The Cream: Retrospections of an Aviation Cadet

By Dick Harper

On January 27, 1943, nineteen-year-old Dick Harper received orders to report to

Miami Beach, Florida, to begin Aviation Cadet training, with the lofty goal of

becoming a combat pilot in the United States Army Air Corps. Hes leaving the

security of his hometown of Greensboro, North Carolina for strange, unknown

places and an uncertain future, with the ultimate purpose of fighting a war.

It was a huge turning point in his life.

In The Cream, Harper offers a retrospective of his personal experiences

in Aviation Cadet training during World War II. He details his odyssey

as he travels from a small Southern town and experiences the dangerous

and exciting days and months of pilot training. He shares the disappointments

and triumphs, humor and pathos, of his quest for the coveted Silver Wings of a

combat pilot. He provides a frontline, inside view, of the rigors and exhilaration

of this training.

A memoir, The Cream narrates the hopes, frustrations, camaraderie, and

ideals of the young men who earned, or attempted to earn, Silver Wings as pilots

in the United States Army Air Corps during World War II.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jun 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781480817234

Dick Harper

Harper had a career of more than forty-five years in the oil business as an engineer, a senior officer of a major corporation, and owner of a petroleum consulting corporation. Harper and his wife Nell live in Houston, Texas. They have a son, a daughter and three grandsons.

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THE CREAM

Retrospections of an Aviation Cadet

DICK HARPER

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Copyright © 2015 William R. Harper.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The Army Air Corps

By Robert Crawford

Copyright © 1942 by Carl Fischer, Inc. Copyright renewed.

All rights assigned to Carl Fischer, LLC.

All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Archway Publishing

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-1721-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-1722-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-1723-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015905185

Archway Publishing rev. date: 6/25/2015

Contents

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION

PROLOGUE

GREENSBORO, NORTH CAROLINA

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

MIAMI BEACH, FLORIDA

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

SIKESTON, MISSOURI

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

WINFIELD, KANSAS

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

WACO, TEXAS

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

POSTSCRIPTS

CAST OF CHARACTERS

FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY

SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY

For my beloved Nell

who has protected my 6

for sixty-three years

and counting.

PREFACE

T he title refers to The Cream of American Youth, an appellation used to describe those who were selected for U. S. Army Air Corps pilot training during World War II. Whether we were or not is for history to decide. The gestation cycle of an Army Air Corps Pilot was nine months: We marched into Preflight as Dodos (flightless birds) and nine-months later we marched out of Advance Flight School with Pilot’s Wings and commissions as Officers in the Army of the United States. Most of us were only high school graduates, and the fact that we could learn to fly The Army Way, and absorb so much knowledge and flying skill, in such a short time was a tribute to the Instructors who literally forced us to learn.

While this book is a retrospective of my personal experiences in Aviation Cadet training during World War II, it also tells a partial story of anyone who underwent that grueling and exciting regimen. It details my odyssey as I travel from a small Southern city and experience the exhilarating, dangerous and exciting days and months of pilot training. It includes the disappointments and triumphs, humor and pathos of my quest for the coveted Silver Wings of a combat pilot. This story gives the reader a real sense of the hopes, frustrations, camaraderie and ideals of the young men who earned, or attempted to earn, Silver Wings as pilots in the U. S. Army Air Corps during World War II.

I have constructed an unusual amount of dialogue for a retrospective autobiographical dissertation, but this was done deliberately in order to shape the story dramatically and to lessen the impression of just narrating a mass of related experiences in chronological order. I believe that autobiography, like fiction, needs to convey a sense of tension and buildup. It is also for these reasons that I have written in the present tense rather than in the customary past tense. For the most part, the dialogue is used to present the inner awareness and growth of the main character and also to heighten drama, as well as for comic relief.

I have described in great detail the intricacies of close-order drill and covered explicitly the checklists for airplanes involved. I have endeavored to make this book the most definitive story written about Aviation Cadet training during the Second World War, and to make the reader feel that he is enduring the training with me. I hope a former Aviation Cadet will read this book and think, "Hey, I had forgotten that, but that’s exactly how we did it," or "That guy is all wet, we didn’t do it that way." In either instance old memories will be resurrected and that is my purpose.

