Taming the Taildragger

By Col R.L. Upchurch USMC

When he earns his wings, Tom Fitzgerald learns that he will not be flying jets, but propeller driven Skyraiders. When he and his nemesis, Dean Claymore, report for duty in Miami, Florida they discover that the old taildragger can deliver tons ordnance; however it is unforgiving of inexperienced aviators. Fortunately Miami offers diversions, such as airline stewardesses, jai alai frontons, and all night cocktail lounges.

When the squadron deploys to the Far East it deals with bizarre aircraft accidents, a humiliating encounter in a Manila bar, and a wacky operation to rescue US citizens from a civil war on Sumatra. Days before they are to return home, Tom and Dean disappear over the Philippines and are feared to be victims of communist guerillas.

Crammed with nonstop aviation adventure, this saga will not let you go until the final page has been turned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 22, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462841660

Col R.L. Upchurch USMC

Colonel R. L. Upchurch served 31 years as a US Marine Corps pilot, flying AD Skyraiders off carriers and A4 Skyhawks in Vietnam. He now lives in Point Clear, AL with his wife Providence and volunteers as a Tour Guide at the National Museum of Naval Aviation in Pensacola, FL. He is the author of numerous magazine articles on aviation and two other novels: With Flying Colors, recounting the escapades of a group of naval aviation cadets, and Graveyard Spiral, an aviation action/thriller.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

One who is to fly must have perfect heart and lungs and be able to master navigation, reconnaissance, wireless, and machine gunnery. He must have a clear mind, be able to pick out and send important information, have good judgment and have a sense of responsibility. The aviation candidate should also be naturally athletic and have a reputation for reliability, punctuality, and honesty. He should have a cool head in emergencies, a good eye for distance, keen ear for familiar sounds, and a steady hand and sound body with plenty of reserve; he should be quick witted, highly intelligent and tractable. Immature, high-strung, over-confident, impatient candidates are not desired.

US War Department, 1917

CHAPTER 1

The prettier the airplane, the easier it is to fly.

The converse is also true.

I was a twentieth century knight on his way to rescue the world. Well, at least that is the way I felt while barreling down US Highway 27 on that frigid January morning in 1956. But instead of riding a white stallion I was driving one of Detroit’s finest—a brand new ‘56 Oldsmobile 88 Holiday. My suit of armor was not silver, but Marine Corps green adorned with the gold bars and wings of a brand new naval aviator. The enemy? Why the dreaded commies, of course. We were in a cold war that threatened to go nuclear at any moment. Being a Marine, I figured my future battlefield to be somewhere in the Far East. In the meantime I would train for this noble expedition in a much more hospitable environment: Marine Corps Air Station, Miami, Florida.

Noticing that I was pushing the Olds beyond my usual ten miles above the speed limit, I eased up on the accelerator. I didn’t need a ticket from some intolerant state trooper before I was fifty miles out of Detroit. I asked myself, What’s the hurry? When you get there you won’t be climbing into the cockpit of the sleek jet fighter you dreamed about; you will be flying the world’s ugliest airplane. All that training in a bullet-nosed Grumman Panther jet was for nothing. I turned the heater down a few notches, even though the outside temperature was ten degrees. Thinking about that day we received our orders to Miami made me hot as hell.

* * *

Naval air Station, Beeville, Texas

One month earlier

AH-ten-HUT!

Bubbling with great expectations, we NavCads stood rigid as totems. (NavCad is the acronym for Naval Aviation Cadet). Graduation was only days away and we had been summoned to receive our assignments in the fleet. As far as we knew, the Marine Corps had only two air stations stateside: MCAS Cherry Point, North Carolina and MCAS El Toro, California. There was also MCAS Kaneohe Bay, Hawaii, but new pilots usually started out at Cherry Point or El Toro.

As you were, the major said, motioning us to take our seats. He thumbed through the stack of envelopes, glancing up periodically to make sure he saw the right face for each set of orders.

