long, dry flight, but most of us cadets loved it. The several
adults who accompanied our cadet drill team looked like they would
have rather walked. The big, twin engined transports were slow,
cruising along at less than 170 miles an hour and never getting above
9000 feet because they weren't pressurized. Today's jets would have
been in New York by the time we got to Alabama.
 |
| C-119G Flying Boxcar |
The
Boxcars were usually stuffy, smelly airplanes, ventilation wasn't
their strong suit. There were permanent, cupped vents in Plexiglas
windows in the back that the adult smokers would throw cigarettes out
of as we monotonously droned along, but they weren’t enough to keep
the air inside the airplane from going stale. Everyone had to sit
sideways as the canvas seats ran along both sides of the big, square
fuselage. The square, dingy Plexiglas windows were hard to see
through, but there was always one or two clear ones and I would sit
as close to one of those as I could. There were steel cables that ran
from the front of the plane to the back at the top of the cabin.
Those were the “Jump lines” the static lines paratroopers would
hook their parachutes to when they jumped out of the back of the
plane. We didn't have any paratroopers with us, so the cables were a
great place to hang our dress uniforms.
The
problem with the refueling stop at Maxwell was no one was allowed off
the hot, foul-smelling airplane. We had the side door open, and both
of the personnel doors in the big clam-shell doors at the back. The
Cadet Drill Commander, Lt. Terry Thomas, was allowed to leave the
plane with orders to pick up as many soft drinks and candy bars as he
could carry from base ops. He brought back a couple of drinks which
went to our senior members, the rest of us had to wait. While we were
being refueled, an airman standing outside started yelling at the
cadets standing in the open doors in the back of the plane. A couple
of the cadets had thoughtlessly used the relief tubes that hung on
detachable hooks in the back of the airplane. There were two of the
relief tubes, side by side, mounted on the center brace, a part of
the door system. They are black, funnel-like pieces of plastic
attached to rubber hoses running below the airplane into venturis
used vaporize the urine in the air during flight. However, sitting on
the ground, no vaporization takes place and yellow puddles began to
form on the tarmac around the back of our airplane. We were soon
lectured by a stern U.S. Air Force sergeant who boarded the aircraft
to inform us we were really, really grounded, and to stay the hell
away from the relief tubes! Apparently he didn't know we couldn't get
off the airplane anyway. I think they were glad to see us leave.
The
landing at Memphis was another highlight in my Civil Air Patrol cadet
career. We got busted! Some of us, anyway. After the Air Force
reservist flight crew finally got our lumbering beast parked and shut
down in the transient area of the flight line, they loaded all their
gear in a waiting blue pickup truck and left. Someone from the air
base led the senior members off toward waiting cars and trucks, and
they too, were soon gone. The rest of us were on our own to carry
dress uniforms and duffel bags behind an unhappy airman who led the
way across the big, open flight line toward our white, wooden two
story barracks off in the distance. We all trundled along like good
cadets until we passed behind a twin-engine C-123 sitting with its
back to us with the personnel door open. Myself, Gerard, Benson, and
five or six others piled our gear on the tarmac and climbed in. We
had never seen a C-123 before, and besides, no one was going to miss
us anyway.
We
sat in the pilot's and co-pilots seats, tried on the radio head sets
and generally acted like 15 year olds left in a big candy store. Then
someone found a survival kit under a seat. There was a Very flare
pistol with a collection of flares, all kinds of first aid stuff, and
small packs of camel cigarettes packed in cosmoline paper. We were
totally engrossed in our wonderland when two Air Policeman stuck
their heads in the back of the plane and wanted to know who the hell
we were and what we were doing in the airplane. At least we didn't
have to walk to the barracks, we were taken in station wagons to the
Base Provost Marshall's office. That's where our Commander picked us
up, fuming we were already at two strikes and we hadn't even gotten
there yet.
Our
punishment was two-fold. The whole drill team was confined to
barracks and prohibited from the welcome mess, or banquet, held for
all the teams. In addition, we were given coal duty. The old coal
furnaces at each end of the two-story, wooden barracks had to be
filled every four hours or so, and part of our punishment was stoking
duty, even though being from Miami, none of us had ever seen a
furnace, much less coal. I'm pretty sure the furnaces were the hot
water heaters as it just wasn't cold enough to heat the barracks.
We
were shown the furnaces in four or five of the wooden, two story
barracks and told not to let the fires burn down as they were hard to
restart. We honestly did not know, not one of us, that stuffing the
entire furnace with coal would put it out. We just wanted to save
time so we absolutely packed the furnaces solid. We hammered some
pieces of coal into what ever cracks were there. Within an hour or
so, we got called back out again, and once again we were dressed
down, this time for putting out the fires in all the barracks. When
we protested we didn't do anything wrong, it finally dawned on the
powers that be that none of us Florida teenagers had ever seen a
furnace, or for that matter, even a piece of coal. We were relieved
of coal duty, but we were still confined to the barracks. Except for
Lt Thomas, our cadet Drill Instructor, who was being afforded all the
niceties the rest of us were being denied. So, after he left with the
senior members of the squadron for the formal dinner, we removed his
bed.
We
were way past lights out when Cadet Lt. Terry Thomas returned to the
barracks, gloating he and he alone had the privilege of being
entertained as a fine, upstanding future officer in the Air Force.
But it slowly dawned on him he had no where to sleep. All the bunks
were occupied. Everyone on the team was involved as we shuffled all
the remaining beds to take up all the extra space. At first glance,
both sides of the bay looked the same, only when you did a bed count
could you tell one was missing. We had taken his bed apart and
stuffed pieces in the latrine, even in the furnace room. The laughter
went on for ten minutes before all the pieces, including the
mattress, finally reappeared on his side of the barracks. When it was
all over the next day, we were unceremoniously marched to the flight
line and closely watched as we were put aboard the old C-119 for the
return flight to Miami.