I have read many books which relate the exploits of pilots in combat, but I have never read one that dwelt exclusively with the training of those pilots.

This is that book.

INTRODUCTION

E verything in this book is true and factual, at least as true and factual as I can remember. Looking back through more than seventy years of misty time, I find it hard to believe that any of it actually happened. Was there ever a time when I was only nineteen years old? Was there really a World War II? It seems incredible that there could have ever been a conflict that cost the lives of more than fifty million people; inconceivable that boys of eighteen, nineteen and twenty years of age could be taught to fly the most sophisticated fighter and bomber combat aircraft of the time. But it all happened.

For many of us fortunate enough to be selected for Aviation Cadet training, the mere selection was a high-water mark of our young lives. As Cadets, the son of the town drunk became the equal of the town banker’s son. The son of the poorest sharecropper became the equal of the son of the richest and most successful plantation owner. The military never inquired about family wealth or genealogy; we all became equal in the eyes of the United States Army Air Corps. The sole yardsticks by which we were measured were our mental and physical capabilities. Could we be taught to fly airplanes, and could we learn to fly airplanes the army way: quickly and proficiently? Between July 1939 and August 1945, according to the History of the United States Air Force, edited by Alfred Goldberg, 193,444 American boys could, and did, that very thing. With a wash-out rate of approximately fifty percent, it would probably be not too inaccurate to say that more than four hundred thousand young men advanced far enough to begin pilot training at Army Air Corps Preflight Schools (Pilot). I could not hazard a wild guess as to how many might have taken the preliminary examinations at the many Army Recruiting Stations around the nation or even how many reached Cadet Classification Centers.

Army Air Corps pilot training was difficult, demanding, dangerous. No one, to my knowledge, was ever graduated from Aviation Cadet training without exerting maximum efforts. Half-hearted efforts just could not and did not cut the mustard. Discipline was rigid, sometimes even chicken and petty, but absolute obedience was required and obtained. I can state this with a great degree of authority as I probably spent more time walking punishment tours for breaches of military discipline than any Aviation Cadet before or since my time. Were the rewards worth the efforts? A simple yes is not an adequate response. Absolutely is a much more accurate answer. Would I do it all over again? In a New York minute.

For some who completed pilot training their lives were changed forevermore. They had learned that they could compete at a high level with any of their peers. For maybe the first time in their lives, these children of the Great Depression discovered that they had the intelligence to compete in many forms of endeavor. In essence, they had become somebody in the army and had gained the confidence to excel and achieve in civilian life.

Many, many World War II military pilots ultimately rose to the tops of their professions: Doctors, Engineers, Entrepreneurs, CEOs, Educators, Lawyers, Politicians and, yes, a President of the United States. I am truly amazed at the number of business and political leaders I have met who have one thing in common with me: We were World War II military pilots.

The idea for this record first occurred to me during a visit to my mother’s home in Greensboro, North Carolina. She needed to clean out an upstairs closet and wanted to throw away some of my old army things. She asked me to search through them and keep what I wanted then deep six the rest. In my musty, moldy old B-4 bag, I discovered all the letters I had written to her during my military service. For some reason unknown to me she had saved them all. I also found my Flight Log Books, my Army Basic Field Manual and even a GI Prophylactic Kit. I could not bring myself to dispose of anything and took them back to my home in Houston, Texas.

The concept simmered in the attic of my mind but lay dormant until the demands and pressures of my oil and gas consulting business eased sufficiently to afford me the time to give serious consideration to putting my thoughts on paper. Almost immediately thereafter I began the work which devolved into this narrative.

My research included The Gosport Memoirs of Class-44C and my class graduation book, Blackland Presents Takeoff, both of which I have saved and treasured; A History of the United States Air Force, Alfred Goldberg, Editor; Army Air Corps Technical Orders for the PT-19, BT-13, AT-10 and AT-17 graciously supplied to me by Mr. Dave Hamer of the United States Air Force Museum located at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio and, most of all, my memory. I had to rely on my memory; I did not keep a diary. My sincere thanks to Mr. Jay Berger of Carl Fischer, LLC for arranging for me to use the lyrics of The Army Air Corps song. This song played such a large and emotional part in our daily activities as we marched from place to place, that it just had to be used in this book.