Needless to say, I was anxious. After completing two years of college—the rule was any college, any subject, anywhere—and passing a flight physical and series of aptitude tests, I had reported to Pensacola for a year and a half of instruction in how to be an aviator and naval officer—in that order. About a third of my fellow NavCads had come from the US Navy and Marine Corps enlisted ranks. For them the navy had waived the two years of college, but the physical and aptitude requirements remained the same. Being former enlisted had an advantage. They were aware of what was in store for them as naval officers. Ex-college bums like me were totally ignorant of such matters. When I assembled my uniform for the graduation ceremony TJ Walden, my ex-enlisted Marine buddy now sitting beside me, had to help me with the hardware.

While the major checked the envelopes, TJ leaned over and whispered, I’m betting I get the Skyray. The red hot, supersonic F4D Skyray had just been introduced to the fleet.

Good luck, I whispered. I had the same wish, but figured we would more likely be assigned one of the older jets.

The major leaned against the desk and folded his arms.

NavCads, in a few days you will finish your jet training and I suspect you are all hoping to go to Hawaii or California and fly the newest jet fighters.

I studied the major’s face. It was puckered, as though he were about to spit out something rotten.

As you read your orders, he continued, "remember that the needs of the Corps always—and I mean always—come first."

TJ whispered, This is not good.

I thought, OK, so we aren’t getting the Skyray. I’ll settle for the FJ3 Fury. The Corps’ adaptation of the Korean War F-86 Saber Jet was a little old maybe, but a good airplane. Or even the F9F Cougar, the swept-wing version of the Grumman Panther we were flying in advanced training. At least the Cougar would be a step up.

The major began passing out the orders and said with a nervous smile, Well, it appears the Corps needs your bodies at Marine Corps Air Station, Miami, Florida.

My spirits soared. Miami, Florida? I didn’t even know we had an air station in Florida. Man, are we lucky! The last class of graduates went to Cheerless Point. Word quickly filtered back that the swamps surrounding that base had fewer babes per square mile than Antarctica. I thought, We are not only getting jets, we’re getting the world’s most beautiful beaches packed with wall-to-wall bikinis. Thank you, Lord.

When you get to Miami, he droned, you will fill the cockpits of . . .

Come on, sir, spill it out. Is it Furies or Cougars?

… of AD6 Skyraiders. And then …

My spirits hit the deck with a sickening Ker-Plop! The major added something about a special mission and the great flying weather, but he could have saved his breath. I doubt any of us heard a word after, Skyraider. Our visions of Skyrays, Furies, and Cougars abruptly vanished. In their stead was a snail-paced, exhaust-coughing, oil-spewing flying machine as streamlined as an outhouse and equipped with two vestiges of aviation yesteryear—a tail wheel and a propeller.

I looked at TJ. Shaking his head in denial, he scanned the orders with trembling hands. I read my orders once, twice, three times, hoping it was a mistake. Nope. That was my name at the top, all right—correct spelling and correct service number. Trying to accept the reality of my heartbreaking assignment, I leaned back, closed my eyes and told myself all would be fine. After all, an airplane’s an airplane.

After a few moping moments, my thoughts shifted to the flip side of all this: beautiful babes jiggling their body parts up and down Miami Beach. But naval aviators are an odd lot. When airplanes weigh heavily on our minds, there is seldom room for anything else, even female body parts. After the major departed I shoved my orders in their manila envelope and with my head bowed, joined my disheartened buddies in a silent march out the ready room door.

* * *

I rolled down my window and spit that lousy day into the seventy-mile-an-hour January air. Wanting to think of better things, I tuned my radio to a station featuring a new rock and roll singer named Elvis Presley. He was singing Heartbreak Hotel. ‘Tell me about it," I muttered. While listening I recalled that our fleet assignment was not our worst heartbreak those last days before graduation. My buddy, Will Rumford, had been killed on his last solo flight when his Panther mysteriously crashed on the King Ranch, southwest of Corpus Christi, Texas. The rescue team found his body strapped in his ejection seat a half-mile from the wreckage.