By
the way, we won the regional drill competition at Memphis. The
original bad boys from Miami. The winners everybody stared at and
wondered who the hell are those guys? Aren't they the ones who were
confined to barracks the whole time they were here? Yep,
that was us.
On
June 11th, 1959, a bright, cloudless Thursday morning, a beautiful,
four-engine Super Constellation, a “G” model, arrived at the
Miami International Air Depot to fly us to New York City for the
Civil Air Patrol National Drill Competition. The chartered flight
originated in San Juan to pick up the Puerto Rican drill team, which
naturally made themselves comfortable in the front, first class
section of the aircraft, so we had the back, coach section. It
didn't matter to us, we were going to sit facing forward in real
recliner seats! The flight to New York aboard the last magnificent
flag-ship of the propeller era was first class by comparison to
flying sitting sideways in a C-119.
We
boarded through the rear passenger door carrying all our dress
uniforms and duffel bags. When we disembarked at Mitchell Air Force
Base on Long Island, we used the aft door and they used a separate
ramp at the front. We did not meet them again until the compulsory
part of the competition on Friday.
We
stayed in old wooden, two story barracks at Mitchell Air Force Base.
A highway ran through the area separating our billets from the main
base, so we were sort of isolated from the real Air Force. We had an
Air Force mess hall near the barracks activated just for the cadet's
stay at the drill competition.
All
ten teams were given plenty of free time to see Hempstead the first
evening, but we had a last call, a “lights out,” at 11:00 pm, the
latest light's out we ever had. We all made it back on time. The
second floor of our barracks was unoccupied, our reputation may have
preceded us. Sometime
during the first night, long after the base had gone eerily quiet,
somebody threw one of the big, metal trash cans out of a second story
window above us. The racket when the can hit the pavement was
incredibly startling. Lights came on all over the barracks area, but
the culprits were not caught. Who would want to wake up a bunch of
sleeping, dorky cadets is beyond me.
The
ride into New York City on Friday was memorable for all of us, but
the bus ride was about the highlight of the first day’s
competition. Our compulsory drill was held in the Park Avenue Armory,
and for some reason, we did poorly. None of us were happy about how
well we did, and we pretty much knew we blew it. That
night we were all taken to Rye Beach where we got to ride the famous
wooden roller coaster. All in all, a really exciting time, even if we were really disappointed in our poor performance.
On
Saturday, the final day, we were taken to Rockefeller Center where we
were in line behind the Puerto Rican team to perform. We watched them
go through their free routine at Rockefeller Center, they even did a
free, optional section to the music of “She's So Fine,” which was
an artistic shocker for us. They were good, but they weren't good
enough. The Hawaiian team did a pineapple formation to perfect
cadence and took first place. The hip Puerto Ricans settled for
second. We came in eighth. At least we beat two teams, both from the
west coast, I think one was from Idaho. When I finally got home, I
slept for twelve straight hours before Versie sent Dean in to wake me
up. They were beginning to get worried I was ill. No, I was just
exhausted.
Above and Beyond
The
76th Troop Carrier Squadron had the distinction of not only hauling
our CAP drill team around the state for drill competitions, but they
also got to fly all the cadets from the Miami area to the two-week
long encampments held annually at different, remote Air Force bases.
The first encampment I attended was at Eglin Air Force Base in the
Florida panhandle in July, 1959, and once again, we flew in a C-119
Boxcar of the 76th Troop Carrier Squadron. The encampment was
scheduled just before we flew up to New York for the Nationals.
Spending two weeks at the Air Force Air Proving Ground Center was a
treat for all of us, but the flight home was really something
special.
As
we approached Miami from the west coming in from the Everglades on
the long, gradual descent into MIAD, the flight engineer climbed down
out of the cockpit and casually looked out the window on one side,
and then crossed over to the other side of the cavernous, square box
of the troop compartment and leaned against a window to get a good
look at the engine on the other side. The fabric troop seats mounted
sideways along the fuselage walls were in the way, so he would lean
between whoever was sitting there to see out the window.
The flight
engineers always checked for oil leaks from the powerful Pratt and
Whitney R-4360 radial engines on every flight, and sometimes before
we started an approach to land. He was satisfied and climbed back up
the short ladder on the left side of the front bulkhead and
disappeared back into the flight deck. Not soon afterward, the huge
wing flaps began to extend and the buffeting that accompanies their
extension began in earnest. The huge main landing gear doors opened
and the main landing gear began to noisily lower. The C-119 was
unique as some of the passengers could watch as the huge landing gear
assemblies extended downward right beside the passenger windows.
Another unique feature of the C-119 was it required almost full power
to fly with all the drag of the wing flaps and exposed landing gear.
Those who were in the Flying Boxcar for the first time always got
quiet and you could usually see the whites of their eyes from
anywhere inside the fuselage as the noise levels rose and power was
applied to the big Pratt and Whitney engines. The whole plane would
shake and vibrate. Us “old” cadets would usually talk heroically
to the rookies but some you just couldn't console. Besides, you had
to yell which didn't help matters.
The
flight engineer, a dark haired young looking fellow, probably in his
late twenties or early thirties, climbed back down into the troop
compartment for a second time. The flight engineers usually came down
to spot check the main landing gear to ensure they came down, a
routine task. This time however, he couldn't mask his concern. He
turned and squatted down looking at the center of the bulkhead in the
very front of the compartment. The bulkhead had an access panel held
in place with Dzus fasteners, the standard Air Force twist-lock type
quick access fastener. In the center of the panel was a small
inspection panel that allowed a quick check of the nose landing gear.
When the landing gear was up, the huge double tires of the nose
wheels were right up against the panel. You could squat and look
through the panel and see the tread on the tires on the nose landing
gear, folded compactly inside the fuselage just under the flight
deck. That was the problem for our flight engineer. They weren't
supposed to be there, at least, not when the pilot was trying to
land. They should have been down and locked for landing. The adult
members of our squadron began to look like the first timers. You
could see the whites of their eyes in the dimly lighted compartment
better than those of the scared cadets!
