This is the text only version of the autobiography,
REARVIEW
By Jerry Robert Kyle
The original version has over 120 B&W pictures, was published July
2000 by his son Jerry Michael Kyle and is approximately 24 MB in
size in Microsoft Word 97 format.
For more information, contact:
Jerry M Kyle
3911 Swarthmore
Houston, Texas 77005
(713) 667-6903 (eve)
(713) 792-7563 (day)
jmkyle@wt.net
jmkyle@hotmail.com
jkyle@mdanderson.org
or
Jerry R Kyle
12214 Broken Arrow
Houston, Tx 77024
(713) 465-0390
Page III
TABLE of CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
VII
CHAPTER I - Some Branches on the Ancestral Tree 1
CHAPTER II - The Early Days . .
Downsville as it was .
School days . . . .
Winter activities . .
Summer activities . .
Horseplay . . . . .
Airplane fever . . .
Store chores . . . .
Musical endeavors. .
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9
11
11
12
15
19
20
23
25
CHAPTER III - Trips and Travels in Youthful Years
First trip west. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Tom Sawyer scenario. . . . . . . . . .
Model-T's and Herman. . . . . . . . .
Second trip west. . . . . . . . . . . .
27
27
29
29
31
CHAPTER IV - High School Daze . . . . . . . . . 36
School's rules . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
First trip east . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
CHAPTER V - College Knowledge . . . . . . . . .
Carleton calls . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Golly -- Geology! . . . . . . . . . . .
Frosh frolics . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Last Man's Club . . . . . . . . . .
Frats and bats . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Roomer boomer . . . . . . . . . . . .
Dating data, part I . . . . . . . . . . .
Easter exit . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Summer of 1937 . . . . . . . . . . . .
Next in view, Texas U . . . . . . . . .
Dating data, part II . . . . . . . . . .
Summer in the sun. . . . . . . . . . .
Page IV
42
42
45
46
51
52
53
54
55
58
60
63
64
TABLE of CONTENTS (cont'd)
CHAPTER VI - Into the Real World . . . . . . . .
Midland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Carter career commences . . . . . . . .
Bismarck-based . . . . . . . . . . . .
Fellows alone in Yellowstone . . . . . .
Ponca City . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Marital maneuver . . . . . . . . . . .
Mattoon meanderings . . . . . . . . .
Aerial photo fellow . . . . . . . . . .
Winter of our discontent . . . . . . . .
The Yellow Peril . . . . . . . . . . . .
Tulsa Man-About-Town. . . . . . . . .
Beer bars to jail bars . . . . . . . . . .
Elite meet in St. Louis . . . . . . . . .
Back to Bismarck . . . . . . . . . . .
Aerial photo school in D.C. . . . . . . .
Thanksgiving 1941 . . . . . . . . . . .
Liquor luggers and Charlie . . . . . . .
69
69
71
72
74
74
78
79
81
83
84
85
85
87
88
90
91
92
CHAPTER VII - The War Years: Geodetic Journeys . 95
Signing up . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
LaSalle gets re-tired . . . . . . . . . . 99
Cadet days . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Back to D.C. (again!) . . . . . . . . . . 101
Housing highlights . . . . . . . . . . . 101
Mapping projects . . . . . . . . . . . 103
Mapping techniques . . . . . . . . . . 104
Vamos a México . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Coastal cuisine . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110
A saber, sabe? Si! . . . . . . . . . . . 114
Socials and señoritas . . . . . . . . . . 114
Las lecciónes de lengua . . . . . . . . . 119
A volcano's birth . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
The "Real Thing at last" . . . . . . . . . 122
Off to Brazil . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123
Plane crashes . . . . . . . . . . . . .125
Geographile's data . . . . . . . . . . .126
Page V
TABLE of CONTENTS (cont'd)
Manaus: Fun and Games . . . . . . . . 126
Portuguese patois . . . . . . . . . . . 129
Oscar the pet puma . . . . . . . . . . 131
Manaus routine . . . . . . . . . . . . 133
Bôca boun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
Inca: a stinka! . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
The Oopah's maiden voyage . . . . . . . 141
Jerry's jacarés . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145
Beds vs. hammocks . . . . . . . . . . 149
Indian incidents . . . . . . . . . . . .154
Christmas in Bôca . . . . . . . . . . . 159
New Year's "Festa" . . . . . . . . . . . 160
Goodbye to Bôca . . . . . . . . . . . . 162
Back to Bolling . . . . . . . . . . . . .164
CHAPTER VIII - The War Years: Into the Wild Blue 165
Love and marriage . . . . . . . . . . .166
Preflight preliminaries. . . . . . . . . .174
Kelly field: cadethood revisited . . . . . 174
To Cuero: Primary pilot school . . . . . .175
Flight fun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .179
Officer of the Day (and night) . . . . . .180
Rocky roll . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
Basic situation: Waco (wow!) . . . . . .183
Frederick, Oklahoma . . . . . . . . . .184
Brooks beckons . . . . . . . . . . . .187
Learning about Liberators . . . . . . . .188
V-E Day! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .193
B-29's and San 'Tone . . . . . . . . . .196
B-29's and Barksdale . . . . . . . . . .197
Parachute training . . . . . . . . . . .199
V-J Day! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .201
Last flight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .202
Home again . . . . . . . . . . . . . .204
Era of Domestic Tranquility (EDT) . . . .208
APPENDICES - Miscellaneous souvenirs . . . . . . A-1
Page VI
INTRODUCTION
Whoever might have the time and inclination to scan through these
pages may well wonder why I wrote them. Good question. This compendium of some highlights of my early history admittedly has very little literary
merit, and is probably of limited entertainment value (except to me during
its compilation).
So, why? Well, when a person reaches the twilight years there is an increasing tendency to browse in one's memory and reflect on the circumstances and decisions of time gone by that influenced one's destiny, and to
nostalgically recall the events and lifestyle of one's younger days. Unfortunately, such meditations and mental meanderings are seldom recorded, or
related to the succeeding generations, and I have often regretted knowing so
little of my parents' and grandparents' early lives and backgrounds.
It therefore occurred to me that perhaps some of my descendants
might someday be curious as to the kind of life I lived, and the sequence of
events that I experienced along the way. There's more here than they'll
probably want to know, and much of it will be dull reading. But at least it
will be on record.
I am indebted to both my parents and wife Carol for their indirect assistance in my preparation of this personal history; my recollections of
events and dates of a half-century ago have been greatly enhanced by the
availability of a voluminous quantity of my letters written to and saved by
them, without which this compilation would have been considerably less accurate and comprehensive. Also, I must acknowledge that my decision to
embark on this project was inspired to a large degree by Carol’s example,
who in 1980 wrote an entertaining autobiography entitled The Time of My
Life, that in many respects is more concise and digestible than mine. Here I
have duplicated some of the supplemental letter texts and illustrations,
which seemed appropriate and useful in developing my story. Thanks!
JRK
Page 1
Chapter I
Some Branches on the Ancestral Tree
It is unlikely that anyone who undertakes the reading of these pages will
have much interest in the historical information I have here classified as
“prologue,” and readers have my unbiased permission to skip over this section if they choose. I include it simply because it is family background data
that should be recorded somewhere and which, after my demise, would otherwise become lost history.
My father's paternal grandfather and grandmother were Sam and Nancy
Kyle. Sam, to the best of my knowledge, had at least three brothers, all of
whom came to North America in the early 1800's from Scotland (probably
somewhere in northwest Scotland where “Kyle” is an element of many place
names, such as Kyle of Lochalsh, Kylestrome, Kyle of Durness, Kyle of
Tongue, etc.) Sam initially settled in New Brunswick, Canada, where my father's father, John, was born Feb. 27, 1842, the sixth child of Sam and Nancy.
When John was eight years old the family moved to Waukesha County, Wisconsin, and five years later, in l855, to the vicinity of Downsville. Sam's
brothers are believed to have moved to the southwestern U.S., either then or
subsequently, and were never heard from again by my father's family. It
seems likely, however, that some or all of the brothers eventually landed in
Texas (since “Kyle” is now a much more common name in that state than in
Wisconsin), and some of their family members were presumably ultimately
responsible for such features as the Kyle Oil Field (in western Texas), the
town of Kyle, and Kyle Field stadium at Texas A&M).
John, and a brother Sam, grew to manhood in the Downsville vicinity,
mainly on a nearby homestead farm, where they spent most of their lives
with the exception of 12 years (about 1880 to 1892) in Read's Landing, Minnesota (on the Mississippi River) where they were in the business of handling
lumber shipments arriving from upriver operations.
At the time of the Civil War John was still of Canadian nationality, but
he patriotically joined the Union army in August, 1862, when he was 20
years old. He enlisted in Company K, Fifth Wisconsin Infantry, and served
Page 2
with this regiment until it was mustered out in June 1865. During his service
he participated in many of the major battles in that tragic war: Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor, and several
other minor engagements.
Following the war, John married Annette Macauley on July 30, 1871.
Annette died Feb. 24, 1880 and John later married Mary Nesbitt in April
1883. Eight children were born to these two unions. Five of these survived
into my lifetime; three were the children of Annette: Charles T., my father
Harold (Harry) Llewelyn, and Maude (married name: Lanckton). Two were
the children of Mary: John Clarence, and Jane (married name: Taylor).
My father was born at the homestead farm in Dunn County (now gone)
on Nov. 15, 1875. His parents moved to Read's Landing when he was five,
and he attended school there until his family returned to Downsville, along
with brother Sam and his family. John then acquired a farm about a halfmile east of Downsville, and about the same time he and brother Sam started
the Kyle Bros. Mercantile Store. Harry, now 17, began working at the store,
and after 13 years of this employment he purchased the store in 1905 from
his father and uncle. (Both the latter then retired and moved to Menomonie,
where John died July 30, 1922.)
Harry operated the store himself until 1913, at which time he decided
to try farming. He sold the store and bought the old home farm known then
and still as Broad Acres Farm. But four years of farming convinced him that
the mercantile business offered a referable career; he bought back the store
in 1917, retained the farm, and operated both (leasing the farm to renters)
until he retired in 1951 and moved to Menomonie.
Kyle's General Store, as it was named during my father's ownership,
was then the largest store and building in town, and was a well known county
landmark, having been in operation by the Kyles for 59 years. My father was
esteemed by fellow townsmen for his integrity, civic-mindedness, and gentlemanly qualities. He was president of the local bank, a stockholder in the
Downsville Creamery, and for many years treasurer of the Town of Dunn.
(Wisconsin counties are subdivided into townships for governmental purposes.) He was a member and officer in the Independent Order of Odd Fellows, the Modern Woodmen of America and the Beavers Lodge.
Page 3
On January 1, 1906, he married my mother, Madge Cook. She was
born in Gilmanton, Wisconsin, September 16, 1885, one of three children of
George P. and Jenny May (Folsom) Cook, the other two being Percy and Eva
(married name: Swenson). The family resided in Mondovi, Wisconsin, for
several years before eventually moving to Menomonie.
Mother eventually became an active member of the Downsville Methodist Church, a long-time president of the Ladies' Aid Society, and during
World War I was very active in Red Cross work. After my parents moved to
Menomonie in 1951, they joined the First Congregational Church. They had
many friends in both Downsville and Menomonie, and remained socially active until dad's death in 1957. My mother died in 1961.
Regrettably, my knowledge of my maternal grandparents in quite limited. Jenny May Folsom was born in Parishville, New York, in 1865, and ultimately migrated to Wisconsin where she married George in 1883. The Folsom family tree was a large multi-branched one, and the Folsoms were
prominent in the New England area. Family notables included a U.S. Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare (1955), and Frances Folsom who married Grover Cleveland in the White House during his presidency (1886). Incidentally, the Folsoms still continue to maintain detailed family records
(including our Kyle family) through an organization called the Folsom Family Association of America, Inc. (7 Ledgewood Circle, Topsfield, Mass.,
01983).
Of my grandfather Cook's background I know little, except that he was
born June 24, 1860, in Dunn County, and that his mother was Sarah Jane
(Lafferty) Cook. During the time I knew the Cook grandparents they always
lived in a modest house in a section of Menomonie called Wilson Flat. I used
to enjoy spending occasional weekends with them when I was 8 to 10 years
old and more often than not would make the Downsville-Menomonie round
trip by myself on the train.
Grandpa Cook was a stocky, cheerful, rheumatism-ridden, baldish man,
probably of English-Irish descent. His occupation, during the time I knew
him, was that of a specialist in the buying and selling of hogs in a local
stockyards. His avocations included fishing, woodworking, and smoking a
Page 4
vile-smelling pipe tobacco called “Summertime” (which I always suspected
he preferred because on the package were pictured some 1890-vintage bathing beauties frolicking on a beach). He died in 1938; grandma in 1927.
During my life in Downsville my parents and I lived most of the time in
a fairly commodious apartment above the store. It had three bedrooms with
walk-in closets, plus a summertime bedroom in an enclosed back porch. One
bedroom was allocated to me as a playroom (or “den” in my teenage years).
A living room with an adjoining “sun room” and dining room provided adequate space for entertaining visitors or dinner guests. A roomy bathroom
adjoined the kitchen, which was equipped with a wood stove and had access
to a large pantry room.