I had known Will since we were kids when I spent my preteen summers on my Uncle Trevor’s farm in Kentucky. Will lived on the adjacent spread. When not doing the mundane chores assigned by my uncle and Will’s father, we explored the woods, ponds, and streambeds that surrounded the 200 acres of our combined farms. Unfortunately during my last summer with Uncle Trevor, Will and I had a stupid kid fight. It was the usual squabble where the hard feelings disappear long before the bruises, but I left soon after and we never had the chance to make it right. Over the years it was the fight that we remembered, not the good times. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

Will and I were surprised when we bumped into each other at Pensacola. It took a long time, however, to reestablish our friendship mostly because Will had gone through a lot of serious hurting that I had known nothing about. Just when we had put our animosity behind us, he was killed. Will was a superb pilot and would have been an exemplary Marine officer. What a loss.

That accident just did not smell right. I had heard that a NavCad at the other jet training base had been flying solo in the same area at the same time as Will. He was known to jump other solo cadets, hoping to goad them into a dogfight. I would have bet a week’s pay that he had something to do with Will’s death. Recalling that he was also on his way to Miami, I pressed harder on the gas pedal.

* * *

MCAS, Miami, Florida sat adjacent to the western suburb of Opa-Locka. Coincidentally, Glenn Curtis, the navy’s most prominent aircraft builder from 1911 through the 1930’s supposedly had developed Opa-Locka, Miami Springs, and the racetrack community of Hialeah. I suspected that Curtis made far more money turning Florida swamps into attractive suburbs than he ever made building airplanes.

Turning off US 27, I drove onto Opa-Locka’s main thoroughfare. The Spanish-styled homes, charming restaurants and boutiques, and streets lined with palm trees were curious sights to this Yankee from Detroit. When I arrived at the gate the Marine sentry saluted and stepped forward to check my ID card. I asked for directions to the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters (BOQ), but before he could answer, the roar of four speeding locomotives shook the trees. Looking up, I saw a division of single-engine propeller aircraft flying in right echelon. The leader peeled off, generating vapor trails from both wingtips. His wingmen followed at two-second intervals, churning vapor trails all the way through their tight one hundred-eighty degree turns. When downwind, all four aircraft dropped their wheels and flaps in rhythmic sequence. If the airplanes had not been so old and ugly, it would have been an awe-inspiring performance.

So that’s the mighty Skyraider, I said watching the first lumbering aircraft touch down on the runway.

In Korea we called it the ‘flying dump truck,’ muttered the staff sergeant while logging the number of my ID card. The three rows of ribbons over his left breast pocket indicated that he had done a lot more in the Marine Corps than check ID cards.

Meaning? I asked.

Meaning, sir, he said, looking up at me smugly, she can hang around all day and dump tons of hard stuff on the bad guys. Saved my ass more than once.

Impressive, I said, remembering that I was also impressed the first time I laid eyes on an old Ford Tri-Motor.

Following the MP’s directions, I drove down Tarawa Avenue to the BOQ. While pulling my six-foot, four-inch frame out of my Olds I glanced up the street at Marine Aircraft Group-35 headquarters, then at my watch. It was almost secure (1630), so I decided to report to the MAG first thing in the morning.

* * *

The corporal sipped his morning coffee while running a finger down the list of inbounds. Let me see … ah, there you are: Second Lieutenant Thomas Quinton Fitzgerald. He placed a check by my name and looked up. Welcome to MAG-35, Lieutenant. You’re being assigned to VMA-142.

I was still getting accustomed to Marine Corps jargon, but I knew that the V in VMA meant fixed wing, M stood for Marine, and A was for attack. VMF was a Marine fighter squadron and a helicopter squadron was HM something or the other.