All the cadets mentioned in this book were my actual classmates, and the events I have related involved those cadets named in each particular circumstance. At least, my memory tells me they were. Maybe I am right; maybe I am wrong. I think I am right. If I am wrong, I apologize. Seven decades is a long, long time, but then it really seems like only yesterday.

I have endeavored to use only the vernacular, slang, music, jokes, terminology, etc. of the period — United States Army Air Corps instead of United States Air Force, for example. I have, where necessary for emphasis or to lend veracity to this retrospective, included the barracks language which we used so profusely. No point would be served by excluding it from this book. Maybe I am embarrassed by it all since I was one of the chief perpetrators. Maybe not, I am still guilty of that ridiculous indiscretion, which at the time seemed perfectly normal.

We are all old now. We are called Senior Citizens, and our airplanes are labeled War Birds. Be that as it may, I have never met a former Aviation Cadet who did not consider that brief interlude to be the most memorable of his life — excluding personal events like marriage and births of his children.

Aviation Cadet training was a huge turning point in my life, so I consider the writing of this retrospective to be a true labor of love.

In an infinite universe, past, present and future are all one, but in each individual world, time is measured by one’s own life span. When the future is short, there is always the past to re-live. So, if by reprising my Aviation Cadet experiences, I can impart just a little nostalgia and a few sweet memories of what once was to another old pilot — there are no old, bold pilots — I will just consider that to be lagniappe.

I lift my glass in respectful salute to all of those Aviation Cadets who were once said to be "THE CREAM."

Here’s a toast to the host of the men we boast, the Army Air Corps.

PROLOGUE

I have him in my gunsight. HIM , that murdering Nazi psychopath with the truncated mustache and the evil eyes; the maniac who has Attila-like plundered most of Europe and is intent on conquering the rest of the world. At an altitude of fifty feet, a range of two thousand yards and a closing speed of more than three hundred miles per hour, I recognize him. Strange; I wonder how I can see this well. But there he is in the rear seat of a long, black, six-wheel Mercedes touring car, with the top folded back just like in Fox Movietone newsreels. On each front fender a blood-red banner emblazoned with a black swastika within a white circle ripples furiously in the driving wind.

He sees me and stands up, waving his arms frantically. His body is covered in a long, black leather SS-type trench coat; a Nazi-emblem-bedecked black garrison cap sits jauntily on his head; his eyes protected by dark goggles but still somehow staring imploringly into mine.

Time slows to a snail’s pace, as though I am flying through molasses, as though events are being exposed one frame at a time.

I am cold, freezing cold; I have never felt so miserable and uncomfortable in the cockpit of my P-38 Lockheed Lightning. I survey the cloudless sky above and the frozen, snow-covered earth below and remember why I am so cold. The canopy has been blown away, and the glacial January wind of northern Germany is whipping wavelets in my exposed cheeks. I feel the warmth of blood flowing in rivulets from my head, congealing alongside my left eye. My left arm is hanging numb and useless at my side. At eleven o’clock low, I see the cause. The steam locomotive I have just blasted sprawls crumpled across the tracks; rail cars, zig-zagged into a steel accordion, lie in crushed heaps behind the smoking ruins. Steam and smoke, blended into a murky-gray vapor, rise at least three hundred feet in the frigid air.

I had attacked from the rear of the train, and from the caboose to the engine I stitched it with my fifty calibers. The engine I blasted, and when the boiler exploded, I had flown hell-bent through the explosion. I do not have the slightest idea what blew the canopy off of my airplane, but something had torn it away and bounced it off my head and shoulder. I had made a one-eighty to assure myself of my kill and then I saw HIM. Time is dragging. What is happening? The twin Allisons roar smoothly but the propellers seem to be rotating in slow motion. What is wrong?

I know I have enough ammunition for at least one two-second burst, maybe even three seconds.

I center my gunsight on that despised visage. I see his face clearly; his pleading expression. He is begging, Dick. Dick. Please. Please! I hear his every word, even through the deafening noise of the screaming engines. Why? He knows my name. How?