Unfortunately, air conditioning had not yet been invented, and when I
was about 7 or 8 my folks decided to avoid the summer heat in the apartment
by building a second home (always termed the “cottage”) about two miles
from town. The location was a lovely one, on a wooded hill overlooking the
river, and a half-mile from the nearest farmhouse. With screened windows
and a large screened porch exposed to breezes from any direction, it was
usually quite cool. However, it lacked plumbing other than a sink drain, and
no utilities extended that far out of Downsville so dad brought drinking water in milk cans on most of his trips from the store. Wash water was mostly
rainwater collected in large barrels from roof eaves and downspouts. An
outhouse supplied the necessary toilet facilities.
In addition to Broad Acres farm, dad later bought another farm about
four miles from town, which, like Broad Acres, was leased to a succession of
renters for many years. Dad had a stroke in 1949 or 1950 which paralyzed
his right arm. However he taught himself to write passably well with his left
hand, and persisted in operating the store for another year or two before retiring in 1951, at which time he sold both farms, the store, and cottage.
Page 5
Chapter II
The Early Days
I have no recollection of the details relating to my entry into the world,
but from the rather sparse documentary evidence available it appears that
this occurred on September 10, 1916. The young lady responsible for this
event has been forever unknown to me, since I was adopted only a short time
later by Lydia Madge Kyle and Harry L. Kyle, of Downsville, Wisconsin, who
never advised me as to the identity of my natural mother (which they may or
may not have known), and I never asked nor gave the matter much thought.
I was named James Robert Kyle, and retained the “James” moniker
(a.k.a. “Jim Bob” on occasion) until my maternal grandmother Cook (of Folsom lineage) persuaded my folks to convert to “Jerry Robert”, using the argument that it had a more appropriate Scotch-Irish sound. However, the
James Robert must have lasted at least three years, since I was so baptized
on October 11, 1919 by one George Austin, pastor. No birth certificate with
my name on it exists, as far as I know. The Certificate of Baptism was the only quasi-official record of my birth date until I enlisted in the Army Air Force
in 1942. At that time I had to produce a birth date record, and the baptismal
certificate was all I had. However, there was a problem, since it named me
James Robert and I had long since been known as Jerry Robert, as evidenced
by employment records, social security data, etc. My folks, rising to the occasion, and in collaboration with my father's sister Maude Lanckton (who
then, and for many years, held the position of Register of Deeds in Dunn
County, Wisconsin), produced a document stating that James Robert and
Jerry Robert were one and the same person. This document also stated that
I was born in St. Paul, Minnesota, on September 10, 1916, and thereby became the closest thing to a birth certificate that I have.
Most people have few, if any, recollections of life as a child of two or
three years old, and mine are extremely limited. The earliest experiences of
which I have any remembrance involve illnesses. When I was about two I fell
victim to the dreaded influenza pandemic that spread throughout the world
after World War I (1918-1919), and caused an estimated 20 million deaths.
Antibiotics were unknown then, of course, and the available medicinal preparations of that time were not very effective in mitigating the fever and disPage 6
comfort produced by those unusually virulent viruses. Osteopathic treatments, combining gentle massage and careful manipulation of joints and
limbs, proved to be more helpful in relieving aches and pains, so my father
solicited the services of his brother who was an osteopath (and who continued his practice until well over 80 years old, incidentally), to give me a series
of treatments. I have a vague recollection of those massages by Uncle Charlie, to which I submitted rather unwillingly with occasional protestations of “
’ookout! ’ookout!”, (my version of “Lookout!”), when he probed a particularly
tender joint or muscle.
On another occasion, a year or two later, when I had some illness that
necessitated 'my remaining in bed for a couple days, I was disinclined to stay
in it. Since my bedroom was at one end of our above-the-store domicile, and
the kitchen and mother's sewing and reading room was at the other, I created a dilemma for her by refusing to stay put unless she was close at hand.
Fortunately, a fairly roomy bathroom adjoined the kitchen area, and my
mother solved the problem rather ingeniously by installing blankets, pillows,
and me in the bathtub where she could keep an eye on me. The bathtub, a
long old fashioned one, had a sloping back against which I could lie propped
and “read” my story books. The novelty of being bedded in a bathtub during
the day appealed to me, and I was quite happy to spend time there, especially
since my mother was usually close enough to do waitress duty on demand.
I lived the first 21 years of my life in Downsville, Wisconsin, a town
which most of that time claimed a population of about 250. It was classified
as “Unincorporated,” a term used in Wisconsin to designate communities
which had no municipal structure or governing officials. Downsville owed its
origin in the mid 1800's and its early existence to the lumbering industry,
and its main business enterprise for many years was a large sawmill operated
by a company called Knapp, Stout and Company. A dam on the Red Cedar
River, which flows along the edge of town, had been erected to provide water
power for the mill site, and Knapp, Stout and Company's operations were abruptly terminated in the early 1900's by a disastrous flood which eliminated
the dam and most of the mill workings, none of which were ever rebuilt.
Subsequently, and during most of the years of my residence there, the
principal industries in the Downsville area consisted of farming, a creamery,
and a stone quarry. In addition to Kyle's general store, which was in operaPage 7
tion over a period of about 60 years, the town's commercial establishments
included a bank, a post office, a small hotel of four or five rooms (usually occupied on a semi-permanent basis by local unmarried males), two taverns, a
second small grocery store, one filling station, a barber shop, a lumber yard,
and a grain storage building (owned by my father).
Educational facilities consisted of two adjoining school buildings, a small octagonal-shaped one housing grades one, two, and three (no kindergartens
then), and a larger two-story edifice in which were taught grades four
through nine. Students desiring to continue the remaining three grades of
high school did so by commuting to Menomonie, seven miles away. Religious services, including Sunday school, were provided by a Methodist
church on a sporadic basis, as ministers became available and then left due
to the financial limitations of the job.
Social activities, aside from those in the taverns, were mostly confined to card playing, (pinochle or “500”, the forerunner of bridge), occasional church suppers or ice cream “socials,” And meetings and parties at two
lodge organizations (the Modern Woodmen of America and the Independent
Order of Odd Fellows (IOOF). Public dances were held occasionally at the
latter's hall, and were generally well attended. Music was usually a piano
and fiddle, and what the dancers lacked in grace they made up for in vigor.
Downsville was not particularly noted as a center of culture, but this deficiency was mitigated to some degree by the occasional visits of traveling
Chautauqua tent shows, and the availability of weekly summer band concerts
in Menomonie. Also, we were frequently favored in the summer with visits
by the (then) well known and popular “Harry Brown Show,” a traveling vaudeville and melodrama group consisting entirely of the Brown family members. In the early days they performed in a large tent, but as their popularity
and audiences grew they rented the IOOF hall, usually for about a week's
stay, with a different program every night. My folks occasionally had the
senior Browns for dinner, and I became friends with one of the Brown boys
about my age (about 10 ,or 12 years old), whose occasional stage appearances
in the family's melodramas I greatly envied.
Except for a few swings in the school yard, Downsville had no designated playgrounds, and there were of course in those days no “Little
Leagues” or other organized activities for kids such as are prevalent today in
Page 8
most communities. But Downsville youths were fortunate enough to have
close access to neighboring hills, woods, ponds, and rivers, which supplied
locales for a great variety of summer and winter games and activities. (After
all, in Downsville, “Out of town” was never more than a half mile in any direction!)
The snow and ice of winter were always eagerly anticipated. The long Wisconsin winters were times of great snowball wars, with contestants using cardboard shields and snow-made forts. On rare occasions a losing side would resort
to iced snowballs to increase their firepower (greater range and more impact
damage), but this was considered unethical and frowned on, as chemical warfare
is today.
Skating parties in the evening on a local pond were a frequent community
activity, well attended by both adults and children. On Saturdays and holidays
kids often played what we called “shinny,” a game roughly akin to hockey, but
without many fixed rules. A squashed tin can or an ice-filled Copenhagen snuff
container served as a puck, and staves cut from plywood or suitably angled tree
branches were used as hockey sticks. Skis available to us in those days were rather crude by modern standards – slats, grooved underneath and upturned at
one end, with a single buckle-type strap into which the user slipped the toe of his
boot. When optimum snow conditions prevailed, we kids often took day-long ski
excursions into the country on Saturdays, carrying our lunch, and coming home
barely before dark, usually well-frosted from innumerable tumbles in the drifts
and occasionally scratched or bruised from contacts with brush or stumps during some poorly navigated trek down some wooded hillside.
Incidentally, an interesting phenomenon of really cold winter weather, on
the order of 20 degrees below zero or chillier, is that hard packed snow squeaks
when walked or driven on. Another feature of such weather is that sound travels
better in cold air. I well recall lying in bed on cold nights with a window partially
open (my folks favored fresh air and lots of quilts for a good night's sleep), hearing clearly the conversation of men outside the tavern a block away, and the
squeak-squeak of their footsteps in the street or sidewalk.
Early spring was a mixed blessing in Wisconsin. The good news, of
course, was that the long winter, of which we finally tired after about six
months of it, was about over, heralding the advent of a new variety of activiPage 9
ties. The bad news was that most outdoors sports for boys were somewhat
limited and inhibited by the four to six weeks of slush and mud in March and
early April, before the last vestige of the winter's snow finally melted and was
replaced by new grass and dry ground.
Summer weather permitted a much wider variety of action, and of
course summer vacation from school allowed much more time and opportunity for fun and games. No convict ever completed his jail term and departed the prison gate with greater elation than did we on leaving school on
the Last Day (usually in late May or early June).
One of the traditionally first boys' projects in the summer was a float
trip down the Red Cedar River, which flowed past Downsville, using auto tire
inner tubes (which were always in plentiful supply since all auto tires used
them in those days). I was usually able to persuade my mother to drive me
and several friends to Menomonie, from where we embarked for an eightmile and four-hour float trip to Downsville. Inevitably, since we had had but
little exposure to sun at that point early in the summer, unless it was an unusually cloudy day we all arrived home sunburned to a crisp. However, we expected and accepted this as sort of a summer initiation rite, and during the
next week had contests seeing who could pull off the longest unbroken strip
of peeling skin.
Sandlot baseball was one of our primary summer sports. We persisted
at it as teenagers, and during my college days I organized a rather scruffy assortment of players into a team representing Downsville in a Dunn County
league of similar community teams. The “league” had no official status and
schedules were generally erratic, but we hugely enjoyed the almost-every
Sunday summer games, of which the “Downsville Dodgers” somehow managed to win their share.
Fishing was indulged in sporadically, mostly for bullheads (a species
of horned catfish) which inhabited nearby ponds. I can't recall ever seeing
any fishing equipment used locally by either kids or adults that was any more
elaborate than a cane pole with a cork bobber and angleworms for bait.
Most of my boyhood associates were from families of very modest
means, and only a few were lucky enough to have bicycles. Wagons and
Page 10
scooters were more in evidence, and were used extensively by their owners.
Considering that both of these devices were usually propelled by the driver's
left leg, with the right knee or foot resting in or on the vehicle, it seems remarkable that boys who constantly engaged in this type of locomotion didn't
develop asymmetrically with larger and more muscled left legs.
Until my chums and I were about 13 or 14 and out grew them, there
were two pastimes we avidly participated in that modern youths are totally
unfamiliar with, and being used to more sophisticated activities today, probably wouldn't enjoy anyway.
One of these was hoop rolling. Not the hoop rolling you may have seen
pictured in a book or magazine, sissified-looking lads in short pants, kneehigh socks, and designer straw hats, pushing a three-foot diameter hoop with
a short stick. No, the Downsville hoop rollers were jean-clad, usually barefoot, and the hoops were the metal rims off wagon wheel hubs, about 8 inches in diameter and an inch wide. They were propelled by a homemade control stick which was a 3-foot wooden slat about 1½ inches wide, with an 8inch crosspiece of the same material nailed at one end (somewhat similar in
appearance and size to a draftsman's T-square).
It was common procedure to roll hoops as we walked about town, and
we became quite adroit in manipulating them through tricky turns and acrobatic maneuvers. But the most fun they provided were the frequent hoop
games we indulged in. These included such antics as timed races through
obstacle courses, and jousting tournaments in which two contestants were
paired, with the winner meeting the winner of another joust, etc., in an elimination tournament. The two jousters would start from opposite ends of a
marked area and try to collide with the other's hoop so as to knock it down
while still keeping one's own rolling. One could also win by driving his opponent's hoop outside the marked area, which was usually about half the size
of a tennis court.
The other pastime, now obsolete (or nearly so) involved the use of rubber-band guns, which we used extensively in Cops and Robbers or Cowboysand Indians battles. The guns, usually one-shot pistols, were of course
homemade. Various methods of construction and technical improvements
developed during my younger days, but all designs basically involved a piece
Page 11
of flat wood (pistol “barrel”) a foot or so long with a trigger nail and a vertical
flexible wood strip “handle” on one end. The rubber bands were 1-inch wide
circular strips cut from inner tubes. One end was looped over the forward
end of the barrel and the other stretched and pinioned between the rear of
the barrel and the handle. Squeezing the handle and trigger released the
band, which, depending on the barrel length and thickness of the band, had a
trajectory of about 20 or 30 feet. They seldom caused any pain to the victim
being shot, unless he was inadvertently hit in the face at close range, which
would indeed sting a bit. The sites we used for our rubber band gun wars
were usually either my father's ice house (a barn-like building in back of the
store) where one team used it as a fort, or a densely wooded and ravine-cut
area about two miles from town.