I assigned two other lieutenants there last week, the corporal continued. Lieutenants Walden and O’Malley. Know em, sir?

I had taken a few extra days of leave to close the deal on my

Olds; therefore I was not surprised that some of my buddies from flight training beat me to Miami, especially eager beavers like TJ Walden and Kevin O’Malley. Sure do, I said.

The corporal stamped my orders and returned them along with my Officer’s Qualification Record (OQR). I noticed that you flew jets in training, he said, with a hint of a smirk Well, don’t let your first ride in that Skyraider ruin your outlook on life, sir. I heard they sorta grow on you, after a while.

Thanks, Corporal, I answered with a frown, thinking he meant grow on you like a big zit or a planter’s wart. I’ve been told she’s a handful.

From what I hear, two hands and both feet are more like it. Good luck, sir.

Driving toward the airfield, I spotted the VMA-142 hangar and drove into the officers’ parking lot. Because rank has its privileges, the senior officers parked nearest to the hangar. Their cars were sensible and therefore boring: station wagons that looked like dumpsters with wheels. The captains drove boxy sedans. The lieutenants’ spaces, on the other hand, resembled ads for Car and Driver Magazine: one British TR-7; two Ford Thunderbirds; one Chevy sport coupe I recognized as TJ Walden’s; a new Ford convertible belonging to a fellow NavCad named Gawain William GW Savage; a Buick Century hardtop with dual chrome exhausts; and two Olds 88 Holiday hardtops a year older than mine, one with California plates. I figured that had to be Romero Cisco Hernandez’s, another buddy from flight training. The Cadillac convertible with continental tire kit, mud flaps, and Texas plates was probably Kevin O’Malley’s, my wheeler-dealer NavCad pal from Dallas. He always said he would buy a Caddy when he finished flight training. In fact, we all wanted a flashy car to go with our shiny bars and wings, regardless of how much it put us in debt.

When I saw a British MG Roadster with Nebraska plates I thought, Oh, no, it’s Dufo. Danny Dufo Hartwood was a gangly, impetuous farm boy with a habit of acting before his thought processes could intercede. He was also notorious for a horrific problem with flatulence. The mere thought of one of Dufo’s farts made my nostrils tremble.

A Chevy Corvette with BUFF on its vanity license plate occupied the space next to Dufo’s roadster. Bobby Buff Brewster, Dufo’s sidekick, got his nickname from the Brewster Buffalo, a squatty underpowered US Navy and Marine Corps fighter the Japanese used for target practice in the early days of WWII. Dufo and Buff were known in flight training as the navy’s Laurel and Hardy.

The last empty spot happened to be next to Buff’s Corvette. Before I could lift my foot from the brake, a Jaguar convertible whipped around me and took the parking space. A second lieutenant leaped over the door, reached behind the driver’s seat and pulled out a manila envelope. He straightened his athletic body and put on his fore and aft cap, a cocky smile forming below his oversized aviator sunglasses.

Sorry, Ace, he said, flipping a salute with his fingertips. You know what they say about those who hesitate.

He weaved between the parked cars and disappeared through the VMA-142 hangar entrance. It was Dean Claymore, the NavCad flying solo the day Will crashed. I met him only once during flight training, but that was enough to know I didn’t like him. Three AD squadrons at Opa-Locka and he had to be in mine. Wonderful. I made a mental note to confront him about Will’s accident as soon as I settled in.

The officers’ parking lot now full, I drove around the hangar and parked in the lot reserved for staff noncommissioned officers (SNCOs). After exiting the car, I paused to scan 142’s flight line. Twenty-four AD6s with wings folded, filled the parking apron beyond the hangar. Sherman tanks with propellers, I said to myself. The MP called them ‘flying dump trucks.’ Either way, they’re repulsive as hell.