We
hadn't changed course, still droning on directly toward Miami. We
knew we were still well west of Krome Avenue, over the Everglades,
but we knew we weren't too far or out or the pilot wouldn't have
lowered the landing gear. The flight engineer removed the panel and
looked around inside the nose-wheel compartment. He backed out and
stood up, grabbing a red painted D-Ring hanging just above the panel.
The D-ring was on the end of a metal stranded cable which barely
protruded into the troop area. It was the emergency gear release
should the hydraulic system fail. He braced himself by putting one
foot against the bulkhead and yanked the D-ring with all his might.
He practically fell on the floor as the D-ring pulled off the cable,
leaving our surprised flight engineer with a useless, red painted
D-ring in his hand, and the nose landing gear still firmly stowed
inside the aircraft. He scrambled back up the ladder and almost
immediately reappeared as if speed were of the utmost importance. All
the cadets watched, absolutely fascinated by the drama unfolding
right before our eyes.
He
had grabbed a pair of vise grip pliers, a type of locking pliers that
can be adjusted for size and locking grip, and returned to the
stubborn cable. Working to get a grip on the cable proved to be
futile as attempt after attempt to pull the cable met with failure.
Finally, with absolutely no recourse, he twisted the remaining Dzus
fasteners and took off the main panel. He laid it off to the right
side of the bulkhead. With the panel removed, we could all see into
the wheel well from the troop compartment. The flight engineer took a
deep breath and climbed into the wheel well, squeezing past the huge
tires that all but blocked the opening. He disappeared from sight
completely and all the cadets as well as the few adults held their
collective breath.
It
was a moment most of us will never forget. He couldn't be seen, yet
we knew he was struggling inside a dark, cramped compartment with
absolutely no room. The droning was incredibly intense, yet none of
us heard it. Suddenly, with an indescribable noise, the nose gear
doors slammed open and the huge landing gear fell free. The inside of
the fuselage was blasted by 150 mile an hour wind! Dress uniforms,
carefully wrapped in plastic, hanging from the static jump lines that
ran the length of the aircraft, blew all over the back of the
airplane. I could see the landscape below with the nose gear fully
extended, and our incredibly dedicated, unsung hero, bracing himself
with one foot on each side of the gaping hole! Nothing below him but
the Everglades some 2000 feet down. And he didn't have on a
parachute! He couldn't fit in the wheel well with one on.
He
slowly backed out of the wheel well, and climbed back out through the
access panel. He brushed off his pant legs and climbed back up the
ladder while we sat in wind-blown awe. The landing was without
further incident, even though we were followed back to Base
Operations by an Air Force O1A fire truck. He got a round of applause but I don’t think he heard it. We never even found out his name. We all disembarked from the aircraft, and waited on the apron, but we never got to meet him. He was probably busy filling out paperwork.
By Order of...
As
we approached Miami from the west coming in from the Everglades on
the long, gradual descent into MIAD, the flight engineer climbed down
out of the cockpit and casually looked out the window on one side,
and then crossed over to the other side of the cavernous, square box
of the troop compartment and leaned against a window to get a good
look at the engine on the other side. The fabric troop seats mounted
sideways along the fuselage walls were in the way, so he would lean
between whoever was sitting there to see out the window.
The flight engineers always checked for oil leaks from the powerful Pratt and Whitney R-4360 radial engines on every flight, and sometimes before we started an approach to land. He was satisfied and climbed back up the short ladder on the left side of the front bulkhead and disappeared back into the flight deck. Not soon afterward, the huge wing flaps began to extend and the buffeting that accompanies their extension began in earnest. The huge main landing gear doors opened and the main landing gear began to noisily lower. The C-119 was unique as some of the passengers could watch as the huge landing gear assemblies extended downward right beside the passenger windows. Another unique feature of the C-119 was it required almost full power to fly with all the drag of the wing flaps and exposed landing gear. Those who were in the Flying Boxcar for the first time always got quiet and you could usually see the whites of their eyes from anywhere inside the fuselage as the noise levels rose and power was applied to the big Pratt and Whitney engines. The whole plane would shake and vibrate. Us “old” cadets would usually talk heroically to the rookies but some you just couldn't console. Besides, you had to yell which didn't help matters.
The flight engineers always checked for oil leaks from the powerful Pratt and Whitney R-4360 radial engines on every flight, and sometimes before we started an approach to land. He was satisfied and climbed back up the short ladder on the left side of the front bulkhead and disappeared back into the flight deck. Not soon afterward, the huge wing flaps began to extend and the buffeting that accompanies their extension began in earnest. The huge main landing gear doors opened and the main landing gear began to noisily lower. The C-119 was unique as some of the passengers could watch as the huge landing gear assemblies extended downward right beside the passenger windows. Another unique feature of the C-119 was it required almost full power to fly with all the drag of the wing flaps and exposed landing gear. Those who were in the Flying Boxcar for the first time always got quiet and you could usually see the whites of their eyes from anywhere inside the fuselage as the noise levels rose and power was applied to the big Pratt and Whitney engines. The whole plane would shake and vibrate. Us “old” cadets would usually talk heroically to the rookies but some you just couldn't console. Besides, you had to yell which didn't help matters.
The
flight engineer, a dark haired young looking fellow, probably in his
late twenties or early thirties, climbed back down into the troop
compartment for a second time. The flight engineers usually came down
to spot check the main landing gear to ensure they came down, a
routine task. This time however, he couldn't mask his concern. He
turned and squatted down looking at the center of the bulkhead in the
very front of the compartment. The bulkhead had an access panel held
in place with Dzus fasteners, the standard Air Force twist-lock type
quick access fastener. In the center of the panel was a small
inspection panel that allowed a quick check of the nose landing gear.