One occasion when about 10 of us had spent a long afternoon playing
Cowboy and Indians in the latter area, we returned at supper time to town,
tired but exuberant, recounting to each other our warfare adventures. Suddenly one boy looked at the others, made a mental count, and said, “Where's
Merle?” A dead silence ensued for a moment as we looked at each other for
an answer. Finally, in great consternation, one stammered out that during
the afternoon game he had “captured” Merle (who was younger and smaller
than the rest, and often the butt of our jokes), tied him to a tree and gagged
him so he couldn't summon help from his team partners, and forgotten
about him. We hurried back to the game site, and in an especially remote
corner of the woods found Merle still securely tied and gagged, his dirty face
streaked with tears. Before releasing him we made him swear a vow of silence about the incident, with threats of dire consequences if he ever
squealed to his folks or others. It was quite some time before Merle could be
persuaded to again join our battle games.
Keeping pets was no problem in Downsville. Dogs and cats were
abundant, and always had the run of the town since local auto traffic was
both light and slow, presenting little danger to either pets or kids. In my case
I never lacked for pussy cats, but I only ever had one dog, named Buddy, an
animal of unknown ancestry that somewhat resembled an undersized Eskimo Husky. My folks acquired him when I was 5 years old, and he was a constant and loving companion for most of my youth. He died when I was 19
and away at college, simply “pined away” during my absence, according to
my mother.
Page 12
Another “Pet” of note was a tan and white pinto pony, of the size and
breed preferred by cowboys and “pony express” riders, named Bob (not my
choice of a name; he came to me already christened). My dad bought him for
me when I was about 12 years old and Bob was about 5, I had him for about
three years, until he died one winter of some type of horse's intestinal colic.
During the winter Bob occupied a stable in the lower floor of dad's
grain elevator, and got overly fat from lack of exercise. (Riding a galloping
horse through snowdrifts in 20º below zero weather was a pastime I avoided
whenever possible.)
In the summer he was turned loose in the 200-acre wooded pasture
which adjoined the cottage. Since being ridden never appealed to Bob very
much, catching him in the pasture was always quite a game, and occasionally
one which I lost. Unlike the horses in western movies which appear trained
to come when their masters whistle at them, Bob tended to sidle away as I
slowly approached. My method of entrapment usually involved sugar cubes
in an extended hand and use of a lariat concealed behind my back until Bob,
seduced by the sugar lump bait, would edge close enough for me to lasso
him.
My popularity with my boyhood chums was always high when I had
Bob, since I was quite generous in permitting rides by envious onlookers.
One reason for my generosity was my enjoyment of watching what might
happen to a new rider who was unused to Bob's peculiarities. One of the pony's idiosyncrasies was his disinclination to travel in directions away from
the pasture or stable, and it usually took a certain amount of prodding and
reins-slapping to keep him on course. But the moment he was turned toward
home he would immediately break into a dead run, and the suddenness of
this maneuver often unseated an unwary and inexperienced rider. Furthermore, if the route home happened to be a trail through the woods and Bob
felt the rider had overstayed his time in the saddle, he had a sly trick of unexpectedly running under a low-hanging-tree branch which usually effectively removed the rider.
****
In my youthful days there were throughout the U.S. numerous exmilitary pilots from WWI who elected to keep flying and make a living of
Page 13
sorts at it by buying surplus military planes at little cost and “barnstorming”
about the country. In some cases two or more pilots and planes would join
forces and stage an “air show” in a vacant lot near some town, a combination
of stunt flying, parachute jumps, and short rides for $3 or $5. Sometimes a
balloon ascension was part of the show. More typical, however, would be a
single barnstormer who would fly in unannounced, buzz the town to attract
attention, and then land in some nearby cow pasture where he would earn
gas and grub money by selling rides to a rapidly gathering crowd.
Airplanes always fascinated me, and my first ride in one occurred under these circumstances when I was about 7 or 8 years old. My folks were
enjoying their usual Sunday afternoon drive, with me as a bored and unwilling passenger, when we chanced to pass by a field where a lone barnstormer
was plying his trade. Dad stopped the car to observe, and after much pleading and begging I persuaded him to let me have a ride. The plane was a twoseater biplane (I think now it was probably a WWI “Jenny”). Dad was understandably dubious about letting me ride alone in an open cockpit, so he
accompanied me, and both of us squeezed into the passenger cockpit.
That ride hooked me on planes, and I became an avid reader of aviation articles and stories, especially those concerning the WWI air battles and
the pilots who fought them. Building model planes naturally became a favorite hobby, especially the “flying” models. This time period, of course, was
long before the development of miniature gas engines and remote controls
that are popular today; the motive power then was always a large, rubber
band hooked near the tail section and attached to the propeller, which was
then wound up with several dozen turns. Then, holding the propeller immobile with one hand, and the plane fuselage with the other, the plane would be
launched forward into the air with a dart-throwing motion. The released
propeller would spin vigorously for perhaps 8 or 10 seconds, and if the plane
were airworthy it would fly straight and level for possibly 50 feet before
(hopefully) gliding to a safe landing. However, the high percentage of unsafe
nose-first landings always provided plenty of busy work doing repairs, and
kept me from getting bored with the hobby.
Later, one summer during my early teens, I discovered in some Popular Mechanics type magazine plans for building a man-carrying glider. In
collaboration with George Raschka (a boy who lived in St. Cloud, Minn., but
Page 14
frequently spent summers visiting an aunt in Downsville), we acquired the
necessary materials and began construction at our cottage.
Our talents in this direction were not exactly equal to those of top
craftsmen, but after about two weeks we did manage to construct a glider
that somewhat resembled the plan pictures. It was a biplane with a wingspan of about 12 feet, and a rigid tail assembly projecting out in back, somewhat like a monster kite, and was designed to be operated much in the same
manner as a modern hang glider. An opening in the center of the bottom
wing was where the flier was supposed to stand, lift the glider assembly up
around his waist (the total affair weighed only about 40 pounds), and propel
the glider and himself into the air by running with it and jumping off a hill.
He would then presumably support himself by his elbows on the lower wing
frame, and his feet would remain suspended underneath, ultimately serving
as the landing gear when the glider returned to earth.
On the day of
completion I was too excited to eat or sleep much that night, and I suppose
George felt the same. The following day we carried the glider (which we had
named, with proper ceremony “White Eagle”), to the top of a steep hill near
the cottage. Although neither of us would admit it, the imminent prospect of
actually flying that contraption was slightly unnerving, so we spent some
time (much more than seemed called for) admiring the view of the river from
that location (although we had seen that view many, many times before), and
speculating as to where in the rolling pasture below we'd be most apt to land.
Finally, when we could stall no longer, I turned to George and said
something like, “OK, pal, she's, all yours.” His jaw fell, and then he reminded
me, rather vehemently, that the project was my idea, and that we'd always
agreed that I'd have the first flight. I think I responded with some lame
comment to the effect that he would be the better test pilot since he weighed
a bit less than me. This type of discussion ended in a standoff, until with
sudden inspiration I pointed out that all planes took off into the wind, and,
with there being no breeze whatsoever that day, we should wait and try again
tomorrow. George heartily agreed, and we left White Eagle and returned
home.
That night a terrific thunderstorm with high winds came boiling
through the area, and when George and I hurried to inspect our glider the
next morning we found it completely wrecked at the bottom of the hill. As
Page 15
we looked at it and each other in wordless shock, our feelings were undoubtedly mixed. It was obviously irreparable, and several days later we ceremoniously burned it where it lay.
In retrospect, I'm not sure the craft would have performed as described in the magazine article. And I suspect I must have had some guardian angel to thank for stirring up that storm and thereby possibly saving me
from being crippled. Also, in retrospect, I can't imagine why my folks let me
proceed with such a project at my tender age. I can only theorize that they
assumed we'd never reach the point of actually trying to fly it (a pretty good
assumption, as it turned out), or perhaps I wasn't explicit enough in explaining that it was to be a man-carrying device, and they thought it was to be sort
of a huge box kite affair, controlled by a ground crew with ropes. In any
event they seemed glad enough to have George and I stay out of mischief for
a couple weeks building the darn thing.
The Downsville days were not all fun and games, of course, as the preceding narratives might seem to indicate. School and its associated functions
and requirements occupied a major portion of my time for nine months, and
after I was about 13 or 14 my father thought some of my summer time (and
occasional winter weekends and holidays) could well be spent learning to
work.
Dad owned two farms then (leased to renters), and he occasionally volunteered my help to the farmer-renters with such grunt work chores as fence
post digging, brush clearing, and barn cleaning. I was not entirely enthused
by this exposure to farm life, and by my mid teens had definitely deleted
farming from the list of my potential future careers, I spent more time working in the store than on the farm, fortunately. Kyle's Store was a typical
small-town general merchandise emporium, with gas pumps in front and
nearly everything one might need in those days for sale inside – groceries,
hardware, hats, shoes, work clothes, yard goods and sewing supplies, stock
and poultry feed, guns and sporting goods, fencing supplies, nonprescription drugs, tobacco products, candy, ice cream, and soda pop.
It was the old fashioned type of store, unlike the self-service establishments prevalent today, where the customer stood at the counter and gave
his order to a clerk who had to hustle hither and yon procuring and assemPage 16
bling the desired items. Also, since many grocery products such as sugar,
flour, beans, rice, etc., were then available only in bulk, the clerk's duties
were compounded by the necessity of sacking or wrapping up and weighing
many of the commodities sold.
Before the road to Menomonie (the “big city” of some 5000 inhabitants) was paved and local farmers still shopped primarily in Downsville, dad
usually kept two clerks employed. The ones with the longest tenure during
my boyhood were Art Carpenter and Gus Solie. On busy days, or during the
clerk's lunch hours or vacations, I filled in as a clerk; otherwise I usually
served as a stock boy or delivery boy.
One of the more tedious jobs (which didn't occur often) was helping to
“take inventory” at the end of each year, which usually used up the better
part of two or three days of my Xmas vacation. This involved my accompanying Art or Gus throughout the store as they laboriously counted every item
in stock and I recorded same in a large ledger. Unit cost and total value of
each entry also had to be itemized; since this era pre-dated pocket calculators, I was kept intensely busy doing arithmetic on a scratch pad. A typical
call from Art, for instance, might be “28 cans of Libby tomatoes 14¢”, which I
would record and hurriedly calculate the $3.92 to be entered in the “total
value” column.
Until I became a senior in high school both dad and I assumed I would
someday inherit and manage the store. Dad never pressured me to do so,
but I'm sure he was disappointed when I ultimately opted for a different career.
When I was still in grade school, mother began attempts to get me interested in learning to play some musical instrument. She had a baby grand
piano for as long as I can remember, which she played infrequently with rather mediocre ability, and when I was about 10 or 11 she arranged for me to
take piano lessons from a local lady, Mrs. Tibbets. I did so, rather sporadically, for about a year, but I greatly begrudged the allocated time which otherwise could have been spent in outdoors activities. Mother finally succumbed to my persistent grumbling and let me quit the lessons. In later
years I perceived the error of my ways, and I greatly regretted missing that
golden opportunity to acquire such a desirable talent.
Page 17
Following the rather abrupt termination of my potentially budding career as a pianist, mother somewhere acquired a secondhand mandolin, probably from someone as partial settlement of a long-standing bill owed dad for
store purchases bought on credit. (This being in the depression years, dad
“carried” many nearly destitute farmers and townspeople on credit accounts
at the store for months and sometimes even years. Some such accounts were
ultimately paid in part by farm produce and livestock, and many had to be
eventually written off as bad debts.)
The uniqueness of such a musical instrument appealed to me, and I
was easily persuaded to begin taking mandolin lessons. Mrs. Tibbets, the only person in town who came close to being qualified as a music teacher, was
persuaded to undertake the job. Unfortunately her modest talent as a pianist
did not extend to stringed instruments. The mandolin “lessons” were quite
unproductive, and came to a halt after about a half dozen tries.
A year or two later, when I was in my early teens, my folks bought me a
Hawaiian “steel” guitar, a type of instrument in which I had expressed some
interest. Such guitars are played laid across the musician's lap; he changes
tones and notes by sweeping a steel bar across the frets with his left hand,
and plucking or strumming the strings with fingers of his right hand encased
in steel picks. In those days, of course, electronic amplification equipment
was nonexistent.
The nearest source of a teacher for this type of guitar was in Eau
Claire: an individual named Harry Wolgast who directed a three or four piece
string ensemble called “Harry's Hawaiians”, and who gave lessons on the
side. Mother dutifully drove me the 25 miles to Eau Claire once a week on
Saturdays for exposure to Harry's instruction. I undoubtedly surprised and
certainly pleased my folks by enjoying and profiting from these lessons, to
the extent that after six or eight months I became able to produce relatively
decent music, bearing such exotic titles as “Hawaiian War Chant”, “On The
Beach At Waikiki”, and the like. On one occasion I even appeared as a guest
member of Harry's Hawaiians on a local radio program, and several times
performed in our high schools weekly “assembly” programs when more interesting entertainment was unavailable.
Page 18
I kept that same guitar into my early adult years, and got considerable
mileage from it at various picnics and parties. In 1942, when I lived in Tulsa,
I enlisted in the Army Air Force and had to dispose of my civilian clothing
and various apartment belongings. I entrusted the guitar to a fellow worker
at the Carter Oil Company, one Elmo Bruner, who promised to keep it for me
until my return to civilian life. However, when I ultimately got back to Tulsa,
Elmo and the guitar were long gone to parts unknown, and I never heard
from or of him again.
Page 19
Chapter III
Trips and Travels in Youthful Years
I think it was in 1927 or 1928 when my folks decided to make a Trip
West. (The excitement and awe I experienced listening to the trip plans always made me visualize the project as being written in capital letters.) Their
decision was not entered into lightly; such a trip in those days via a questionably dependable automobile (ours was a Model-T 4-door Ford sedan) was
better classified as an “expedition,” and took extensive planning and preparation. The route was to be through Minnesota into the South Dakota
Badlands and Black Hills area, then down into Nebraska to visit some of my
mother's cousins and aunts from the Folsom side of the family.