As I walked toward the open hangar entrance an officer wearing silver bars on his collar crawled out of a jeep and stretched his lanky frame. Wearing a twenty-six-hour beard and crumpled khaki uniform, he reminded me of Charles Lindbergh crawling out of his aircraft at the Paris airport. On his upper left arm he wore a white brassard with SDO (Squadron Duty Officer) stitched in black letters. The hangar was bustling with activity.

I saluted and yelled, Good morning, sir.

He saluted back—kind of—and we walked inside. Through the open doors at the opposite end of the hangar I saw a Skyraider with its tail tied down, its 3000 horsepower engine running near max power. Inside, two mules (tractors resembling huge iron blocks with wheels) roared from one disassembled aircraft to another, delivering parts and tools. Overhead, exhaust fans bigger than AD6 propellers sucked up noxious fumes and pushed them through the roof vents into the balmy Florida atmosphere. The noise was deafening.

The duty officer pointed to his ear and motioned me to follow him to the window with DEMON’S COFFEE MESS stenciled on a plywood sign hanging overhead. Nearby was a stairwell with a sign above it reading, VMA-142 ADMIN, OPS, & READY ROOM. Pointing at the sign I yelled, Sir, do I go up those stairs to check in?

He accepted coffee from the private behind the counter, then held up a finger signaling me to wait a minute. Seconds later, the mechanic in the AD pulled the throttle back to idle and the mules stopped at the tool shed to reload. It became instantly quiet. The SDO slapped his left ear with his open hand and said, Jeez! No wonder pilots end up deaf. He nodded at the stairwell. By the way, it’s a ladder.

Sir?

You said stairs. It’s a ladder.

Roger, sir. Hell, even NavCads knew that. Get on the stick, Fitz.

And stop calling me sir. My bars may be silver, but in the air wing there’s no pecking order among lieutenants. Go buy a mess card and we’ll chat.

For two bucks I bought a card with the number five stamped all around the border, enough nickels to get a caffeine and doughnut kick-start each morning for a month. The private punched the border twice and handed it back. I carried my coffee and doughnut over to the stack of ammunition boxes and sat down next to the SDO.

What’s your name? he asked.

Tom Fitzgerald. I go by Fitz. I bit into my doughnut and chased it down with coffee strong enough to dissolve the doughnut goo lodged between my teeth.

He shoved his hand forward. A.J. Magruder. Call me Scot. Did you fly ADs in advanced training?

Afraid not. panther jets at Beeville.

Me, too. Fun airplane. When I checked in last year the squadron was flying the AD5. The cockpit has side-by-side seating and behind it a cargo compartment with a bubble canopy. Only the group has them now. He nodded toward the Skyraiders on the flight line. I like the six model a lot better—single seat and slimmer lines. Kinda like flying a World War Two fighter.

I nodded my head. Ah, yes, World War Two. The trouble was, this was 1956, not 1941.

He shrugged. All ADs fly pretty much the same. This monster’s a world away from the Panther, but you’ll adjust.

That’s what they tell me. Like hell, I thought.

Scot stretched his arms and yawned. I’m beat and my relief didn’t make it back from Key West last night. Got fogged in. He checked his watch. Twitch should land any minute.

Twitch?

My relief’s First Lieutenant Brandy Twitchell, a most appropriate name for our wondrous LSO. You’ll see why when you meet him.

We have our own LSO? The landing signal officer would wave us aboard if we deployed on an aircraft carrier.

Yep. Twitch’s been selected for captain, but won’t pin on his railroad tracks for a few weeks. He thinks it’s a miracle he got promoted. Probably is. Scot yawned again. Damn, it was a lousy night. I bailed two sergeants out of a jail in Miami Beach about midnight. They got busted during a bar fight. And because my collateral duty is assistant maintenance officer, I hung around the hangar half the night watching the mechs work on a bird that made a wheels-up landing last week. I’m not waiting for Twitch to relieve me—too damn tired. When he gets here, tell him I’ll be at the duty room in the BOQ grabbing a shower and a quick nap. He removed his SDO brassard and handed it to me. How about dropping this off at Admin.