When the landing gear was up, the huge double tires of the nose
wheels were right up against the panel. You could squat and look
through the panel and see the tread on the tires on the nose landing
gear, folded compactly inside the fuselage just under the flight
deck. That was the problem for our flight engineer. They weren't
supposed to be there, at least, not when the pilot was trying to
land. They should have been down and locked for landing. The adult
members of our squadron began to look like the first timers. You
could see the whites of their eyes in the dimly lighted compartment
better than those of the scared cadets!
We
hadn't changed course, still droning on directly toward Miami. We
knew we were still well west of Krome Avenue, over the Everglades,
but we knew we weren't too far or out or the pilot wouldn't have
lowered the landing gear. The flight engineer removed the panel and
looked around inside the nose-wheel compartment. He backed out and
stood up, grabbing a red painted D-Ring hanging just above the panel.
The D-ring was on the end of a metal stranded cable which barely
protruded into the troop area. It was the emergency gear release
should the hydraulic system fail. He braced himself by putting one
foot against the bulkhead and yanked the D-ring with all his might.
He practically fell on the floor as the D-ring pulled off the cable,
leaving our surprised flight engineer with a useless, red painted
D-ring in his hand, and the nose landing gear still firmly stowed
inside the aircraft. He scrambled back up the ladder and almost
immediately reappeared as if speed were of the utmost importance. All
the cadets watched, absolutely fascinated by the drama unfolding
right before our eyes.
He
had grabbed a pair of vise grip pliers, a type of locking pliers that
can be adjusted for size and locking grip, and returned to the
stubborn cable. Working to get a grip on the cable proved to be
futile as attempt after attempt to pull the cable met with failure.
Finally, with absolutely no recourse, he twisted the remaining Dzus
fasteners and took off the main panel. He laid it off to the right
side of the bulkhead. With the panel removed, we could all see into
the wheel well from the troop compartment. The flight engineer took a
deep breath and climbed into the wheel well, squeezing past the huge
tires that all but blocked the opening. He disappeared from sight
completely and all the cadets as well as the few adults held their
collective breath.
It
was a moment most of us will never forget. He couldn't be seen, yet
we knew he was struggling inside a dark, cramped compartment with
absolutely no room. The droning was incredibly intense, yet none of
us heard it. Suddenly, with an indescribable noise, the nose gear
doors slammed open and the huge landing gear fell free. The inside of
the fuselage was blasted by 150 mile an hour wind! Dress uniforms,
carefully wrapped in plastic, hanging from the static jump lines that
ran the length of the aircraft, blew all over the back of the
airplane. I could see the landscape below with the nose gear fully
extended, and our incredibly dedicated, unsung hero, bracing himself
with one foot on each side of the gaping hole! Nothing below him but
the Everglades some 2000 feet down. And he didn't have on a
parachute! He couldn't fit in the wheel well with one on.
He
slowly backed out of the wheel well, and climbed back out through the
access panel. He brushed off his pant legs and climbed back up the
ladder while we sat in wind-blown awe. The landing was without
further incident, even though we were followed back to Base
Operations by an Air Force O1A fire truck. He got a round of applause but I don’t think he heard it. We never even found out his name. We all disembarked from the aircraft, and waited on the apron, but we never got to meet him. He was probably busy filling out paperwork.
By Order of...
I
picked up a copy of the flight orders issued by the Florida
Headquarters of the Civil Air Patrol to authorize flying the Miami
Composite Squadron Two Drill Team to Memphis aboard USAF aircraft. It had
been left on a clipboard sitting on a chair after a squadron meeting.
The orders included the required authorization numbers from the Civil
Air Patrol Wing Headquarters and the respective USAF travel or
funding codes. I took the orders home and studied them until I
practically wore them out.
My
dad kept an old typewriter at home, one he brought from his insurance
office down on Biscayne Boulevard. He used it to type up insurance
and claim reports he sometimes did at home. He also had several blank
mimeograph masters he used to make forms he needed at work. I had
watched over his shoulder as he typed up master documents and asked
what they looked like when he was finished. He pulled several
official looking documents from his briefcase and told me they were
made from mimeograph masters just like he was using. It looked just
like the forms we had as flight orders. He just took the masters to
work and ran off as many finished copies as he needed.
I
asked if I could have one or two to print orders for a Civil Air
Patrol project, and if he would run them off for me at his office. He
reluctantly agreed to help, as long as I didn't get carried away with
using too many. Placed on a drum of a mimeograph machine, you could
run off or print as many copies of a single master as you wanted. So,
one night, I practiced on a sheet of paper until I had it exactly
like the real orders I picked up at the meeting, except I changed the
dates to the coming weekend. When I had it like I wanted, I placed
one of the priceless masters in the typewriter and carefully typed
out my first flight order. I left the names open until I found out
who would go with us on the first attempt to fly with the 76th Troop
Carrier Squadron, 435 the Troop Carrier Wing, USAFRes.
The
76th was an active reserve unit based at Miami International Air
Depot, better known as MIAD. MIAD was on the west side of Miami
International Airport, away from the commercial terminals and was
located in the center of the freight hub of the airport. A chain link
fence and a stinky, fuel fouled canal separated the Air Force section
from the commercial freight terminals at the end of a row of
warehouses. The gate to the Air Force section was never closed in the
three years our drill team practiced there. We practiced drill in the
evenings outside the compound, in the dimly lighted streets between
the warehouses, but access to the Air Force compound was basically
open to anyone who wanted to drive or walk in.
There
were only five of us on the first flight. I only told my closest
friends and the ones I knew who would help me pull it off. My younger
brother Dean, who had joined the CAP as soon as he was eligible, Jim
Coleman, Wayne Horstkamp, and either Tom Gerard or Tom Benson, and I,
made up the first flight manifest. Once I had the names, I took the
master, placed it back in the typewrite and slowly and carefully
typed the names over the manifest listing. My dad took the master to
work with him and printed off 10 copies or so. He brought them home
before our weekend attempt at finagling rides in C-119 flying
boxcars, and I excitedly studied my masterpieces. I could hardly wait
to try them out.