Time crawls. I squeeze the trigger on the control wheel. I see each fifty-caliber round as it leaves the gun barrel; a stream of death from each of the lethal, nose-mounted machine guns. Streams which converge on the Dictator of Nazi Germany standing in the rear of the Mercedes staff car and blow him straight to hell. His head literally explodes; he flies over the folded-down top, hits the paved surface of the road, tumbles end over end, bounces clumsily off a snow bank and comes to an inglorious rest in a muddy roadside ditch. Strangely, his hat and goggles are still in place; his dead eyes still burning into mine.

I lower my sights and concentrate on the huge Mercedes logo emblazoned on the grille of the speeding automobile. A short burst from my smoking fifties and the job is complete. The entire car disintegrates and blows chunks of scorching steel into my flight path. In ultra-slow motion, I fly hell bent into the airborne debris.

I am cold; oh, so cold. Why? Oh yes, the canopy is gone. Why is it gone? I just cannot remember. What is wrong with me? My left arm is numb; my aching head throbs with every beat of my heart. My P-38 begins to vibrate, but the strange time elongation slows the vibrations.

The feeling is of someone tugging on my shoulder … tugging on my shoulder … tugging on my shoulder.

GREENSBORO, NORTH CAROLINA

HOME SWEET HOME

January 27, 1943

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Mom and Me

January 29, 1943

CHAPTER ONE

T he tugging on my shoulder persists, becomes more violent, I hear a loud voice in my earphones. Dick. Dick. Wake up. Please! Wake up. Come on, wake up! What does it mean? How can I be flying a P-38 if am asleep? Have I completely lost my mind?

Son, please wake up, the voice is pleading, then demanding. WAKE UP! My mother’s voice penetrates my sleeping brain like a surgeon’s scalpel, and I begin to understand. I am at home, in bed; I have been dreaming. I try to shake off the hold of Morpheus, but I can barely will myself to consciousness. On a cold North Carolina winter night, with the temperature in the low teens, a fresh layer of snow covering the ground and snowflakes as large as quarters drifting lazily in the icy air, I had climbed into bed shortly after two A.M. I remember that I had opened a window and shut off the steam radiator in my room. The frigid air has forced me to hunker down under so many layers of blankets that I can barely roll over. I evidently slept on my left side; my left arm and the left side of my face are completely numb. My head throbs with every beat of my heart.

Wake up. Her words finally come through. Wake up and talk to me. It’s the army; this just came from the army, she urges, excited and very impatient. She yanks violently on my shoulder again. It’s the army. It’s the army.

The word army gets my immediate attention. I struggle against the weight of the covers and wrestle to a sitting position. Shrugging away the last vestiges of sleep, I am instantly alert and no longer aware of the cold. What’s from the army? I ask.

She nervously shakes a manila envelope. This just came in the mail and it looks important. It looks official. You had better read it. Now! she insists.

My hands tremble as I take the letter from her hands, impatiently tear into it and extract a strangely worded document that is replete with odd words, phrases, abbreviations; almost impossible to decipher. I hurriedly read through it and decide it is of no importance. Nothing to it. I yawn and hand it back to her.

She studies it for a long while. Her hands are shaking; she is still very agitated. Oh yes, there is something to it. It says something about orders.

I decide I had better take another look; I snatch it from her hands. By this time my brain starts to function and some of the strange words and phrases begin to make sense. I see Miami Beach, 1 February 1943 and my name. I remember that Howard Allred just yesterday received orders to report to Miami Beach on February 1st, and he has also been awaiting a call to Aviation Cadet training. I rub the rest of the sleep from my eyes as the meaning of the letter comes into focus. I am to report to the same place, at the same time, as Howard.

You’re right, Mom, these are my orders. Elated now, absolutely wide awake. I have to report to Miami Beach on February first.

February first? That’s Monday. You can’t possibly get there by then, she says, agitation and disbelief echoing in her voice that after a three month wait I would get such short notice. You will have to leave by Saturday. That’s only two days to get ready.

I fumble further into the envelope and discover a voucher good for a one-way train fare between Greensboro, North Carolina and Miami, Florida. Well, if that’s the way it is, that’s what I’ll have to do.

Excited, I climbed out of bed with my heart beating to a boogie beat. I have been waiting for this moment since Pearl Harbor. I had better call Howard. I mutter aloud but mostly to myself. I’ll see what plans he’s made.