I nodded and put it with my orders.

He checked his watch. I should be back no later than ten hundred.

He turned to leave, then caught himself. Oh, yeah. Tell Twitch the skipper wants an APM at zero eight-thirty. He glanced at his watch again. He better haul ass. That’s only twenty minutes from now. Scot walked out the huge hangar doors toward the parking lot.

I hadn’t checked in yet and there was an All Pilots Meeting in twenty minutes. I gulped my coffee and headed for the stairwell, I mean ladder. At the top, two senior noncoms were engaged in a serious discussion. The one in starched khakis was straight and tall, his shirtsleeves adorned with three chevrons, one star, and four rockers below. The other was a husky brute in oil-stained utilities. Stenciled on his sleeves were three smudged chevrons over an equal number of smudged rockers. An unlit cigar stub protruded from coffee and tobacco-stained teeth. When I reached the second deck, the tall one thrust out his hand and smiled.

Welcome aboard, Lieutenant. I’m Sergeant Major Warfield. His firm grip emitted as much confidence as mine sweated anxiety. He gestured toward the grungy Marine standing next to him. This is Top Burley, our maintenance chief.

We shook and the master sergeant’s ham hock fist crushed my hand like it was an empty beer can. Then he thumped down the stairs mumbling something about second lieutenants and his aching back.

The sergeant major shook his head. Top’s had a rough morning. Some junior officer took his parking place. He said it was a new Olds 88.

I gulped. Oh?

He’ll get over it. Top thinks all lieutenants were put on this earth to screw with his mind as well as his airplanes.

Sergeant Major Warfield was a poster board Marine. He wore five rows of ribbons above his left breast pocket, several with colors mostly used in decorations for valor. Beneath the ribbons were expert shooting badges for pistol and rifle. His shirt’s military pleats lined up perfectly with the razor sharp creases running down the center of his trousers and his spit shined cordovan shoes glistened like garnets. God had to have used a square and a plumb line when he put this Marine together. He led me down the passageway and when he reached the administrative office, turned and asked for my orders.

Yes, sir, I said standing at a position of semi-attention while handing him my manila envelope and the SDO brassard.

The sergeant major rolled his eyes and leaned forward. Damn it, sir, you’re not a cadet anymore. You’re an officer. He nodded toward the office door. Don’t let these Marines see you bracing in front of me, or any enlisted man. OK, sir?

Uh, yes, si—. I bit my tongue. All those ribbons and the major part of his rank intimidated the hell out of me.

He opened the door and passed my orders and officer’s qualification record to the nearest clerk. Williams, process these orders right away, then put them and the lieutenant’s OQR in the XO’s in-basket.

The corporal took the envelope and snapped, Aye, aye, Sergeant Major.

Warfield dropped the SDO brassard on the admin officer’s desk and grabbed a clipboard. He led me out of the office.

Has Lieutenant Claymore checked in? I asked as we walked along. He came in ahead of me.

If he struts around like John Wayne in sunglasses, the answer’s yes. He brushed by me and the Top like we were statues and headed on up the passageway. Probably greasing the skids to get a job in operations. Some lieutenants push hard to work in ops thinking they’ll get a huss.

A huss? I said, eyes narrowed.

A hustle—a boost. Like a quicker route to making flight leader by sniveling key hops on the flight schedule or stroking the ops officer. I expect he’ll drop by admin when he’s good and ready.

Warfield paused at the ready room door. After the APM I recommend you pay a courtesy call on the XO and CO. He nodded toward a stern-faced major reading a message outside the Admin Office. That’s Major Blackwell, our XO. First name’s Charles, but I guess you don’t need to know that. Flew against the Japs with Pappy Boyington in VMF 214, the Black Sheep Squadron. He caught the blank look on my face and guessed correctly that I needed to be educated. I’m sure you know all about Pappy, lieutenant, but would you like me to refresh your memory.