Armed
with our official looking flight orders no one knew were fake besides
Dean and I, – I lied to my dad, too, in a way. I told him it was
all authorized, we just needed someone to print the orders – we all
met on a Saturday morning just outside the main gate at MIAD
flight-line, the old Air Force section on the west side of Miami
International Airport. We told our parents not to wait on us, we
would call them sometime late in the afternoon.
The
official CAP cadet fatigue uniform at the time was white T-shirt,
blue jeans and black shoes. The standard Air Force soft cap with a
CAP patch on it was the only official looking part of the get up. The
fact I was the oldest one at only 15 didn't make us look real
military, rather like a group of explorer scouts who had on Air Force
caps. There
was no guard at the gate, and it was wide open, so we decided not to
march in, just walk in carrying our orders in a manila folder. We had
been to Base Ops, the flight operations center, inside the main
hangar when we flew to Memphis, so I knew where the flight manifests
were hanging on clip boards. I walked up to the counter and announced
the Civil Air Patrol had five cadets authorized to fly as passengers,
space permitting, in local, non-transient flights made by the 76th
Troop Carrier Squadron. Officially, the orders read, we were allowed
to fly as part of the Observer's program. I thought it sounded very
official.
The
NCO behind the counter took the orders, looked at me and left without
saying a word. He came back a few minutes later and asked who was in
charge. I told him as the senior cadet NCO present, I was. He then
asked which flight we would like to go on, they had two leaving in
about an hour. One flight was going to Orlando and the other to
Sarasota to pick up reservists for an upcoming training weekend. To
say my heart was about to jump out of my chest was an understatement.
One of the pilots standing at the counter watching us came over and
chatted with us for a few minutes, then suggested we go with him to
Sarasota as he was only picking up ten or twelve reservists. He would
have an empty airplane.
We
were absolutely thrilled! My pulse never slowed down the whole time
we were in the Operations room, and I still to this day get excited
thinking about the first time we climbed up into the big, open,
smelly, fuselage of the Boxcar. The Flight engineer came down and
introduced himself, then gave us an in-depth lesson in wearing the
parachutes required for every passenger in the airplane. The
parachutes were simply piled in the back of the plane, dumped there
by the last wearers to be picked up by the next bunch of passengers.
We
each picked out a parachute, and watched as the Engineer snapped open
the back cover of the chute and gave us a lesson in what to look for.
He showed us the latch pins attached to the cable that ran over the
chest to the D-ring on the other end. He also pulled out the little
white inspection book with the date and name of the inspector. We
never got on another Air Force flight without checking the pack date
on the inspection book or not looking for bent pins or obstructions
to the cable.
We
had a great flight, landing first at Fort Myers to pick up two or
three reservists, then flying to Sarasota to pick up a hand-full
more. After we landed back at Miami, we waited and walked back to
base ops with the flight crew, and in our best military manner,
thanked them for the great experience. The pilot said, “Be here at
1:30 tomorrow afternoon and you can go on the flight to take them
back.”
We
did, and we flew with many flight crews of the 76th TCS for the next
year and a half. We even got invited to spend weekends at the reserve
center as guests. We got to stand fire-watch with the real crew
members as the big radial engines roared to life, work on refueling
trucks, and even got to eat in the mess hall and sleep in the billets
with the reservists. It was a thrill we all loved. The flying though,
was the best part. We kept up the facade about the orders and no one
ever questioned us. We flew sometimes three or four times a month.
We
bought used Air Force flight-suits, and even carried hunting knives.
We all had survival mirrors tied to our flight-suits somewhere, even
though the mirrors were kept in a leg pocket. We rarely wore the CAP
caps, doing our best to look like regular Air Force personnel. We got
more than a few stares from AF Reservists flying back and forth
between their homes and their once-a-month weekend duty in Miami as
we acted like the aircraft were ours.
The
part I worried the most about was when we told our new senior member
commander, Captain Howard Gelbman, about the “great new Air Force
program” that allowed us to fly with them on a space-available
basis. Gelbman had replaced my original commander, Palumbo, and was
the one responsible for training the drill team. I first told Scott
Stoddard, our cadet adjutant, that we were flying with the Air Force
but I didn't tell him how we got the orders. Instead, I made it sound
like we had stumbled on an Air Force program we simply hadn't taken
advantage of. Scott thought it was a great idea and he presented it
to Capt. Gelbman. Capt. Gelbman, our senior member, Commander of
Cadets, Miami Composite Squadron Two, agreed and asked me to run the
program so all cadets would get a chance to fly if they wanted. I was
home free! I even got promoted to Cadet Second Lieutenant! Neither
the Air Force nor the Civil air patrol ever questioned the program
from then on. At every Tuesday night meeting for the next year and a
half, I stood up at the end of the meeting and asked those who wanted
to go to give me their names. Then I would go home and type up
another set of fake flight orders.
We
would show up for every reservist weekend, and sometimes on regular
weekends just on the possibility of a plane going somewhere we could
“sand-bag.” I spent many more hours in the back, watching the
Everglades or the lakes below. The old planes weren't pressurized so
they couldn't go over ten thousand feet. We rarely flew more than
five or six thousand feet high, the big billowing clouds over the
center of the state even more impressive than ever. We got to be so
much a part of the reservist's routine, many times I wasn't even
asked for copies of the fake flight orders, all we did was sign in on
the flight manifest sheet. The most I ever took with us on one flight
was twenty cadets, outnumbering the reservists who couldn't
understand why we wanted to fly in those airplanes. Most of them
hated flying in the Boxcars. On many occasion, we were the only
passengers both ways. Not all the cadet rookies enjoyed the big,
smelly planes as much as our core group of flying junkies, but many
came back as often as their parents would allow.