I estimate that the total tour was on the order of 1500 miles, and except for roads in the immediate vicinity of large cities, none were paved in
that part of the country. Road maps were scarce and not remarkably accurate, and motels (then called “tourist courts”) were almost nonexistent along
the scheduled route, so camping equipment was necessary. In addition to
the tent, tarps, blankets, axe, shovel, lanterns, pots, pans and food chests required, the presumed absence of garages (or even towns of any consequence)
along the way also necessitated a substantial supply of car tools, extra tires,
fan belts, spark plugs, and the like.
About 150 miles per day was the best to be expected, in view of the
poor roads and the need to use at least two daylight hours each day for
breaking camp in the morning and setting up again at night. The first two or
three days of travel were relatively uneventful and not very troublesome,
since Minnesota country roads were mostly graveled, and we always could
find a public campground for our overnight stops. As we progressed into
South Dakota, however, many “highways” were merely dirt roads. The “dirt”
was usually a type of clay called gumbo by the natives. It was dusty in dry
weather, but its worst characteristic appeared after a heavy rain shower. The
gumbo mud wadded up and stuck in great masses to the tires and under the
fenders, in such quantity and consistency that it sometimes actually stalled
the car. We then had to disembark and free the wheels by prying away the
mud with tire irons and shovel. Needless to say, rainstorms cut our travel
time considerably, both because of the wheel-clogging effect of the mud and
Page 20
the very slow speed at which dad drove to avoid sliding off the road on the
extremely slippery gumbo surface.
One evening somewhere in South Dakota we had been unable to locate
a campground by about 6 p.m., our usual stopping time. Dad examined the
road map and determined that the nearest town was still 50 miles or so
ahead, and he and mother agreed to try for it. It was pitch dark when we finally arrived, and the town proved to be little more than a grocery store with
gas pumps and three or four small shacks. While getting gas, dad asked the
store proprietor if there was a campground nearby. He paused a bit and then
said (with a twinkle in his eye, we remembered later), “Wal, yup, one about
four miles down the road you could use, I reckon.” He gave us instructions
to get to it, which appeared to be off the main road a mile or so, and we proceeded on.
It was a cloudy moonless night, and the weak headlights on the Ford
made for extremely poor visibility. When we arrived at the presumed
campground about 9 p.m. there was no sign of activity by campers, but we
could vaguely perceive a number of white tents, so we eased off the trail onto
a grassy spot and set up camp. We had previously eaten sandwiches for supper en route, so when the tent was up we immediately “hit the sack”.
I was awakened at dawn the next morning by hearing my mother's horrified exclamation to my father, “Harry, get up, good heavens, we're in the
middle of an Indian reservation!” When we emerged from our tent we could
see we were indeed on the edge of a forest of tepees, and a number of Indians
were standing around staring at our tent and car, obviously wondering what
in hell we were doing there. That morning we set a speed record in breaking
camp and hitting the road, without the usual amenities of breakfast, teethbrushing, or even toilet functions, until we were miles away in empty country.
The rest of the trip was pleasurable and interesting. We drove through
and admired the Black Hills, visited a gold placer operation, and ultimately
spent about a week with assorted relatives in Nebraska. After our return
home, my folks had conversational fodder with which to entertain friends
most of the ensuing winter.
Page 21
One of the more enjoyable adventures of my young boyhood was a raft
trip down the Red Cedar and Chippewa Rivers, and ultimately into the Mississippi, when I was thirteen.
Having at that time recently read about and admired the exploits of
Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, I persuaded two of my friends of similar
age that we should build a raft and emulate those boyhood heroes. My
friends were willing and excited by the idea, but my folks (and theirs too, I'm
sure) were somewhat less than enthusiastic. But they finally agreed to the
project if I would also include as crew an older boy, one Bob Brierley, who
was sixteen and could presumably take care of the rest of us in any emergencies. (Drowning was never considered as a potential danger, since we all had
learned to swim in the Red Cedar, and were relatively quite adroit at coping
with tricky river currents.) Bob was flattered and willing, so we began constructing a raft on an inlet of the Red Cedar near town, using a combination
of fallen logs from a nearby woods and an assortment of discarded railroad
ties we acquired somewhat surreptitiously. The ultimate craft was hardly a
thing of beauty; the term “jerrybuilt” was never more appropriate, figuratively or literally.
But it did easily support four boys and a goodly supply of lashed-on
camping equipment, being about 15 feet long and 6 or 7 feet wide. It was
propelled (or guided, depending on the strength of the current) by a boy with
a long pole on port and starboard, and one at the stern operating a sweeptype rudder paddle. The total river distance from Downsville to Wabasha,
Minnesota, on the Mississippi, where our journey ended, was only about 45
or 50 miles. However, we spent nearly four days on the trip since we stopped
frequently to fish or swim, and usually made camp on shore by about 4 or
4:30 p.m.
After reaching Wabasha on the fourth day about noon, we phoned
home and my mother arrived in the car a couple hours later to drive us back
to Downsville. Meantime, we had no option as to the raft disposition but to
bid it a fond farewell, push it out into the Mississippi, and watch it disappear
down the river.
In addition to my folks' series of family cars (a Graham-Paige and a
DeSoto, to name two of the early ones), dad always maintained a Model T
Page 22
Ford pickup truck for local deliveries from the store. As part of my delivery
boy training, I learned to drive the Model-T when I was thirteen. The T's”
were fairly easy to operate. They had no gear shift, but simply three pedals
and a gas “foot feed” on the floor - one pedal to get the vehicle moving forward, one for backing up, and a brake pedal to stop it. The only difficult part
about driving T's was getting the engine started.
Starting procedure required turning on the ignition, properly setting a
choke control and two levers on the steering wheel (“spark” and “gas” controls), then getting out and hand cranking the rascal. The latter operation
often required considerable grunt work and perhaps a few impolite expletives before the engine began firing. Until the spark lever and choke was
then reset the engine would run rough and perhaps backfire fitfully a few
times, but once all controls were adjusted properly the four cylinders would
then continue to chug along for extended periods without any further problems, and propel the vehicle at speeds of up to 30 or 35 miles per hour.
The Model-T's were marvels of simplicity and durability. The 4cylinder engine could usually be maintained or repaired with little more
equipment than a screwdriver, pliers, spark plug wrench, and a roll of baling
wire. Only the later models had gas gauges; the gas tank was situated under
the driver's seat, which had to be removed when checking fuel level with a
dipstick. Tires were considerably less durable than modern ones, but were
not too hard to change and tube punctures were easily sealed with stick-on
patches. (A tire pump was indispensable equipment in the tool kit, of
course.)
In those days it was possible to get a driver's license in Wisconsin any
time after one's fourteenth birthday. One merely had to send in an application stating that he or she was healthy and knew how to drive. Until age 16
the only restriction for such licenses was that they could not drive after dark.
After I turned 14 in 1930 and obtained my first driver's license, dad
bought me my first car. What a thrill! It was a secondhand black 2-door
cloth-top Model T coupe, about 2 or 1923 vintage, as I recall, with a small
storage area in the rear. It cost $25, including one spare tire. I named it
“Herman” (after some obscure character in a book I then enjoyed), and
painted the name and a skull and crossbones in white on the side, for no parPage 23
ticular reason other than the offbeat sense of humor with which some teenagers are afflicted.
Needless to say, I was greatly envied by my peers, who still had to
make do with bicycles. Owning and driving a car at age fourteen was a heady
experience, and inevitably gave rise to some grandiose ideas. One of these
was a trip west! Having made such a trip with my parents three or four years
earlier, I felt of course that I had gained sufficient experience thereby to accomplish a similar journey by myself, either solo or with a companion.
The companion turned out to be George Raschka (he of the glider construction project). I suspect that George's aunt, with whom he spent the
summers in Downsville, was probably only too glad to have him out of the
way for a few weeks, since he readily obtained permission for the trip. I had
to work a bit harder for parental authority, and I was frankly surprised when
they acquiesced.
In retrospect, I have always been quite amazed at how permissive my
folks were relative to my occasional harebrained projects. Admittedly, times
were different then; highways weren't the death traps of today, full of 18wheelers and cars driven at high speeds by drunks and dope heads. Murders
of and by hitchhikers and car drivers were almost unheard of, and young
boys could feel safe in many circumstances and places where they'd be fools
to set foot today. Also, the U.S.A. was then in the grip of the Great Depression, and there were relatively few cars on the highways.
So, in mid June of 1931, while both George and I were still fourteen
and halfway through high school, we loaded Herman with camping gear, an
abundance of non-perishable groceries, two or three dozen penny postcards
for periodic trip status reports to my folks, and headed west. These days, of
course, it is rather commonplace for teenagers to tour Europe, but in the early 1930's few of my peers had even been out of the state, and our trip was
considered by our friends to be the acme of high adventure. George and I
naturally shared that view.
We were gone about six weeks. Our initial objective was the Black
Hills, and we followed essentially the same route there, via the Badlands,
that my folks had traveled a few years previously. We also had some similar
Page 24
experiences with sticky gumbo, but did manage to select campsites outside of
Indian reservations.
During the trip through Minnesota and South Dakota we became quite
adroit at changing and patching tires, a talent which was to prove very useful
in ensuing weeks, since our tires were rather worn before we began our journey and throughout the trip we must have averaged about two flats a day.
The problem was not entirely punctures, however, but the fact that the tube
patches we used were rather inferior and tended to melt off in the summer
heat. Another fairly routine chore was cleaning spark plugs, which regularly
became fouled from the poor quality gasoline that seemed prevalent along
our route.
We spent several days admiring the Black Hills, visiting Wind Cave,
and reveling in the exotic (to us) western culture of Deadwood, Lead and
Spearfish. We then pushed on west toward Yellowstone. The terrain of the
Black Hills was rough and scenic, but the first real mountains either of us
had ever seen appeared after we crossed eastern Wyoming and entered Buffalo. These were the Bighorns, and crossing them in our low-powered Herman became a laborious chore.
The long ascents to the passes had to be made in low gear, which
meant holding down the clutch pedal for extended periods. This caused
maximum wear on the “low band” (system of power transmittal) and concerned us that it might completely wear out and leave us stranded. The reverse pedal also operated in low gear on similar principles, so since we felt
we could get by on our trip without having to back up very often, we elected
to sacrifice the reverse band and save the clutch (forward) band by turning
the car and backing up most of the steep climbs. Fortunately, this being in
the Depression, traffic was minimal and presented very little hazard.
On the long descents we had a similar problem, since the brake pedal
had to be used constantly, thus threatening the life of the brake band. We
coped with this situation on several of the steeper grades by attaching a large
log to the rear of the car with a rope, and towing it down hill. This created a
lot of dust and churned up the road a bit, but considerably eased the wear
and tear on the brakes. We never saw a state cop in the Bighorns, fortunate-
Page 25
ly. I have often wondered what he would have charged us with, had he
caught us dragging our anchor.
After crossing the Bighorns we continued on through northwestern
Wyoming. At some point we began noticing an ominous grinding noise emanating from the vicinity of a rear wheel. The wheel seemed a bit wobbly,
which worried us considerably. That afternoon we stopped early at a public
campground – in Cody, I believe it was – and after erecting our pup tent and
preparing for an overnight stay, we removed a rear wheel. To our dismay we
discovered the wheel bearing had worn to pieces, and the wheel was almost
inoperable. The thought of what the necessary new part and/or garage repair would do to our finances was unnerving, to say the least, since what little money we had was budgeted almost entirely for gas, oil, and grub.
But the guardian angel who looked after our welfare during our glider
exploit must have been still assigned to our case. As we were forlornly inspecting the defunct bearing, a man from a nearby campsite strolled by and
observed our situation. When we glumly commented that the repair bill
would undoubtedly terminate our trip, he rubbed his chin a minute, examined the wheel and bearing, and then uttered the most joyous nine words we
heard on the whole journey, “Wal, I believe I could fix that for you.”
In the context of modern automobile technology the repair job he did
sounds impossible. He took a tobacco can (pipe tobacco came in tin cans in
those days) and hammered it flat and polished it. Then with his tin shears
and other tools he cut it into a doughnut shaped disk the size of the bad bearing. He applied lots of cup grease, assembled it and the wheel back on the
axle, and said something like, “That'll be a bit noisier than a regular bearing,
but it'll probably last the rest of your trip.” And it did. As I observed earlier,
Model T's were indeed marvels of simplicity and durability!
We continued on into Yellowstone Park, the scenery and attractions of
which were certainly the highlights of our trip. One incident of note occurred
one night when we were situated at the edge of a campground. I was sleeping with my head near the open end of the pup tent, and I was awakened by a
loud sniffing noise near my ear. I roused up and in the dark could vaguely
see the profile of the head of an unusually large shaggy dog. I slapped him
on the nose with my hand, told him to “Git!" and he gave a surprised snort
Page 26
and backed off. I pulled the tent flap shut and went back to sleep. The next
morning a park Ranger happened to stroll by as we were eating breakfast,
and I told him I thought the campers were supposed to keep their dogs on
leashes. When I explained the background of my comment he said, “There
aren't any dogs in this campground.” My eyes widened and he grinned and
added, “Yep, that must have been old Charlie, one of our regular residents.
He comes into camp every now and then at night snooping for garbage or
grub. He probably wouldn't hurt you if you don't antagonize him.”