Please, I said.

Pappy Boyington and Joe Foss were the leading Marine aces in World War Two. Joe Foss had twenty-six and Pappy claims twenty-eight, counting what he had as a Flying Tiger. Not everyone credits him with more kills than Foss. I suspect someday they’ll settle for a tie at twenty-seven.

I nodded as though I knew what he was talking about. The truth was I had never heard of Pappy Boyington or Joe Foss.

They both earned the Medal of Honor, Warfield continued. Pappy also earned the Navy Cross. He grinned. I have a hell of a lot of respect for Joe Foss, but next to Chesty Puller, Pappy’s my idol. He took some hard knocks when he was a POW, yet came home with his head held high.

Addressing noncoms, getting husses, and the legendary Pappy and Joe, plus this guy he called Chesty somebody. I was incredibly ignorant. To be honest, Sergeant Major, my Marine Corps history’s a little weak.

The sergeant major patted my shoulder. No offense, sir, but that’s pretty obvious. He marched back to the office, arms swinging while his spine remained at right angles to the deck. I glanced at my watch: 0827. I took a deep breath and walked into the ready room.

Most of the pilots sat in MacArthur (airline-style) seats reading aviation magazines while a few stood at the blackboard drawing diagrams of bombing patterns, weapon trajectories, and airplanes performing odd-looking maneuvers. The safety posters on the walls featured Dilbert, naval aviation’s caricature of the clueless aviator who always made stupid mistakes. The one I liked best depicted a smirking Dilbert sitting in his cockpit lighting a cigarette while his oxygen mask dangled from his helmet. One couldn’t help but see the inevitable flash fire that would burn that smirk right off his face. I saw some of my ex-cadet buddies in the back of the ready room, but it was 0829 so I grabbed an empty seat and waited for the APM to kick off.

At precisely 0830 a first lieutenant with a protruding Adams apple, bloodshot eyes, and wearing a sweaty flight suit with the SDO brassard on his left bicep, emerged from the locker room. Brandy Twitchell, I surmised. Holding a clipboard in one hand and scratching his chest with the other, he stuck his head through the ready room doorway and peeked down the passageway. He pulled his head in quickly and yelled, Officers, A-ten-HUT!

I jumped out of my seat and braced. My career as a Marine Corps aviator had officially begun.

CHAPTER 2

It is better to break ground while heading into the wind, than to break wind while heading into the ground.

The APM was short and not so sweet. The XO kicked it off; then he turned it over to the OpsO, a Major Lewiston. The major chewed out the pilots for their lousy scores at the bombing target and sloppy formations over the airfield.

There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be the sharpest AD squadron on this base, he said. He looked at the skipper, LtCol Ackerman, who nodded his approval. Think sharp, look sharp, and you’ll be sharp in combat, added Lewiston. He made a few comments about combat readiness then turned the APM back over to the XO and sat down.

The XO passed on the dates for the upcoming IG inspection and the reception at the officers’ club for the new mayor of Opa-Locka. After that the meeting was over. When the heavies departed I talked briefly with TJ and Kevin, then excused myself. I thought it best to follow the sergeant major’s advice and make a call on the XO and CO. I was surprised that they shared an office.

Enter! one of them shouted when I knocked on the door.

Their desks were side-by-side along the back wall. The wiry looking XO had worry lines etched across his tanned forehead while his crew cut masked most of the grayness at his temples. He wore an impressive array of campaign ribbons, some of which I assumed were earned flying with the legendary Pappy Boyington.

My OQR lay open on his desk. The CO was stockier and had deep blue eyes that seemed to look right through me as though I were invisible.

Standing at attention I announced, Sirs, Second Lieutenant Thomas Quinton Fitzgerald reporting aboard.