I
assigned all cadets who had flown in the C-119s before to be mentors
to the first time fliers. Some of the teenagers had never flown in an
airplane before. We would show the new cadets the parachute
inspection routine while the Air Force Reservists would just sit and
watch, some had never seen it done before. We knew more about the
equipment than most of them did. We looked just like the flight crews
by then with our olive drab Air Force flight suits, complete with
survival knifes secured to our pockets and zippers. The CAP cadet
insignia on our caps gave us away, so we rarely wore them, keeping
them folded in our pockets except when we were in Base Ops.
The
black, plastic, funnel-shaped relief tubes in the back of the C-119's
were notorious. We used them as an initiation for the new cadets who
flew with us the first time. The veteran cadets told the newbies, the
first time fliers, if they wanted to ride in the cockpit they had to
use the intercom to ask permission from the pilot. The intercom, of
course were the relief tubes. Most cadets never fell for the stunt,
mainly because they didn't have the nerve to ask the pilot anything,
but every once in a while, a new cadet would get up his nerve and
pick up the relief tube, hold it close enough to talk into and say
“Hello?” Then he would put the black funnel next to his ear to
hear if he got an answer. While the ones watching from the front of
the airplane would erupt in laughter, we never let on why. That was
up to the rookie to figure out. When they saw the relief tubes being
used for what they were designed, they rarely ever said a word. We
always had barf bags, the air sickness paper bags tucked away in
pockets because someone would invariably woof during rough weather.
One
of the worst flights was a return trip from Orlando when we had to
fly through one of the famous Florida thunderheads. We were pitched
violently for many long minutes. The lights went out, came back on,
then went out again. It was almost dark inside the plane even though
it was in the afternoon. The cadet sitting next to Dean, on the other
side of the aircraft began to lose it, and before Dean could give him
a barf bag, the new cadet turned, and instead of leaning forward to
keep it away from everybody, simply tilted his head down and threw
up. Needless to say, he started a chain reaction that soon swept the
whole plane. We always cleaned up afterward unless the flight crew
told us to leave the plane. We didn't want the crewmen to do it as we
were afraid they might cancel the program to get rid of us.
The
floor of the airplane was covered in wooden boards with several metal
rails that ran from front to back, interspersed with big, metal tie
down loops. The seats were simply canvas stretched of metal tube
frames. You could watch screw heads in the side panels vibrate
completely around from the heavy engine vibration during takeoff when
the engines were at full power. We got to sit in the huge, spacious
cockpit of the C-119 many times during takeoffs and landings.
My
favorite was Sarasota, takeoffs there were always memorable. The old
C-119 would sit with its twin-boom tail right up against the US 41
perimeter fence and go through the engine run-up procedures. When we
got permission to take off, the pilot would swing around and line up
at the end of the longest runway, stand on the brakes and run the
engines to full power. The old airplanes would shudder and shake, and
when the pilot had maximum power, he would release the brakes and the
airplane woulds lurch crookedly forward until the pilot had it
straight again. We would lumber slowly at first, then pick up speed
just as we passed the control tower where the nose would lift up, but
the pilot never pulled up then, waiting until we were practically out
of runway before he would pull back gently on the wheel and we would
clear the eastern fence of the airport by 50 or 60 feet. You could
see the facial expressions on the people in the cars on the road
below.
There
were four fixed seats in the flight deck, with another fold down seat
we got to use as “observers,” plus there was a long work table
across the back of the cockpit with a neat little view screen called
a “drift meter.” We would take turns looking down through the
device with its marked divisions and graticule and pretend it was a
bomb sight. Flight crews were always made up of a pilot, a copilot,
and a flight engineer who did everything from load-master to coffee
runs for the pilots. We could fit three cadets on the table, and two
in the empty seats. During landings the pilot would clear the deck of
anyone who couldn't be strapped in, so at least two of us got to sit
up front for every landing. I had over 80 hours of cockpit time,
signed in my CAP logbook, by the time I joined the Air Force in
December of 1960.
In
early 1960, Miami International Air Depot closed, and the 76th TCS
moved to Homestead Air Force Base, forty miles further south. The
C-119s were eventually retired and my CAP flight program came to a
close. Ironically, I flew in a U. S. Air Force aircraft only once the
next eight years I was on active duty in the Air Force, and that was
when I flew to Germany! The Civil Air Patrol was a great time for
many cadets, young flying enthusiasts who got to experience military
flying at the end of the propeller-driven era, and the beginning of
the jet age. No one realized the whole thing was put on by a sixteen
year old boy who typed with two fingers.
I
picked up a copy of the flight orders issued by the Florida
Headquarters of the Civil Air Patrol to authorize flying the Miami
Composite Squadron Two Drill Team to Memphis aboard USAF aircraft. It had
been left on a clipboard sitting on a chair after a squadron meeting.
The orders included the required authorization numbers from the Civil
Air Patrol Wing Headquarters and the respective USAF travel or
funding codes. I took the orders home and studied them until I
practically wore them out.
My
dad kept an old typewriter at home, one he brought from his insurance
office down on Biscayne Boulevard. He used it to type up insurance
and claim reports he sometimes did at home. He also had several blank
mimeograph masters he used to make forms he needed at work. I had
watched over his shoulder as he typed up master documents and asked
what they looked like when he was finished. He pulled several
official looking documents from his briefcase and told me they were
made from mimeograph masters just like he was using. It looked just
like the forms we had as flight orders. He just took the masters to
work and ran off as many finished copies as he needed.
I
asked if I could have one or two to print orders for a Civil Air
Patrol project, and if he would run them off for me at his office. He
reluctantly agreed to help, as long as I didn't get carried away with
using too many. Placed on a drum of a mimeograph machine, you could
run off or print as many copies of a single master as you wanted. So,
one night, I practiced on a sheet of paper until I had it exactly
like the real orders I picked up at the meeting, except I changed the
dates to the coming weekend. When I had it like I wanted, I placed
one of the priceless masters in the typewriter and carefully typed
out my first flight order. I left the names open until I found out
who would go with us on the first attempt to fly with the 76th Troop
Carrier Squadron, 435 the Troop Carrier Wing, USAFRes.