That was the closest I've ever been, then or since, to a loose bear. During the rest of our stay in Yellowstone, George and I kept the tent flaps closed
and tied at night. We spent about ten days in Yellowstone. We would have
stayed longer but our meager cash supply was dwindling to the point where
we calculated we had just about enough to get us home. We retraced our
route to the Black Hills, and on into central South Dakota. One evening we
heard from a campground neighbor that some of the local ranchers in the area needed help with their hay crop. We decided that this might bear investigation, so the next day we left the main highway and began visiting ranches
that appeared to have unharvested hay in their fields. The third or fourth
place at which we stopped agreed to hire us for a few days. We ultimately
spent about a week there working our butts off during long days of pitching
hay and loading wagons, for the munificent wage of a dollar a day, (remember, this was the Depression), plus all we could eat, and access to sleeping
quarters in the barn. Those meals, though, were a considerable improvement over the frugal fare we had been limiting ourselves to for most of the
trip, and the financial gain, though small, was very welcome.
As I recall, incidentally, the total net cost of the trip, taking into account the $14 earned haying, was just barely over $50. This seems almost
incredible in view of today's prices. But gasoline then cost from 13¢ to 15¢
per gallon, potatoes were 2¢ per pound, canned vegetables were generally
about 10¢ or 12¢ a can, and campgrounds were free. And, of course, we began the trip with a good supply of groceries. The most costly item of food we
had on the trip, I well recall, was a small T-bone steak we splurged on in Yellowstone, which cost 35¢ per pound.
Following our week working in the hay fields, we then continued back
to Wisconsin without incident, and found ourselves to be minor celebrities
Page 27
upon arrival, since no one else in Downsville had ever been to Yellowstone.
It was a trip long to be remembered, and told about!
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Chapter IV
High School Daze
As I have previously noted, the Downsville school system extended only through the ninth grade, which in those days was considered the first year
of high school. To continue the remaining three grades, Downsville students
had to commute to the high school in Menomonie.
My folks decided, however, that my education would be improved if I
went to Menomonie for all four years of high school. My mother's sister, Eva
(Cook) Swenson lived in Menomonie with her husband Tom and daughter
Jane, and arrangements were made that I would stay with them during the
weekdays. Friday nights either Dad or (usually) Mom would drive to Menomonie and retrieve me, then return me to the Swenson domicile Sunday
evenings.
Residing with the Swensons was a pleasant enough experience. Aunt
Eva was a genial hostess and excellent cook, and Uncle Tom seemed quite
willing to have a second teenager in the house. Cousin Jane was fun to be
with; she was three years older than me and a senior, so she was able to help
indoctrinate me in the high school system, and supply much good advice on
scholastic matters. High school in the “big city” (a population then of about
5000, as I recall) was a distinct change from the Downsville environment
and took some getting used to, but I managed reasonably well. I suppose my
good scholastic record that year was due in large part to the fact that since I
was socially unacquainted with my schoolmates, I had little option on school
nights but to stay at the Swensons and study (No TV then, of course, and the
Swensons weren't really avid radio fans.)
During the remaining three years of high school I commuted from
Downsville with three or four other students. One of these, Robert Smith,
had a Model A Ford sedan and did all the driving, for which he was reimbursed by the passengers' parents. My father evidently considered this arrangement to be more dependable transportation than my “Herman” which
admittedly was not in very good shape after the trip west. (Dad, wisely
enough, decided the potential repair costs outweighed the value of the car,
and sold it for me a short time later.)
Page 29
Menomonie High School was probably typical in those days of most
smaller high schools in Wisconsin. The year I graduated (1933) total enrollment was about 530, and my senior class numbered 128 (of whom 91 were
still alive for the 55th class reunion, incidentally). There were 23 faculty
members, which gave an average teacher/pupil ratio of about 22:1, considered low and therefore very good in large modern schools. In terms of facilities (laboratories and technical devices), MHS in the 1930's compares with
the modern schools about like a Model T Ford compares with a 1989 Mercedes. But there is no question but that students graduated in those days
much better educated than most do today, in spite of current large investments in computer equipment, audio/visual facilities, and impressive sports
arenas.
Teachers then were, on the average, probably more skilled and dedicated than most today, and they had the advantage of a school system that
expected and obtained student discipline, quite unlike the laxity prevalent in
many of today's schools. (Chewing gum or whispering during classes was
strictly forbidden, and smoking, profanity, or unexcused absences were
grounds for “staying after school” or even temporary expulsion.)
School classes began at 9 a.m., but we were required to assemble in our
“home rooms” by 8:30. Classes concluded at 4 p.m., at which time any extracurricular activities began. Depending on one's particular class schedule,
the day included two or three “study periods” during which, if the student
applied him (or her) self, the required homework could be done at school
and avoided at night. This seems like a better system than that currently in
use at most schools, where classes end about 2 or 3 p.m., (with no study periods), and many students don't get homework done either at school or
home.
Robert's commuting “bus” usually left Downsville shortly after 8 a.m.
and departed the high school by 4:30 p.m. This service was relatively efficient and usually reliable, but it did inhibit fraternizing and socializing with
our high school peers, and I therefore never had opportunity to date Menomonie girls. (I was rather a shy and modest individual at this time in my
life, and probably wouldn't have anyway.) My participation in the 4 p.m. to 6
p.m. extracurricular activities (in my case, oratory contests, yearbook staff
Page 30
(and ultimately editor-in-chief), class plays, etc.) required much advance
planning and scheduling. This usually involved my mother driving to Menomonie to pick me up or an overnight stay for me with the Swensons.
School dances and athletics usually took place on Saturdays, and I was
able to take in those on occasion, particularly when Robert Smith elected to
attend. Many of the dances were of the “mixer” type, where it was not considered necessary to bring a date. The majority of students attending these
did not, but usually paired off as couples or in groups after the dance for
cokes and hamburgers. The annual prom dances were more formalized
“program” dances, where the males swapped dance reservations with their
respective dates, usually having their dance card fully programmed several
days before the dance. Since the males always did the programming, their
dates had very little choice as to dance partners, which always seemed a bit
unfair to me.
Grading at MHS was on a numerical scale; marks below 7O were
flunks, and a 95 or better was really “top row.” Students received grades in
each class each month, and their grade averages were reported to the principal's office. Each month an “honor roll” was prominently posted, with the
names of the ten highest grade averages in each class. Getting one's name on
that roll usually required at least a 95 average. I am immodest enough to
note that I seldom missed being on the honor rolls, and usually vied with a
sharpie named Harry Hendrickson for the top spot.
Although my commuting status was a considerable social handicap, I
enjoyed High school more than I ultimately did college. I certainly had more
stature at MHS, with the prominence and pride of being yearbook editor,
lead actor in three MHS plays, speaker at several scholastic functions, etc.
And, of course, MHS was considerably smaller than Carleton, which made
the old saying about frogs and puddles apt in my case.
During the summer of 1934, a year after I graduated from high school,
a rather unusual travel opportunity occurred. The MHS principal at that
time was Mildred Schneider, a spinster in her late 40's or early 50's who was
well respected by the student body. She had a stately mien, seldom smiled,
wore rimless glasses, and had long auburn hair always done in a full sweptback Gibson-girl type hairdo (which many of us suspected was a wig, since
Page 31
the hairstyle never varied). She was a good administrator and a strict disciplinarian, and was held in awe by most students, including me.
Her preferred friend among the other spinster teachers was an English
teacher, Anne Sheldon, who was the opposite of Schneider in almost every
respect: short and tubby, mid 30's in age, wavy short hair, invariably jolly
and smiling, and liked by all her pupils who always felt free to joke and converse with her on any subject.
Jack Milnes, a classmate and good friend of mine, had been contacted
by Schneider near the end of the school year or shortly thereafter, with a request that he and some friend would chauffeur her and Sheldon to Washington, D.C., where they were to spend summer vacation with friends. Apparently the ladies were a bit skittish about making such a trip by themselves,
and thought that the presence of two young men en route would serve a dual
function as bodyguards and auto mechanics in the event of any car trouble or
flat tires.
Jack asked me to go with him and I was delighted to accept, even
though I had always felt a bit nervous around the principal, and I could envision certain problems of protocol and conversational limitations arising during three days of close contact with ladies I had always felt obliged to address
as “Miss”. As it turned out, however, no such difficulties arose. Both women
shed their schoolroom demeanor and conversed and joked with each other
and us in complete relaxation, and all four of us thoroughly enjoyed the trip.
The travel arrangements were that Schneider and Sheldon would pay
all expenses on the trip to D.C., including meals and lodging for Jack and
myself, until we reached Washington. At that point we men were on our
own. I don't remember which lady owned the car, or how they planned to return to Wisconsin, but I believe they expected to hire another chauffeur for
the return trip, since we fellows didn't want to stay as long as they did in D.C.
After we left the ladies at their appointed destination, Jack and I spent
two or three days rubbernecking in Washington. We stayed at some fleabag
hotel (a second-floor walkup, no private bathroom), which seemed exceptionally noisy during late hours with much coming and going. One night we
were awakened about 1 a.m. by a woman's voice in the next room, screaming
Page 32
obscenities at some man for not paying her. We wondered what sort of a
business transaction was taking place at that hour, but in our innocence didn't figure it out until much later.
After seeing all of Washington we needed, we hitchhiked to New York
for more sightseeing. Two nights we slept on benches in Central Park. The
second of those we were rudely aroused about 6 a.m. by a cop beating on our
shoe soles with his billy club, who then evicted us from the park with firm
orders not to be caught sleeping there again. Our tours that ensuing day included riding the subway, and we discovered it was possible for a person to
spend the night on those subterranean trains for the price of one admission.
We studied the subway maps and procedures at some length, and found that
once we had bought our way underground (about 10¢ each to pass through
the turnstiles, as I remember), by carefully selecting routes and trains we
could spend an hour or so riding from one end of a line to the other. We
could then cross to the other side of the station (still underground), board
the train going in the opposite direction, and ride another hour back to our
starting place where we would begin the same round trip again. During the
trips we could usually find vacant benches or seats to doze on, especially late
at night. (This, of course, was long before the modern day situation where
such travelers would be suckers for muggers and dope heads.) Our night's
intermittent snoozing under these conditions was of course not quite equivalent to bed rest, but we were young enough to make it do.
After “doing,” New York to our satisfaction, we finally headed home.
The trip back was partially by bus, (as far as we could afford) and by hitchhiking, but we eventually made it, not too much the worse for wear, and with
a substantial mental portfolio of tall tales with which to bore our friends and
parents the rest of the summer.
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Chapter V
College Knowledge: Higher (Hired) Education
There was no question in my mind, as high school graduation approached, that I would subsequently be attending Stout Institute (now affiliated with the state university and called “University of Wisconsin at Stout”).
In those days Stout specialized in manual arts training, woodworking, home
economics, electrical equipment construction and repair, auto mechanics,
and nearly anything else that would ultimately convert a high school student
into a productive and employable citizen.
This was a pleasant, if not exciting, prospect for me, since Stout was
located in Menomonie and most of my peers who were going to college
would probably be going to Stout. However, one day during the summer following my MHS graduation, a couple of professorial types showed up in
Downsville to confer with my father. I was subsequently introduced to them,
and learned they were indeed professors, and from Carleton College. I also
learned that Carleton was located in Northfield, Minnesota, about 40 miles
south of Minneapolis and St. Paul.
Their mission, it developed, was to sell us on the idea of my going to
Carleton, and, as a sweetener, offer me a modest scholarship because of my
“outstanding scholastic record” (their quote) at MHS. After listening to their
sales pitch for about an hour, Dad and I thanked those gentlemen for their
visit and offer, and advised them that we would take the matter under consideration. I ascertained later that day that none of my fellow MHS commuters from Downsville had been so approached, so I naturally felt rather
flattered. For a couple nights afterward the subject of my higher education
occupied most of our family conversations. I was of course agreeable, as was
mother, and dad finally decided he just might be able to finance it, so I
mailed in my application.
Bear in mind, again, this was 1933, in the bare bones bottom of the
Great Depression. Carleton obviously was hurting for students, to be sending professors out as salesmen, beating the bushes in the boondocks, hoping
to snare some warm bodies for the fall enrollment. The “scholarship” was
not much of a one, actually. I can't recall the exact amount involved, but it
Page 34
turned out to be a “working” scholarship, whereby I was entitled to earn up
to about $150 or $200 every year doing grunt work on the school grounds after classes in the afternoon (e.g. tree planting, hedge trimming, and general
maintenance), for the munificent wage of 35¢ per hour. Neither do I recall
the amount of tuition, room and board annual cost, but I think it was in the
realm of about $900, so the working scholarship was a helpful factor.
I was initially rather awed by the Carleton environment, and felt quite
alone for about a week until I was able to establish some conversational relationships with some of my peers. This process was helped along by the circumstance that all students resided in college dormitories then, segregated
as to sex, of course, and more or less as to class level. All male freshmen
lived in Davis Hall, for example, most middle classmen were in Burton Hall
and Severance Hall was mostly inhabited by senior men and jocks.
At enrollment freshmen class members were arbitrarily assigned
roommates by the registrar. I drew a Jewish chap whose family, as he was
quick to advise me, owned some prestigious clothing stores in Minneapolis.
I advised him that I also was from a store-owning family, but after he pressed
me to explain the nature and location of the store, he didn't seem too impressed. We never did hit it off well as roommates; our preferred
study/sleep hours didn't coincide, and we were a constant source of irritation
to each other, stemming from such matters as choice of radio programs,
room orderliness (or lack of), etc. He considered me a country bumpkin, and
I always thought of him as that part of the horse that enters the stable last.