I hurry down the hall to the bathroom and adjust the faucets on the bath tub to the proper temperature and while the tub is filling, I hastily brush my teeth. I check my cheeks in the mirror and decide I can get along without a shave; after all, I had one last week. I climb into the hot water and gingerly lower myself to a sitting position. The water is very hot and very soothing; I lie back and let my mind wander. I find it difficult to believe that I am finally leaving for Pilot Training. I am leaving the security of a known environment for strange, unknown places and an uncertain future, with the ultimate purpose of fighting a war. For a brief moment, my elation turns into alarm, and in spite of the hot water I shiver uncontrollably. This feeling quickly passes, and with the anticipation of becoming an Air Corps Pilot, I ponder the events that led to this moment …

CHAPTER TWO

F or as long as I could remember, Uncle Sam’s forefinger had pointed out from quick-change signs in front of the Greensboro Post Office with his eyes always looking directly at the viewer, no matter the angle. The message brief but clear: " Uncle Sam Wants You . On a hot July day in 1941, another sign appeared beside it. This one proclaiming: You Too Could Be An Aviation Cadet ." Beneath it in smaller letters were instructions to see the Army Recruiter for further details. That sign clutched my imagination with an iron grip from the moment I first saw it, and I constantly dreamed of becoming a military pilot. I would roll over in my mind the term Aviation Cadet and sweet was the sound of those two words. One day I visited the recruiter who advised me that to qualify for consideration, I had to have at least two years of college and be between twenty and twenty-six years of age. I could meet neither requirement, but even that could not stop me from dreaming.

My uncle Gilbert Lucas had a 1928 Chevrolet which still shone like new in 1936. It was bright green, trimmed in black and had neither the slightest dent nor scratch. He drove it only on week-ends, and on Sundays he would take his family for a ride around town. When I was a youngster, he would occasionally take me along. If I could withstand his unmerciful kidding, he would drive out to the West End Ice Cream Company and treat us to an ice cream cone. No ice cream was ever better than West End’s. Quite often, we would ride out to Lindley Field and watch the airplanes take off and land. I loved this, and I would watch in total fascination. The roar of the engines seemed to light my soul, and I ached to fly. We were allowed to explore the hangers and even to touch the airplanes.

Lindley Field was located approximately eight miles west of Greensboro, on the highway to Winston-Salem, and was always referred to as just The Airport. It was built on property owned by a prominent Greensboro Nurseryman, and the total improvements consisted of two short un-paved runways and two wooden hangers, with a concrete apron between the hangers.

On Sunday, October 24, 1936, after we had inspected all the planes, Uncle Gilbert quite suddenly, and surely unexpectedly, asked my cousin Bob and me if we would like to take a flight over the city. I was dumbfounded and more than a little frightened and apprehensive, but I quickly replied in the affirmative, as did Bob. My cousin Doris was not asked by her father to join us and did not seem to mind being left out of this exciting adventure. Tickets were purchased, and we nervously awaited our turn to fly. We were exhibiting a great deal of bravado which I am sure neither of us felt.

A little, rickety Piper Cub-like airplane taxied up to the hanger and disgorged two passengers who had preceded us in flight. As we boarded the plane, we saw that there was one seat in front for the pilot and two seats just behind him for the passengers. As Bob and I were nervously climbing into the airplane, Doris came running up with tears in her eyes and advised us that she had changed her mind and was coming with us. Since we were all quite small, she was allowed to ride free and the three of us were strapped into the two seats behind the pilot. The pilot yelled Switch On and Contact; a mechanic spun the prop; the engine fired giving off a blast of black smoke; chocks were removed, and we were jolting along the ground blowing a thick trail of dust and sand behind us. We thumped and bumped along the North Carolina red clay, and suddenly the tail lifted off the ground. We ran for a short distance in that mode; the bumps smoothed out, and we became airborne.

Oh, the thrill of it all. The ground rushed past us as the nose of the airplane came up into a climbing position and we became airborne. Then we no longer had the ground as a reference point and strangely there was no sense of speed. This was a complete surprise. I was so excited and awestruck that I remember very little of the rest of the flight. I sat in such fascination that my emotions so numbed my mind that the rest of the flight was forever blocked from my memory.

My desire to fly grew even stronger, but it was a long time before I equated flying with warfare.