The
76th was an active reserve unit based at Miami International Air
Depot, better known as MIAD. MIAD was on the west side of Miami
International Airport, away from the commercial terminals and was
located in the center of the freight hub of the airport. A chain link
fence and a stinky, fuel fouled canal separated the Air Force section
from the commercial freight terminals at the end of a row of
warehouses. The gate to the Air Force section was never closed in the
three years our drill team practiced there. We practiced drill in the
evenings outside the compound, in the dimly lighted streets between
the warehouses, but access to the Air Force compound was basically
open to anyone who wanted to drive or walk in.
There
were only five of us on the first flight. I only told my closest
friends and the ones I knew who would help me pull it off. My younger
brother Dean, who had joined the CAP as soon as he was eligible, Jim
Coleman, Wayne Horstkamp, and either Tom Gerard or Tom Benson, and I,
made up the first flight manifest. Once I had the names, I took the
master, placed it back in the typewrite and slowly and carefully
typed the names over the manifest listing. My dad took the master to
work with him and printed off 10 copies or so. He brought them home
before our weekend attempt at finagling rides in C-119 flying
boxcars, and I excitedly studied my masterpieces. I could hardly wait
to try them out.
Armed
with our official looking flight orders no one knew were fake besides
Dean and I, – I lied to my dad, too, in a way. I told him it was
all authorized, we just needed someone to print the orders – we all
met on a Saturday morning just outside the main gate at MIAD
flight-line, the old Air Force section on the west side of Miami
International Airport. We told our parents not to wait on us, we
would call them sometime late in the afternoon.
The
official CAP cadet fatigue uniform at the time was white T-shirt,
blue jeans and black shoes. The standard Air Force soft cap with a
CAP patch on it was the only official looking part of the get up. The
fact I was the oldest one at only 15 didn't make us look real
military, rather like a group of explorer scouts who had on Air Force
caps. There
was no guard at the gate, and it was wide open, so we decided not to
march in, just walk in carrying our orders in a manila folder. We had
been to Base Ops, the flight operations center, inside the main
hangar when we flew to Memphis, so I knew where the flight manifests
were hanging on clip boards. I walked up to the counter and announced
the Civil Air Patrol had five cadets authorized to fly as passengers,
space permitting, in local, non-transient flights made by the 76th
Troop Carrier Squadron. Officially, the orders read, we were allowed
to fly as part of the Observer's program. I thought it sounded very
official.
The
NCO behind the counter took the orders, looked at me and left without
saying a word. He came back a few minutes later and asked who was in
charge. I told him as the senior cadet NCO present, I was. He then
asked which flight we would like to go on, they had two leaving in
about an hour. One flight was going to Orlando and the other to
Sarasota to pick up reservists for an upcoming training weekend. To
say my heart was about to jump out of my chest was an understatement.
One of the pilots standing at the counter watching us came over and
chatted with us for a few minutes, then suggested we go with him to
Sarasota as he was only picking up ten or twelve reservists. He would
have an empty airplane.
We
were absolutely thrilled! My pulse never slowed down the whole time
we were in the Operations room, and I still to this day get excited
thinking about the first time we climbed up into the big, open,
smelly, fuselage of the Boxcar. The Flight engineer came down and
introduced himself, then gave us an in-depth lesson in wearing the
parachutes required for every passenger in the airplane. The
parachutes were simply piled in the back of the plane, dumped there
by the last wearers to be picked up by the next bunch of passengers.
We
each picked out a parachute, and watched as the Engineer snapped open
the back cover of the chute and gave us a lesson in what to look for.
He showed us the latch pins attached to the cable that ran over the
chest to the D-ring on the other end. He also pulled out the little
white inspection book with the date and name of the inspector. We
never got on another Air Force flight without checking the pack date
on the inspection book or not looking for bent pins or obstructions
to the cable.
We
had a great flight, landing first at Fort Myers to pick up two or
three reservists, then flying to Sarasota to pick up a hand-full
more. After we landed back at Miami, we waited and walked back to
base ops with the flight crew, and in our best military manner,
thanked them for the great experience. The pilot said, “Be here at
1:30 tomorrow afternoon and you can go on the flight to take them
back.”
We
did, and we flew with many flight crews of the 76th TCS for the next
year and a half. We even got invited to spend weekends at the reserve
center as guests. We got to stand fire-watch with the real crew
members as the big radial engines roared to life, work on refueling
trucks, and even got to eat in the mess hall and sleep in the billets
with the reservists. It was a thrill we all loved. The flying though,
was the best part. We kept up the facade about the orders and no one
ever questioned us. We flew sometimes three or four times a month.
We
bought used Air Force flight-suits, and even carried hunting knives.
We all had survival mirrors tied to our flight-suits somewhere, even
though the mirrors were kept in a leg pocket. We rarely wore the CAP
caps, doing our best to look like regular Air Force personnel. We got
more than a few stares from AF Reservists flying back and forth
between their homes and their once-a-month weekend duty in Miami as
we acted like the aircraft were ours.
The
part I worried the most about was when we told our new senior member
commander, Captain Howard Gelbman, about the “great new Air Force
program” that allowed us to fly with them on a space-available
basis. Gelbman had replaced my original commander, Palumbo, and was
the one responsible for training the drill team. I first told Scott
Stoddard, our cadet adjutant, that we were flying with the Air Force
but I didn't tell him how we got the orders. Instead, I made it sound
like we had stumbled on an Air Force program we simply hadn't taken
advantage of. Scott thought it was a great idea and he presented it
to Capt. Gelbman. Capt. Gelbman, our senior member, Commander of
Cadets, Miami Composite Squadron Two, agreed and asked me to run the
program so all cadets would get a chance to fly if they wanted. I was
home free! I even got promoted to Cadet Second Lieutenant! Neither
the Air Force nor the Civil air patrol ever questioned the program
from then on. At every Tuesday night meeting for the next year and a
half, I stood up at the end of the meeting and asked those who wanted
to go to give me their names. Then I would go home and type up
another set of fake flight orders.