Fortunately, in later years, I was able to finagle myself into single rooms.
One feature of Carleton in those days (which the ACLU has probably
since caused to be abandoned) was that male freshmen were required (by
orders of upperclassmen) at all times when outside their dormitory or class
rooms, to (1) stay off the grass, and (2) wear a beanie. Beanies were green
skullcaps with small visors, designed to make the wearer look naively stupid.
Infractions of these rules, as well as failure to observe a number of other upperclassmen-directed regulations such as no overly loud radio playing, correct and specific behavior in the dining hall, and prompt compliance with
any orders from an upperclassman, were good and sufficient reasons for indictment to the Senior Court.
Page 35
This quasi-judicial organization met monthly, and consisted of seniors
selected by senior class officers, presumably (theoretically) for their scholastic stature, maturity, and open-mindedness. The Court consisted of several
judges, prosecuting attorneys, and one or more bailiffs. Freshmen were denied lawyers. They were almost always found guilty and punished on the
spot by a prescribed number of ceremonious swats on the rear with a stout
wooden paddle:
Bailiff:
Smith:
Bailiff:
Smith:
“Mr. Smith, assume the position.”
“With pleasure, sir.” (bends over)
“Grab your rocks.”
“Yes sir.” (cups scrotum with one hand to keep his testicles out of the
way of the paddle)
Bailiff: (WHACK:) “One.”’
(WHACK: “Two!”
(WHACK:)
“Three!”
WHACK:) “Four,” etc. (to the assigned number.) “That is all, Mr.
Smith. You may leave.”
Smith: “Yes sir. Thank you, sir:”
Cousin Jane also attended Carleton and, as at MHS, was a senior when
I arrived as a freshman. I saw very little of her that year, however, since of
course none of our classes or social events coincided. However, she did give
me some good advice before I ever enrolled, which, as it turned out, had a direct bearing on the rest of my life.
One reason the selection of Carleton had appealed to me was that I
envisioned a career as a “journalist” (the term I used in my application letter), and I suspected that a liberal arts college might do more for me in that
direction than would Stout. I had enjoyed my tour of duty at MHS on the
Menomin (yearbook), and had been assured by my two favorite English
teachers that I had commendable talent and undoubtedly a fine future along
literary lines.
At Carleton the choice of curriculum was relatively limited for freshmen, as is the case at most colleges. At least one course in science was required, and the student could choose from among several. Jane had advised
me to pick geology, since Geology I was the most popular science course at
Carleton, being taught by a dynamic and entertaining personality, Dr. Laurence Gould. He was a handsome man, recently returned from a South Polar
Page 36
expedition where he was second in command to Admiral Byrd, and he had
the ability to make an otherwise rather dull and stodgy subject as spellbinding as a good Whodunit mystery novel. Larry (as everyone referred to him)
ultimately became president of Carleton, incidentally, a position he held with
considerable prestige and success until his retirement.
So I enrolled in geology, and by mid term I was so fascinated with the
subject that my plans for a literary career had been supplanted by visions of
me a geologist, a tanned, fearless outdoorsman, armed with maps, compass,
and rock pick, resolutely plodding through plains and mountains in search of
nature's secrets and mineral bounty. (Geology isn't done that way much anymore in modern times, unfortunately, but that's another story.)
I ultimately majored in geology, of course. This included a wide variety of geological subjects (mineralogy, petrology, paleontology, stratigraphy,
cartography, etc.) and allied science courses (chemistry, biology, geometry,
etc.). Also, since Carleton is essentially a liberal arts oriented school, a heavy
dose of those studies were required, including (in my case) courses in English literature, philosophy, French, psychology, sociology, history, and the
like. Interestingly, although Gould's Geology I was a very popular science
course, very few of the students who took it followed it up by majoring in geology, apparently in ignorance of the burgeoning demand in the mining and
petroleum industries for professional geologists. As a result, enrollment in
the advanced geology courses was sparse, seldom exceeding six or eight students, and only three others in my class finally graduated with a major in geology. (And of those I was the only one to pursue it as a career profession.)
In contrast, the geology department staff and the lab facilities have been
greatly expanded in recent years, and the 1989 Carleton graduation class had
about 20 geology majors. Throughout the period from my attendance until
1988 there have been a total of about 535 students who selected that field of
science as their major (although my brief and incomplete survey of that
alumni list indicates that less than half of those have become professional
geologists).
Freshmen (males) had very few free moments in those days (and maybe still don't). It seemed to us then as though the upperclassmen had little to
do except think up regulations to harass us and projects which involved the
use of frosh as slave labor. One such undertaking was the annual homecomPage 37
ing bonfire on campus, for which custom decreed that freshmen would supply the wood. A few nights before homecoming weekend a cadre of upperclassmen would descend on Davis Hall and direct the organization of woodgathering groups, with instructions as to truck-renting procedures and allocation of each group to a particular sector of the nearby countryside.
Harvest Night, as we called it, was the first time in my life I had ever
been up, and working, from sunset to dawn. It was a long night, and our enthusiasm for it was not improved by the fact that we had classes the next day.
Our objective was to scavenge a specified number of loads of dead wood and
burnable scrap from farmyards and farmers' woodlands without being
chased by irate property owners or the police, which our group did manage
to narrowly avoid.
Another event that required substantial frosh participation involved
the fact that Northfield was (is) the hometown of both Carleton and a college
of similar size named St. Olaf (which, as the name suggests, has Scandinavian Lutheran roots and culture). The two colleges were naturally each other's
prime rivals in athletics. But another quasi-athletic event, frowned on and
officially forbidden by the authorities of both schools, was the annual bridge
fight. The colleges were on opposite sides of town, and were connected by a
street with a low bridge about halfway between.
Traditionally each year, at some weekend in the fall semester, secret
scheduling arrangements were somehow made between upperclassmen of
both schools whereby gangs of male students would meet at the bridge and
debate the ownership thereof. This confrontation, of course, always erupted
into a free-for-all melee in which ownership of the bridge for the ensuing
year would be established only after a considerable number of black eyes and
bloody noses were sustained by the members of both sides. Unfortunately,
on a few occasions some serious injuries were inadvertently the result of
some contestants being pushed off the bridge, and I believe in later years the
authorities of both schools finally and firmly effected the cessation of these
sporting events by threats of expulsion of future offenders. I was, fortunately, not drafted by the upperclassmen for that year's brawl, since their preferred recruits were understandably the bigger and beefier freshmen.
Page 38
The Carleton student body contained (and probably still does) approximately equal numbers of men and women. Dates were therefore easily arranged, but except for the occasional school concerts or dances, the Northfield locale offered rather limited facilities at which to entertain dates – a
couple of cinemas, some hamburger stands, and a few restaurants were
about all. Furthermore, in those days the students were nearly all too financially strapped to indulge very often in dates that cost money. No bars there
then, legal drinking had to be done in nearby cities, like St. Paul. (Prohibition had only recently been repealed, toward the end of my senior year at
MHS.) Also, students were forbidden to own or drive automobiles, other
than to or from their homes on holidays or at vacation times, which put quite
a crimp in dating activities. As if these restrictions weren't enough, the female students had “hours.” Like the men, they lived in segregated dormitories, but were required to be back in the dorms at night no later than certain
times. As I recall, it was 10 p.m. in the case of freshmen and sophomores,
and I believe 11 p.m. for juniors and seniors.
I'm sure that all these social limitations, the dormitory segregation by
sex and check-in times, no-auto rules, no-booze town, are absolutely unimaginable to the modern generation! But, unlike modern times, our generation at least had a near zero incidence of unmarried pregnancies, venereal
disease, and problems associated with drug abuse.
A popular type of inexpensive dating activity at Carleton was the
“blanket party” for one or more couples. The male provided the blanket, and
escorted his date to the college arboretum. This was a wooded area of perhaps 10 or 15 acres adjoining the campus, which was scenically landscaped
into a charming setting of ponds, rock gardens, exotic flowering shrubbery,
and winding trails. (Many of the shrub and tree plantings and much of the
rockwork were done by me, as part of my “scholarship” labors.) Building
bonfires was not permissible, but the couples usually brought refreshments
and perhaps a small radio. Their evening's activities typically included rehearsing foreign language lessons, or possibly engaging in learned discussions of Shakespeare's literary efforts. (Sure they did!)
One problem the blanket daters had was that the school employed a
nighttime security guard who, in his scheduled rounds, liked to stealthily patrol the arboretum and often surprise and harass couples who might be enPage 39
gaged in an intense philosophical discussion. To those of us who were never
thus caught, the guard's unsociable habits and our friends' embarrassments
were simply material for some good laughs, until finally one night the matter
got out of hand and tragedy resulted. A student named Burt Krayenbuhl was
unquestionably one of the most popular in our class, both with men and especially with women, with whom he had frequent dates. He was handsome,
witty, athletic, and a friend to all except the security guard, who had embarrassed Burt on several occasions. Burt finally became sufficiently aggravated
that one night he rounded up a half dozen or so classmates who all had been
similarly harassed (not me!), and led them to the arboretum with the avowed
purpose of catching the guard and dunking him in the pond. Burt's posse did
indeed waylay him, and announced their intention to souse him among the
lily pads. But as they approached and attempted to seize him, he drew his
pistol and warned them off. Burt, undeterred and doubtless believing the
guard was bluffing, jumped at him, whereupon the guard shot Burt pointblank. The horror of that sudden and unpredictable act of violence of course
stunned the students, who backed off in retreat. The guard also seemed
stunned by his act, but finally stumbled out of the arboretum and (as we
learned later) reported the matter to the Dean of Men, and called for an ambulance.
Burt died later that night in a hospital. The guard pleaded self-defense
and was never jailed or indicted for manslaughter, but of course was replaced.
The entire school was in shock and mourning for several days. There was
much loud talk in the men's dorms about organizing a lynch party, but nothing ever came of it. It was the worst tragedy to occur at Carleton during my
four years there.
****
A majority of Carleton students in those Depression days were financially limited, and had little spare change to squander on the frills, clothes,
parties, and travel that most of today's collegians seem to feel they are entitled
to as a function of their civil rights. For example, laundry facilities in town
were quite inexpensive, but I found it still cheaper to buy a “laundry mailer”
(a light weight canvas-covered strap-bound cardboard container the size of a
small suitcase), and mail my laundry home every week or so. Aside from the
financial saving, this system had the added advantage that mother usually
Page 40
included a package of cookies or other delicacies when she re-shipped me the
case with the laundered items.
As previously noted, students were not allowed to possess cars at college,
which eliminated what is today a major expense item for most collegians. At
Carleton, however, the lack of wheels was not a burdensome problem since
the campus was small and “downtown” Northfield was but a short walk away.
When holidays or long weekends permitted a trip home, my mother occasionally drove and picked me up at Northfield and returned me. This was about a
two-hour trip, more or less east-west via rather poor roads across western
Wisconsin and eastern Minnesota. But usually, especially in the bad driving
weather of winter, I made the round trip by bus. This was relatively inexpensive travel in those days, but a bit tedious. The only available after-class
schedule I could use involved a bus leaving Northfield about 5:30 p.m., which
proceeded north to St. Paul. There I waited an hour or so for another bus
which headed southeast to Menomonie. After several intervening stops at
small towns en route, the bus arrived in Menomonie around 10:30 p.m.
where, hopefully, mother or dad would be waiting to drive me home.
Meals at Carleton were provided in dormitory dining halls, and many
students earned portions of their college expenses by waiting tables or working in the kitchens. Tables in the dining halls were not reserved or allocated
by the supervisors, but within a few days after the beginning of each school
year most students had informally chosen seating arrangements at specific
tables with selected friends, who usually shared meals together for the balance of the year.
My companions for most of my college days there were Chandler Swanson
(a handsome blond from New Jersey), Allan Matthews (a professorial looking
fellow from Pennsylvania), and Robert Crassweller (an erudite and voluble
individual with a polio-crippled leg from Minnesota). Our usual student waiter was “Happy Jack” Caton, a big raw-boned blond from South Dakota who
was thus nicknamed because of his loud and unique guffaws which were so
frequently heard everywhere on campus and at the movies.
Our table group soon became labeled the “Last Man's Club”, because
we were so frequently among the final few to vacate the dining hall, due to our
propensity to become involved in heated discussions on almost any subject,
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ranging through such matters as philosophy, politics, scholastics, and comparative ratings of the physical assets and personalities of certain coeds. Our
diversity of opinions in those days is somewhat matched by the diversity of
our subsequent careers. Both Swanson and Matthews graduated with degrees
in geology, as did I. But Swan became a Navy torpedo bomber pilot, prior to
and during WWII, and remained a Navy career officer until his retirement
thirty years later. Matty displayed a marked proclivity for ultra-liberal politics
in college, and ultimately opted for a government career. For a time he was
an economist with the U.S. Bureau of Mines, but except for service in WWII
as a Naval officer on a destroyer, most of his government work involved economic studies related to foreign aid, in the U.S. Agency for International Development (“AID”). His avocations in later years included many projects of
liberal orientation, such as (to quote him from his autobiographical notes in
an alumni directory) “organizations to end global hunger, reduce arms, protect the environment, federate democracies, democratize corporations, and to
attain a compassionate and sustainable society”.