The next year, the City of Greensboro and the City of High Point jointly purchased the airport property. Subsequently the runways were widened, lengthened to 2500 feet and paved. The dedication ceremonies included an exhibition of stunt flying and concluded with a parachute jump. I sat with my uncle Cleo Honeycutt and cousin Wilbur on a red clay bank on the west edge of the airport and watched as the famous aviator Frank Hawks treated the crowd to a startling display of flying. This was my first taste of aerobatics. He did loops and rolls and things I never dreamed an airplane could do. This only served to enhance my desire to become a pilot. I knew that this ambition was too impossible for a boy of my station in life, but I could dream. And I did dream.

After being graduated from Greensboro Senior High School in 1940, playing a short season of semi-pro baseball, and serving as a counselor at a YMCA camp during the summer, I began working as an apprentice plumber and air conditioning repairman. The first time I thought of the inevitability of a world conflict and of my going to war occurred on a steamy August day in 1941. I was driving a company truck loaded with supplies along Elm Street — Greensboro’s version of the All-American Main Street — which was bisected by railroad tracks at the southern end of the main business district. Pedestrians and motorists were protected by metal arms that swung down whenever a train approached. I was halted by those arms and was waiting for a slow freight train to clear when for no apparent reason my thoughts suddenly turned to events in Europe. I knew that we would be going to war sooner or later. I also realized that I would be called upon to participate in what would inevitably be a global conflict. I was so overwhelmed by these thoughts that my heart began to pound, and I was very frightened. I always read the daily newspapers very thoroughly, but from that point on I paid particular attention to the actions of one Herr Adolph Hitler and his German war machine.

I was born in Greensboro during the lull between the two great wars and grew up in the Great Depression. My father owned and operated a very successful restaurant. He built a beautiful new home for his family, and we moved into it on August 26, 1929, my sixth birthday. Then came the great depression which ruined his business. Then came President Roosevelt’s Bank Holiday which wiped out his savings. The combination of the two disasters destroyed him, and he died in January of 1934 at the young age of thirty. Subsequently, times became very hard for us. We did have a fine new mortgage-free home but very little else. We lived in a section of Greensboro called McAdoo Heights, which adjoined the Cone Cotton Mill villages. McAdoo Heights, by reputation, was the roughest, toughest section of Greensboro; a reputation it did not deserve. It covered approximately a fifteen square-block area with a business district about four blocks long. The residents of this area were, for the most part, some of the finest people in the world, and I was privileged to grow up with a great group of friends. My friends and I gathered together in the business area which we simply referred to as The Heights, and we were usually found leaning against the soda shop wall or sitting on the ledge of the soda shop windows.

December 7, 1941 began like most Sundays for me. I walked down the narrow, unpaved road that fronted my home and attended church services at Newlyn Street Methodist Church.

Afterwards, I had lunch at home and then walked down to The Heights to hang out with my friends. They seemed engrossed in very serious conversation which I assumed was, as usual, either about girls or sports. When they finally noticed me, they asked me what I thought of the Japanese bombing Pearl Harbor. I asked them who or what was Pearl Harbor and was advised in very strong language that it was our Naval Base in Hawaii; that the Japanese had delivered a surprise air raid and completely destroyed most of our Pacific fleet. I thought it was just another attempt at some sort of a practical joke until they assured me that it was fact and that President Roosevelt was going to issue a declaration of war the next day. I immediately went back home and turned on the Atwater Kent radio and to my great sorrow learned that it was all true.

The next morning, December 8, 1941, I stood in a long line at the local Army Recruiting Station with patriotic boys and men who were volunteering to fight the Japanese and Germans. When my turn to join the army came, I again inquired about the qualifications for Aviation Cadet training and was told that the requirements were still a minimum age of twenty and a minimum of two years of college, but that those requirements were up for review and quite likely in the near future would be reduced to a minimum age of eighteen and a high school diploma. The recruiting sergeant advised me not to immediately join the military but to wait for those minimums to change.

In January 1942, I was offered a job in Wilmington, N.C. by the Western Electric Company installing equipment at Southern Bell Telephone Company central offices, and I left home for the first time.