Have a seat, Lieutenant, the XO said pointing to a chair positioned in front of and between their desks. I sat with back straight, feet together, hands on my thighs. Hmmmm, I see you didn’t fly the AD while in training. He rubbed his square jaw and added, Panthers at Chase Field, huh.

Thinking the huh signaled a question, I said, Yes, sir. I—

He held up his hand. I also see you earned decent flight grades. Not great, but decent, huh.

They were OK, I gu—

Again a raised hand cut me off. Oh-oh, what’s this? I see an unsatisfactory grade, huh.

I opened my mouth, but before I could answer—

Ah, so, oxygen mismanagement.

I was catching on. Although the huhs sounded like question marks, they were really periods.

Lieutenant, I asked you about this oxygen mismanagement problem.

Maybe the absence of a huh meant a question while the presence of a huh was a period. Sorry, sir. I started a section aerobatics hop with a bad headache, so I switched to one hundred percent oxygen. While doing aerobatics I forgot I was on pure oxygen and ran my bottle dry after a half-hour or so. I made a dumb mistake, but I learned my lesson. Trying to put it in perspective, I added, You’ll notice, sir, that it was my only unsat grade in all of flight training. I started to make the point that it was for a safety violation, not for bad flight performance, but kept quiet.

He grunted something—I think it was a yeah, not a huh—and continued. So you learned a lesson, huh? He looked up from my OQR and waited.

I sat silently wondering if that huh was an acknowledgment, a period, a muted exclamation point, a rhetorical question mark, or a literal question mark. The CO leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, apparently enjoying the exchange.

Yes, sir, I said softly, hoping I had guessed correctly.

Good. Lesson learned, huh. He looked at the CO. Skipper, you buy that? That he learned his lesson? The CO nodded once. Good. Skipper buys it; so I buy it, huh.

My eyes darted between the CO and XO, both staring at me silently. Was I supposed to talk, not talk, nod, stand up, leave? They pushed their chairs back and stood up. OK, I guess I leave. For sure I stand. I jumped to attention, towering over them both.

The CO offered his hand. Welcome aboard the Flying Demons. After we shook he said, We work hard and play hard, but in that order, got it? He ran his fingers through his gray curly hair, sat down, and picked up his coffee mug.

I thought, A man of few words. I had not been dismissed, so I doubled up to sit down. Then I saw the XO, who had remained standing, was glaring at me with hands on his hips and eyebrows furrowed. I quickly un-doubled and resumed my position of attention. He nodded and sat down, motioning for me to do likewise. I redoubled and smartly dropped in my chair, but sat at attention.

The XO folded his arms and looked to his left. Skipper?

The CO explained the squadron’s mission, which was to train for an extended deployment to Japan where we would support the 3rd Marine Division in contingency operations throughout the Far East. Our job in a nutshell? In the next fourteen months become expertly qualified in conventional and special weapons delivery.

Wow! I thought. Special weapons means nukes. Wait a minute. We’re gonna deliver nukes in a WWII dive bomber? What are we, a Kamikaze squadron? I wiped a bead of sweat from my upper lip. There was a lot more to being a Marine aviator than they had told me when I signed up during flight training. I hoped I could measure up.

After a few minutes of small talk about my home and family, which seemed more a formality than sincere concern, I was dismissed. In spite of the XO’s strange vernacular and the CO’s stiff demeanor, they seemed like OK guys and I looked forward to the next two and half years, even the nuke stuff. Now, if we were just flying jets instead of vintage taildraggers my life would be perfect.

I found TJ waiting in the outer office. He was about a forehead shorter than I, with a crew cut, broad shoulders and narrow waist. Timothy J. Walden looked like a Marine officer, while I looked like I was working at it. After we shook hands I asked him when I should make my formal call at the CO’s home.

Not required, he said. "Because there’s so many new lieutenants, the skipper’s gonna have all of