Crass became a lawyer after leaving Carleton. His career included
working for the State Department in Washington, and for Pan American Airways and International Telephone and Telegraph in New York, as well as numerous part time fellowships and professorships at various colleges. His avocation in later years has been the authoring of several books and numerous
articles on Latin American subjects. Happy Jack, to everyone’s amazement,
became a Carleton-sponsored missionary to China after he graduated, and he
subsequently mired down as an Episcopalian minister in Montana. And I, of
course, went off in a direction at right angles to everyone else and became a
petroleum geologist.
Other than a few occasional dates, my social life was not a flourishing
one. The Carleton fraternities and sororities were not national Greek letter
organizations, but were strictly local and unique to Carleton, and did not provide living quarters as do the national ones in most universities. The men's
frats used names with Greek connotations (but not letters), such as “Athenians,” “Delphis,” etc. Some were athletics oriented and preferred to recruit
jocks from the college lettermen; some gravitated toward the beer-drinking
playboy type, and others preferred eggheads and intellectual heavyweights.
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I joined one called the Delians (is there anyplace in Greece called Delos?) which didn't seem to be unduly oriented in any special direction, just a
group of friendly good guys with a high percentage of practical jokers. Initiation ceremonies included the usual round of ceremonious paddling, and an
all-night scavenger hunt which took some of us neophytes as far afield as St.
Paul. Most subsequent fraternity activities during the year were never very
earth-shaking, and usually comprised a few minor social events and participation in intramural sports.
My other extracurricular activities were rather limited by a consistently
heavy scholastic schedule, and the time needed for my “scholarship” work.
My athletic endeavors were accordingly rather restricted. During my first
year I made the freshman baseball team and was duly awarded a letter sweater, but I failed to qualify for the basketball squad. In subsequent years I could
no longer afford the time to go out for baseball, and had to limit my athletic
talents and time to intramural softball and boxing. I got well clobbered in the
latter endeavor, but I did star as softball pitcher for my fraternity team, leading them one year to within one game of the school intramural championship.
Speaking of practical jokers, one of my better contributions to that art
form was dreamed up as a plot to harass our dormitory proctors. The proctors, generally seniors, were usually football jocks or other college athletes
who were given some financial support for performing sort of a supervisory
function in the dorms. Each of the several floors of the dorms housed a proctor, whose duties were to maintain order, quell disturbances, advise residents
of edicts issued by the Dean, and enforce the rule against liquor or girls in the
rooms. Most were good Joes, but occasionally one would take his job too seriously and become a trifle overzealous in his duties.
One year my dormitory had this latter category of proctor on a couple
floors, and I persuaded Swanson that some guerrilla revolutionary activity by
us might be entertaining. My idea was engendered by my accidental discovery in chemistry class that ordinary wrapping cord soaked in ammonium nitrate solution (or was it potassium nitrate?) and dried made an excellent slowburning fuse.
I prepared several feet of such ersatz fuse and conducted some discreet
experiments to determine its burn rate. I also acquired some 2-inch firePage 43
crackers, the kind we called “flash crackers,” which produced a tremendous
boom and could blow one's thumb off if held too long. With Swan's help and
planning we attached about ten of them to various time-calibrated lengths of
fuse. One weekday night we set our alarms for about midnight, and quietly
distributed the firecrackers at various locations in the halls and bathrooms on
two dorm levels, according to a carefully scheduled plan. When all were so
located we then quickly retraced our routes, lighting all the fuses, and returned to our room to await the results.
The action was totally successful and completely gratifying. About a
minute or two later we heard a horrendous explosion near the proctor's room,
the cracker's normally loud bang being greatly magnified in the confines of
the hallway. About a minute later, with our floor's proctor well aroused, a
second boom went off at the far end of the hall. Seconds later we heard the
proctor's footsteps charging down the hall to corral the culprit whom he
doubtless presumed to be on the loose. Shortly afterward a third explosion
occurred on the floor below, and our proctor charged downstairs and confronted an equally baffled proctor on that floor. By now many students were
up and into the halls, enjoying the action, as explosions continued intermittently at alternate ends of the halls and in the bathrooms. The red-faced proctors and exuberant students prowled the halls for an hour or so after the barrage, but no one ever determined the identity of the culprit(s) nor the “modus
operandi.”
****
I did very little dating at Carleton. I don't recall having had more than
two or three dates with the same girl, and these were usually platonic events –
school dances or concerts and occasional movies. A disinclination to develop
a romantic relationship with any of the coeds stemmed primarily from the
fact that such interests on my part lay elsewhere during most of my Carleton
career.
To begin with, during my senior year in high school I became enamored
of a girl in my class named Doris (“Dee”) Blumer, a lovely brown-eyed brunette of modest mien who commuted to school from the nearby town of
Knapp. She was on my yearbook staff, and in one of our school plays that
year she and I shared leads, cast as sweethearts in that performance. I atPage 44
tempted to subsequently continue those roles, in real life, but I don't think
Dee ever felt the depth of affection for me that I did for her. When I subsequently became committed to Carleton I tried to persuade her that her cultural and intellectual talents would be wasted anywhere but that same college. I
failed, however, since she had already enrolled at Lawrence College (in Appleton, Wis.) and didn't feel enough incentive to switch.
During college we exchanged correspondence regularly. Hers (and of
course mine) had affectionate tones, and I was impressed by the maturity and
sensitivity displayed by her obviously sincere interest in philosophy, literature, and romantic poetry. We planned to meet at the next opportunity when
we would both be back in Wisconsin. But before this could happen I was
stunned to learn from a friend who knew of our relationship that Dee had
been killed in an auto accident on a trip home. This tragedy had quite a
traumatic effect on me, and my ensuing depression vitiated any interest in
Carleton coeds for some time.
Later, during my junior year when I was home on holiday, I began dating a Menomonie girl, Betty Milnes, at the instigation of her older brother
Jack. Betty was then a high school senior, and seemed properly impressed to
be receiving the attentions of a college man, so we hit it off quite well. We
subsequently romanticized by mail when I was at college, and dated frequently and exclusively during summer vacations. I was quite attracted to her, and
what with our regular correspondence and her availability during the summer, I felt no need for other romantic adventures at Carleton. As I learned
later, however, Betty did branch out a bit date-wise, during subsequent school
year which ultimately led to some off again-on again relationships between
us. More on this later.
It is relatively common practice these days for college students to go
bouncing off to the Florida or Texas beaches during Easter vacation. My college days preceded this era of such mass migrations by many years. But I can
claim to have had a part in pioneering that tradition, at least in the case of
Carleton.
During my junior year a senior named Collis Williams, who was a fellow resident in my dormitory, somehow made connections with an older man
Page 45
(a relative of a friend, or friend of a relative, or whatever) who was scheduled
to drive from Minneapolis to Florida on business trip the weekend before our
Easter vacation, and who didn't object to taking passengers who would share
expenses. Collis asked two other seniors and me if we'd be interested in going
along. The other two agreed, and after some sharp-pencil budget calculations, I decided I could too.
None of us had been in Florida before, and our first glimpses of palm
trees and the ocean were quite exciting. Our driver dropped us off in Daytona
Beach, and we spent several enjoyable days touring the general area, by bus
and afoot, subsisting primarily on 15 cent hamburgers and grapefruit. We
swam in the ocean and lolled on the beach in warm sunshine, getting well
sunburned while happily speculating as to current frigid temperatures in
Northfield. However, the present day beach orgy attractions of beer, babes,
and blanket parties which seem to occupy the time of student Easter vacationers today were unfortunately absent. (Pioneers often are doomed to lead
uneventful and Spartan lives!)
Hitchhiking in those days was an accepted mode of travel, fortunately,
and drivers were more sympathetic to thumb wavers than now. Robbery,
murder, kidnapping, and general violence on highways had not yet become
prevalent. So we decided to hitchhike on to Miami. We lucked out by being
picked up almost immediately by a young fellow in a fancy car who had lots of
money and apparently the time to spend it. He drove us all the way to Miami,
then took us on a sightseeing tour of the entire city. Our unbelievably good
fortune continued and he let us share his quarters for several days in his
ocean front suite with private beach facilities at an elegant lodge in Miami
Beach!
Finally, with our finances rapidly dwindling, we decided we'd best start
heading north, and we allotted ourselves nearly a week to hitchhike back to
school. But on the day we had scheduled our departure, another stroke of
fantastic luck occurred. We spotted a newspaper ad that said, “Driving to
Minneapolis in a. new Lincoln Zephyr; desire passengers.” Unreal! In those
days, incidentally, a Lincoln Zephyr was the creme de la creme of automobiles. So we called the gentleman who placed the ad, negotiated a remarkably
inexpensive expense-sharing arrangement, and secured our reservations.
With that guaranteed transportation we still had a few more days to spend in
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Miami, so we devoted the time to improving our tan, and attending the colorful Hialeah race track. We eventually arrived back at Carleton with some time
to spare, which we mostly spent obnoxiously regaling our friends, who had
remained in chilly Minnesota, with tall tales of our adventures.
As far as I know, we were the only Carleton students to spend Easter in
Florida during my days there, and I like to think we probably started the fad.
****
I graduated, cum laude, from Carleton in 1937. A “now what?” feeling
seemed prevalent among many of my classmates, since very few had job offers
in their pockets in those economically depressed times. However, I was
bound for graduate school!
During my senior year I had finally convinced Dr. Larry Gould that I
was serious about following a career in geology, and he had therefore convinced me that additional graduate work in the subject was essential. And
one day he surprised me by reporting that he had secured scholarship offers
for me at two universities: Syracuse and the University of Texas. Needless to
say, I was flattered and pleased, since I had made no applications on my own.
I chose UT for no particularly good reason; I suppose then I thought Texas
sounded more glamorous since I'd never been south of Iowa.
At that time, however, I was not planning to be a petroleum geologist, it
was my desire and intention to become a mining geologist, since I'd been influenced by the Carleton geology department's natural emphasis on the mineralogy and geology of the Minnesota and Wisconsin copper, lead, and iron
mining districts. With that objective in mind, a week or so before graduation
I had mailed an application to an iron mining company on the famed Mesabi
Iron Range in northern Minnesota for summer flunky work employment,
which I hoped would be a good initial step toward ultimate employment in
that industry.
After graduation I returned to Downsville to await a letter of acceptance from the mining company which I was certain would be forthcoming
shortly. A week or so later I received word from a Carleton classmate who
knew of my impending UT graduate work, asking if I'd be interested in a
Page 47
summer job in Wichita, Kansas, in the geological office of Barnsdall Oil Company – my friend being a nephew of some official in that company. (Anybody
remember Barnsdall, long since absorbed by larger companies, and their melodic song-ad on the radio which began “B-square to your car...”?) I mulled
this offer for two or three days, still hoping for a favorable reply from the
Minnesota company. I finally decided to abide by the “bird in the hand...”
adage, and accept the Barnsdall offer, since summer jobs of any sort were in
considerably short supply.
So, one day in early June, I packed a suitcase, Mom packed a lunch for
me, and I headed south in Dad's Model-T delivery truck (which he claimed he
was about to replace anyway). It was a full two-day trip to Wichita, and I reported for work the morning of the third day. Several days later I received a
letter forwarded by my folks which had arrived the day after I left Downsville,
offering me a summer job on the Mesabi Range. The offer was contingent on
my acknowledging it immediately and reporting for work about the same day
I received the forwarded letter, so I had no chance of accepting it.
This incident is an excellent and dramatic example of how people's
lives are often modified or even radically changed by minor time lapse events;
in my case I would certainly have accepted the Minnesota job and probably
have spent the rest of my adult career as a mining geologist, had I waited one
more day before embarking for Wichita. Instead, I became channeled into
what was undoubtedly been a more satisfying and profitable career as a petroleum geologist.
The job with Barnsdall was that of office flunky, involving miscellaneous clerical duties, map drafting, and an occasional scouting trip to the oil
fields with the geologist in charge, one Ralph Lamb. The job paid $75 per
month, and I lived in a small no-bath bedroom in a rundown hotel for $5 per
week. The work was mostly routine and uninspiring, but it did expose me to
some of the arcane arts and intricacies of the oil industry. That factor, and the
subsequent orientation toward petroleum geology at the University of Texas,
induced me ultimately into the oil-finding business.
I returned to Downsville briefly in late August before the fall semester
began at UT. My folks elected to drive me to Austin, never having been in that
part of the country, and I was pleased at the prospect of a more comfortable
Page 48
trip (in our DeSoto) than I'd been experiencing lately in Model T's. Our travel
time was about three days, plus a fourth day and overnight stop in Dallas to
visit the Texas state fair, with which we were all suitably impressed. I can't
recall exactly how, but I knew in advance of the trip the address where I
would be rooming at UT. It turned out to be a well-furnished comfortable
second floor bedroom in a large private home owned by a faculty member.
Another similar bedroom was occupied by another recipient of a scholarship
in the geologic department, so I presume the rooming arrangements had been
made for us by the scholarship administrators. Fellow roomer was Victor
Brown Monnett, son of a Dr. V. E. Monnett who was chairman of the geology
department at Oklahoma University. Brown, as he preferred to be called,
turned out to be a delightful companion and fellow student. We shared several classes of course, and our scholarship awards required up to teach freshman geology labs three times a week.
I was initially quite overwhelmed, coming from a small Midwestern
campus, at the size of the UT campus and the student body, which was then
about 12,000 (and is now nearly quadruple that). Neither Brown nor I had
cars (nor did most students then), and our rooming house was nearly two
miles from the geology building. Getting to and between classes on time required dependable alarm clocks, fast footwork, and no loitering en route.