In succeeding months, I worked in Wilmington, Raleigh, Goldsboro and Salisbury. In September, while working in Salisbury, I learned that Aviation Cadet minimum requirements had been lowered to the level that I could meet. I immediately wrote to the Army Recruiting office in Charlotte and inquired about procedural matters to quality for Cadet training. I was advised by return mail that I could report to The U.S. Army Recruiting Station located in the Charlotte Post Office any morning, Monday through Saturday, at 10 A.M. for testing. I was also advised that if I did not pass the tests, I could wait one month and try again. I decided to go the following Saturday, which would be the first Saturday in October. I knew I could never pass on the first attempt, so I did not view this try as a very serious effort. I just wanted to see what the tests were like so I could study for a serious effort the following month. I went to a party with friends on Friday night and drank beer until after midnight. I got very little sleep, as I had to leave on the 7:30 A. M. Carolina Trailways bus to Charlotte.

CHAPTER THREE

I managed to fight myself out of bed, boarded the bus and arrived in Charlotte in time for the testing. I found that I was quite lucky in that the Post Office was only three blocks from the bus station. The Charlotte Post Office was a beautiful old building fronting on a small tree-shaded park. Signs in front proclaimed Uncle Sam Wants You and " You Too Could Be an Aviation Cadet." The Navy and Marine recruiters had their signs also. I walked into the building and was directed to a fairly large room in the basement which contained about fifty one-arm school desks. I chose a desk, and soon after I had taken a seat the room filled to capacity with anxious-faced young men. Some dressed in suits and neckties, as I was, others in sport clothes and still others in denim overalls.

A sergeant walked into the room, and immediately the murmuring of the crowd ceased. He thanked us for coming and explained the test procedures. We were to be given an hour and a half to complete the test, take a break for lunch, and report back for test results at 1 P. M. The testing would be on comprehensive general knowledge, mathematics, general sciences and deductive reasoning. There would be no cheating; anyone caught cheating would be ineligible for future tests. He also said the test was long and speed was of the essence. We were each handed a soft-cover booklet containing the questions and another booklet in which to place the answers. At the command to begin, we opened our booklets and the testing began.

I was completely overwhelmed by the number of questions and the short period of time in which to give my answers. The questions were of the multiple choice variety which added considerably to my task in answering all of them in the allotted time. I struggled with the test and finished the last question just as time ran out. I walked out of the room for the lunch break knowing that I had not only failed the test, but that the test was so difficult I had absolutely no chance of ever passing it.

I walked down to a little Greek restaurant near the bus station in a state of abject depression. A lunch of a cheeseburger and a Dr Pepper did nothing to improve my mental state. There was no pilot training in my future. I window shopped the downtown area in the time remaining, then dejectedly returned to the Post Office and took my seat in the basement room. The others straggled in and by 1 P.M. all desks were once again occupied.

The cacophony of sound that filled the room came to a complete and sudden stop, and the room was totally silent as the sergeant entered clutching a fistful of papers. He was accompanied by a stiff-backed lieutenant who affected a very serious demeanor. The sergeant cleared his throat very noisily and said, If I call your name, please rise and go into the room immediately behind me.

My heart stopped beating. He was going to weed out those who failed, I thought. Please don’t call my name.

He shuffled through his papers, called out four names and stopped. I was greatly relieved until the lieutenant said in a puzzled voice, I thought there were five.

The lump in my throat returned, Please, not me.

The sergeant rifled through the papers again and said, And Harper, William Richard. That did it, I was destroyed. I left my seat in a sort of daze and entered the designated room with the other four whose names had been called. We were all downcast when the lieutenant came into the room.

He came right to the point, All the others have been cleared to go home. You five lucky guys are the fortunate few. You all passed. Take off all your clothes including your shoes and socks. We’ll give physical examinations and, if you pass, there are only a few incidental things for you to do before being sworn into this man’s army. I was completely dumbfounded; I could not believe I passed that test.

We were taken into an adjoining examination room where we were given complete physicals. We peed in bottles, had blood taken from our arms, turned and coughed, bent over and spread our cheeks, read eye charts, operated a strange depth perception-testing device, were prodded and poked, and directed to complete medical history forms. The doctor and two nurses were extraordinarily nice, and I wondered if everyone in the army would be this kind to me. I decided that would not be true.

We were then told to get dressed and take a coffee break in the next room. They provided the coffee.