We
would show up for every reservist weekend, and sometimes on regular
weekends just on the possibility of a plane going somewhere we could
“sand-bag.” I spent many more hours in the back, watching the
Everglades or the lakes below. The old planes weren't pressurized so
they couldn't go over ten thousand feet. We rarely flew more than
five or six thousand feet high, the big billowing clouds over the
center of the state even more impressive than ever. We got to be so
much a part of the reservist's routine, many times I wasn't even
asked for copies of the fake flight orders, all we did was sign in on
the flight manifest sheet. The most I ever took with us on one flight
was twenty cadets, outnumbering the reservists who couldn't
understand why we wanted to fly in those airplanes. Most of them
hated flying in the Boxcars. On many occasion, we were the only
passengers both ways. Not all the cadet rookies enjoyed the big,
smelly planes as much as our core group of flying junkies, but many
came back as often as their parents would allow.
I
assigned all cadets who had flown in the C-119s before to be mentors
to the first time fliers. Some of the teenagers had never flown in an
airplane before. We would show the new cadets the parachute
inspection routine while the Air Force Reservists would just sit and
watch, some had never seen it done before. We knew more about the
equipment than most of them did. We looked just like the flight crews
by then with our olive drab Air Force flight suits, complete with
survival knifes secured to our pockets and zippers. The CAP cadet
insignia on our caps gave us away, so we rarely wore them, keeping
them folded in our pockets except when we were in Base Ops.
The
black, plastic, funnel-shaped relief tubes in the back of the C-119's
were notorious. We used them as an initiation for the new cadets who
flew with us the first time. The veteran cadets told the newbies, the
first time fliers, if they wanted to ride in the cockpit they had to
use the intercom to ask permission from the pilot. The intercom, of
course were the relief tubes. Most cadets never fell for the stunt,
mainly because they didn't have the nerve to ask the pilot anything,
but every once in a while, a new cadet would get up his nerve and
pick up the relief tube, hold it close enough to talk into and say
“Hello?” Then he would put the black funnel next to his ear to
hear if he got an answer. While the ones watching from the front of
the airplane would erupt in laughter, we never let on why. That was
up to the rookie to figure out. When they saw the relief tubes being
used for what they were designed, they rarely ever said a word. We
always had barf bags, the air sickness paper bags tucked away in
pockets because someone would invariably woof during rough weather.
One
of the worst flights was a return trip from Orlando when we had to
fly through one of the famous Florida thunderheads. We were pitched
violently for many long minutes. The lights went out, came back on,
then went out again. It was almost dark inside the plane even though
it was in the afternoon. The cadet sitting next to Dean, on the other
side of the aircraft began to lose it, and before Dean could give him
a barf bag, the new cadet turned, and instead of leaning forward to
keep it away from everybody, simply tilted his head down and threw
up. Needless to say, he started a chain reaction that soon swept the
whole plane. We always cleaned up afterward unless the flight crew
told us to leave the plane. We didn't want the crewmen to do it as we
were afraid they might cancel the program to get rid of us.
The
floor of the airplane was covered in wooden boards with several metal
rails that ran from front to back, interspersed with big, metal tie
down loops. The seats were simply canvas stretched of metal tube
frames. You could watch screw heads in the side panels vibrate
completely around from the heavy engine vibration during takeoff when
the engines were at full power. We got to sit in the huge, spacious
cockpit of the C-119 many times during takeoffs and landings.
My
favorite was Sarasota, takeoffs there were always memorable. The old
C-119 would sit with its twin-boom tail right up against the US 41
perimeter fence and go through the engine run-up procedures. When we
got permission to take off, the pilot would swing around and line up
at the end of the longest runway, stand on the brakes and run the
engines to full power. The old airplanes would shudder and shake, and
when the pilot had maximum power, he would release the brakes and the
airplane woulds lurch crookedly forward until the pilot had it
straight again. We would lumber slowly at first, then pick up speed
just as we passed the control tower where the nose would lift up, but
the pilot never pulled up then, waiting until we were practically out
of runway before he would pull back gently on the wheel and we would
clear the eastern fence of the airport by 50 or 60 feet. You could
see the facial expressions on the people in the cars on the road
below.
There
were four fixed seats in the flight deck, with another fold down seat
we got to use as “observers,” plus there was a long work table
across the back of the cockpit with a neat little view screen called
a “drift meter.” We would take turns looking down through the
device with its marked divisions and graticule and pretend it was a
bomb sight. Flight crews were always made up of a pilot, a copilot,
and a flight engineer who did everything from load-master to coffee
runs for the pilots. We could fit three cadets on the table, and two
in the empty seats. During landings the pilot would clear the deck of
anyone who couldn't be strapped in, so at least two of us got to sit
up front for every landing. I had over 80 hours of cockpit time,
signed in my CAP logbook, by the time I joined the Air Force in
December of 1960.
In
early 1960, Miami International Air Depot closed, and the 76th TCS
moved to Homestead Air Force Base, forty miles further south. The
C-119s were eventually retired and my CAP flight program came to a
close. Ironically, I flew in a U. S. Air Force aircraft only once the
next eight years I was on active duty in the Air Force, and that was
when I flew to Germany! The Civil Air Patrol was a great time for
many cadets, young flying enthusiasts who got to experience military
flying at the end of the propeller-driven era, and the beginning of
the jet age. No one realized the whole thing was put on by a sixteen
year old boy who typed with two fingers.
George Mindling © 2013
Excerpt from "Confessions of an Old Liberal"