After about thirty minutes, they called us into the examination room one at a time. I was the last to be called. I was told that one of the guys had failed because of poor eyesight, one had failed because of a heart murmur and the other two had passed. My heart jumped into my throat as I thought, Here comes the bad news. Sure was sad to get this far and then fail.

The doctor scanned my examination record and looked me right in the eye. I can’t pass you today, son, but I believe you will make it all right later. You have sugar in your urine and your pulse rate is too high. Have you ingested anything recently that might contribute to the high sugar? I can’t believe that you are diabetic. You are too healthy otherwise. He was talking very rapidly. I think your pulse is fast because of excitement, and it should settle down to an acceptable level when we calm you down.

I pondered for a short while then told him that I had drunk a lot of beer the previous night and asked if that might be the cause.

That’s probably it, he surmised. Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to save your urine for a full consecutive twenty-four hour period, and take it to a doctor for an analysis. While you are in the doctor’s office, give him a fresh specimen and have him analyze that also. If both of those specimens are all right, bring the test results back to me any morning, Monday through Saturday, at precisely 10 A.M. Also, bring your birth certificate, a letter of permission from your parents and two letters of recommendation from persons who know you well. He rose from his seat, shook hands with me and said he hoped to see me soon.

I should have been elated at getting this far, but I was strangely depressed. I started toward the door, and from the slump in my posture, the doctor could tell I was not very happy. He put one hand on my shoulder and said very encouragingly, Don’t sweat it, Harper. You’re going to make it. He scratched the back of his neck and gave me one parting shot, Oh, by the way, for your information, you had the day’s highest test score.

I was absolutely stunned; I had been so sure I failed it completely. I walked out of the room, climbed the stairs to street level, and strolled out of the building, through the little park and down to the sidewalk leading to the bus station. I was a case study of mixed emotions. I had expected to fail the mental test and believed I might have a slight chance to pass the physical. Now I had passed the mental and flunked the physical. Did I have Diabetes? Was my heart abnormal? Nothing to do but find out; I decided to follow the Doctor’s instructions as soon as possible. After all, there was still a slight chance that I might make it. The doctor said he thought I would, and he is an educated man. My spirits were somewhat uplifted. I entered the bus station with the demeanor of a man who was going to be a pilot in the United States Army Air Corps.

When I arrived back in Salisbury, I found a message advising me to report to Statesville on Monday morning. I left the next day for my new assignment and was so busy in Statesville that I had no time for a visit to a doctor.

In less than two weeks I was transferred to Durham where I was assigned to the swing shift, working from 11 P.M. until 7 A.M. While these hours were very unattractive, I would have free time during daylight hours to visit a doctor and get the required test work done.

I telephoned my mother and asked her to pick up a copy of my birth certificate from the Guilford County Register of Deeds office, get two letters of recommendation from family friends, and to write a letter giving me permission to enlist in the Air Corps. After some serious pleading on my part, she reluctantly agreed. She surely did not want me in the military but with the inevitability of a draft call, she succumbed to my persuasion. At least there was a chance for me to select the branch of the service of my choice. With this accomplished, I now turned my attention to the urine problem.

I went to a downtown drug store and asked the soda jerk if he would sell me an empty Coca Cola syrup jug. He said he would not sell me one but would be glad to give me one. That was, obviously, even better. He even put it in a large brown paper bag for me.

I took the Coke jug back to the tourist home where I had rented a room and asked the cook if she would kindly boil out the jug and sterilize it for me. She probably assumed that I was going to use it for bootleg rot-gut whiskey and readily agreed to my request. Then came the embarrassing part: I had to carry that silly jug with me everywhere I went for twenty-four hours. Fortunately I could shield the view of the contents with the brown paper bag, but even that did not stop the sly winks and snide remarks that came my way when it was discovered what I was doing.

But I survived all that and at the conclusion of the twenty-four hour period it was almost full. Now I had to find a doctor to analyze it, so I determinedly set out to do just that. With a perpetually red face, I walked to the downtown area of Durham clutching my jug full of yesterday’s liquid intake — once removed. Even though I was the only one who knew exactly what was in the jug, I was positive that everyone I met on the street was aware of its contents and was convinced that I was insane.

I entered the first office building I came upon that looked as though it might contain doctors’ offices and checked the information register for the lucky one. The first name that caught my attention was Dr. Abrams who had offices on the fourth floor.