The type and quality of teaching at UT was not very dissimilar from
that at Carleton, but the advanced geology courses were tougher and predominantly petroleum industry-oriented. In addition to those I decided it
would be advantageous for a prospective oil geologist to take a course in petroleum engineering to better become acquainted with the nuts and bolts of
well drilling technology. Prior to my summer apprenticeship at Barnsdall my
knowledge of the arcane terminology of the oil fields was sparse, to say the
least. As far as I knew, “cable tools,” were probably devices used to repair
dower lines, and “roughnecks” were characters who liked to fight and raise
hell in beer bars. (Definition: Cable tools are wedge-shaped drill bits suspended in the hole on a cable; roughnecks are guys who do the heavy grunt
work on drilling rigs.)
But I soon realized I was out of my depth in petroleum engineering. I
did not have the necessary background in mechanical engineering, physics,
and metallurgy, and I had never had occasion to learn to use a slide rule,
Page 49
without which (in those days before pocket calculators made their appearance) it was nearly impossible to keep up with the volume of rather intricate
mathematical calculations constantly required. So, after two weeks or so, I
gave up and dropped that course, which was somewhat hard on my ego since
I had never before tackled a school subject I couldn't master. I suppose, in a
sense, that could be considered as my first introduction to the real world,
since in my subsequent lifetime I found I occasionally had to swallow my
pride and admit there were frequently problems or subjects I couldn't master.
****
Meals at UT involved more effort and time expenditure than at Carleton, since I did not have the convenience of a dormitory dining hall. A cafeteria and sandwich stands were available in the Student Union building, but
they were invariably crowded at noon time and required some time spent
standing in line.
Fortunately, the “strip” (the street flanking the west side of the campus) had a number of hamburger stands and other “quickie” cafes. One of
my favorites was a sandwich shop which served malts the likes of which I
have never seen since: huge glasses of chocolate ice cream-based fluid. The
consistency of thick molasses, costing (can you believe?) one thin dime. On a
more elegant level, where fellows treated their dates, was the famous Nighthawk Restaurant several blocks south of the campus.
For most of my breakfasts and evening meals, I settled into a routine of
eating at a small diner located about halfway between the campus and my
rooming house. Breakfasts (juice, sweet rolls and one cup of coffee) were
25¢, and dinners were 35¢ plate lunches on weekdays. Complete chicken
dinners were available for 50¢ on weekends. This diner also followed a practice no longer in vogue: they sold coupon-type meal tickets for $5 with which
one could ultimately purchase $6 worth of meals.
My favorite dessert then, as now, was cherry pie. A small home-style
bakery was also located between the campus and my quarters, and after a
good day at school I often bought a complete pie on the way home for late
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evening snacking. The pies were a bit smaller than standard sizes, but cost
only 50¢ and were of superb quality and a gustatory delight.
****
My affair with Betty tapered off considerably early in my year at UT.
Shortly after I arrived there and checked in at the Geology Department office, I found a letter awaiting me from her in which she indicated that she
was dating a fellow named Olstad, and she suggested that I should feel free
to acquire other romantic interests. We subsequently continued to correspond sporadically and intermittently thereafter (I even bought her a birthday gift in October), but in a more platonic vein. I couldn't really blame her,
since I would have no chance while in Austin for occasional weekends or holiday visits to Menomonie as I’d been able to do while at Carleton.
On balance I was really rather pleased, since I then felt free to branch
out a bit without any guilt feelings. And the UT' campus, provided a dazzling
supply of female pulchritude, much superior to and considerably more extensive than, the coed assortment available at Carleton. For one thing, the prevailing warm weather in Austin made possible a more appealing and stylish
dress code: short skirts and blouses could be worn most of the year, and the
girls were never burdened with the heavy coats, woolens and galoshes that
Yankee coeds needed throughout the long winter. And the Texas gals seemed
to have more of a knack for attractive makeup and hairstyles. Dates were easy
to come by, and the UT campus and Austin provided a wide variety of facilities for entertaining them. At that time students from outside the state were
rather scarce, and my status as a Yankee visitor seemed to intrigue many of
the girls. To their usual stock question, “How come you-all came way down
heah from Wisconsin to go to school”, my stock answer was “Honey chile, I
was sent down heah to do missionary work.”
It soon became quite apparent that many of the young ladies had their
eye out for husband material, and privately assessed their dates accordingly.
One cute charmer I dated named Ruby was the only child of a wealthy rancher. She managed to coax me into accompanying her on a weekend visit to her
folks' ranch in western Texas, where she and her family entertained me royally. Included in the recreation schedule was a horseback tour of part of the
father's extensive spread of range land – ten or twelve sections (square miles)
Page 51
of land, as I recall, heavily populated with fat Herefords. Ruby never
broached the subject, but it was obvious that her future husband would some
day inherit that establishment, and I guess only my determination to be a geologist kept me from ultimately being a rancher.
I also passed up a chance to inherit the ownership of most of the movie
theaters in Waco. This prospect was presented quite clearly and specifically
to me by the girl I dated most of the time at UT. She was a tall, voluptuous,
pretty brunette named Marjorie, who was in one of the freshman geology labs
I taught. She became quite enamored of me, and I was very attracted to her,
but when she got to the point of explaining how her father hoped for a son-inlaw to operate his Waco movie empire, I decided it was time to cool it. We
nevertheless remained good friends and corresponded sporadically for a year
or two after I finished at UT. She dropped out of the university soon after I
left, went to New York, and became a model. The last missive I ever had from
her included a New York newspaper article by a gossip columnist relating how
a well known movie actor, Bruce Cabot, had given Marjorie a baby kangaroo
as a token of his affection.
So, to quote the first verse of that epic poem “Retrospect” (by my favorite poet):
The things in life that “might have been”
Are many and diverse;
Some might have been for better,
But some might have been for worse.
****
One of the requirements for an advanced course I needed in structural
geology was a summer's field geology program. The UT geology department
annually provided such courses and facilities at Brady, a small cow town in
central Texas. So, at the end of the UT school year in the spring of 1938, I enrolled in that summer course and arrived in Brady in mid June with 27 other
would be geologists (all male) and three professor instructors.
The housing arrangements and facilities for in-house lecture were
hardly up to modern Holiday Inn standards, but seemed to us quite adequate
for that time and those circumstances. The UT geology department rented
Page 52
each year the second floor of an old but reasonably sturdy abandoned warehouse building on the edge of the downtown square. Each student had a cot,
locker, and access to a serve-all bathroom. Our warehouse quarters were not
air-conditioned, nor were the two old school buses which provided our transportation to and from the field locations where we spent nearly every day surveying and mapping the geology and small oil fields in the general area.
Most of the territory we worked in was of moderate relief, generally
rocky brush and cactus-covered hills suitable only for cattle and sheep raising.
It was my first experience with Texas summer heat, and with rattlesnakes
which seemed to have an affinity for basking on the particular rock outcrops I
chose to measure or set markers on for surveying purposes.
The instructors' system for the geological field exercises was to pair off
the students and assign each couple a sector of the study area to be surveyed
and geologically mapped. The buses would load after breakfast and embark
on a round trip tour of the study area (about 40 square miles), dropping off
the student pairs at spots on the road nearest their assigned work areas. In
addition to our maps and geological equipment, we carried sandwiches and a
canteen each to see us through the day until about 4:00 p.m., at which time
the buses would again make their rounds and pick us up where they left us in
the morning.
Prior to departure in the morning there was always a rush of activity
getting ready for the day, packing our knapsacks and mapping gear, and
crowding the bathroom for last minute functional duties. So most of us
adopted the practice of readying supplies and filling our canteens the night
before. This gave some comedians in the group the opportunity for a crude
practical joke: spiking unguarded canteens at night with a dose of salt or vinegar. When a person was thus victimized and didn't check his canteen's contents before departure, he would have to spend a day working in the Texas
heat without drinking water, since none was available in the study area.
On one such occasion, when this type of horseplay was first begun and
we had not yet learned to check our canteens before leaving for work, both
my canteen and my partner's were thus sabotaged. Our comments that
morning in the field, when we first paused for a cool draught of agua and
gagged on salt brine instead, are quite unprintable. It was a long, hot, and
Page 53
very thirsty day that ensued. We quit our work early and adjourned to our
pickup spot about 4 p.m. to await the bus.
While squatting there in the sun, thoroughly parched, and inventing
new profane labels for the unknown jokesters, my partner Lindsay tentatively kicked at a beer can lying in the ditch. Startled by the can's sluggish reaction, he picked it up, shook it, and exclaimed in awe, “My God, it's full! It's
unopened!”
And sure enough, it was! An accidental discard by some passing
rancher, no doubt, but to us it was a gift from some guardian angel. But beer
cans then did not have the pop-up ring openers modern ones do, and we of
course weren't carrying can openers. So Lindsay said, I'll hold it on this flat
rock, Kyle, and you tap a hole in it with your geologic pick.” This we tried,
but my taps only dented the can's top slightly.
“Harder!” said Lindsay. I gave it a real whack, the pick did then
puncture the can, and the beer, which had gotten hot lying in the sun and
well shaken up by our manipulations, to our horror erupted in a foaming
geyser at least five feet high! Most of it drenched our clothes, and only about
a tablespoon or two remained in the can. In our frustration we completely
exhausted our supply of profanity. When the bus finally picked us up, the hilarity of the other riders and their commentary about our beery smell did
nothing to sooth our tempers. And we never did find out who spiked our
canteens.
Brady Creek flows through Brady, and a few miles upstream west of
town a dam impounds Brady Reservoir. An incident of interest involving
this waterway occurred in mid summer when after a couple days of torrential
rains the dam broke and the resultant wall of water hit town and literally
flushed out the first floors of shops and buildings fronting on the town
square. The water surged by the front of our warehouse barracks, but we had
no problems with the water since our quarters were on the second floor. We
did enjoy the respite from fieldwork, of course, and spent an afternoon at the
height of the flood watching the contents of the stores, plus an occasional
cow or pig, swirling by below our windows. At one point we excitedly spotted
the blond head of an apparently naked female floating toward us in the boiling torrent. Another fellow and I rushed down stairs, waded through waist
Page 54
deep water to the door, and with one of us holding to the building and the
other holding his hand while reaching into the water, we barely managed to
grab the gal as she swept by and haul her in. And she turned out to be a
dress shop’s mannequin! We carried her upstairs, dried her off, and named
her Mabel. Several of our friends subsequently had their pictures taken with
them and Mabel apparently sleeping together under blankets in their cots.
The snapshots turned out quite well, incidentally.
Our summer course included some interesting and enjoyable field
trips of several days. One included the Wichita and Arbuckle Mountains of
Oklahoma. One cut a swath through the oil fields of west Texas and New
Mexico, plus Carlsbad Caverns, the Terlingua (Texas) mercury mining district, and the Chisos Mountains and Big Bend country of Texas' remotest
southwest corner. By the end of the summer's training in field geology we
were all well tanned, considerably leaner, and confident that the oil companies would all soon be seeking our services.
Page 55
Chapter VI
Into The Real World
As noted earlier, I received scholarships (such as they were) for which
I had not made application, at both Carleton and the University of Texas.
Remarkably enough, this trend continued throughout my life. I never applied for a job (nor for advanced assignments or positions within a job) during my entire adult working career, which spanned 49 years (counting 10
years consulting work after retirement from Exxon). The fact that employment opportunities were always offered to me (including the consulting jobs
which I never solicited) was probably primarily due, I suspect, not to my talents but mainly to fortuitous circumstances of my having usually been in the
right places at the right times. Or, to put it simply, I was usually lucky.
My lucky star was especially bright at the end of the UT field geology
summer session at Brady. I was advised by the senior professor that he had
recommended me for a job vacancy at the University of Texas Lands Department, at Midland, Texas, and that the job was mine if I wanted it. Times
were still hard in August, 1938, and I knew my folks were scrimping to keep
me in school. I would have needed at least another semester or two to gain
my Master's degree. I decided a job would be more useful at that point than
the MS initials following my name, and gratefully accepted.
After a quick visit home I reported for work in Midland. The UT
Lands, I might explain, is a geological office, staffed then (and probably now)
with four or five geologists who are responsible for overseeing the leasing
and oil development of the University's hundreds of thousands of acres in
west Texas land (granted to UT by the state many years ago). The Lands office work involves keeping up to date on drilling developments and the resulting geological data which enables them to more efficiently and profitably
schedule the oil lease auctions.
My fellow workers at Lands were a friendly lot, supervised by a salty,
good humored but occasionally crusty, Scotsman named Bert Haigh, all of
whom were anxious to indoctrinate and include the neophyte in their work,
and of course occasionally subject him to the usual office gags and initiation
pranks. Other than a few infrequent trips to the field to check on recent
Page 56
drilling activity on Lands leases, my job was limited to rather unexciting
flunky work in the office, plotting well logs, updating geologic and oil field
maps, etc. But I was satisfied; unlike many of my college graduate peers, I
was finally regularly employed and self-supporting for the first time in my
life. I had entered the real world.
Midland in 1938 was a comfortable and reasonably prosperous town,
but unpretentious. If memory serves, I think the population was about 15 or
20 thousand, and the tallest building, in which the Lands office was located,
was four stories high. Cattle ranching and oil production were the primary
industries in the general area, and numerous petroleum companies and independent oilmen officed in Midland. Generally speaking, most of the company executives, managers and technicians (geologists, engineers etc.) lived
in Midland, but most of the well drillers and other oil field workers, as well as
the oil well supply and service companies, were situated in nearby Odessa, a
somewhat larger town about 22 miles west. Midland's social activities therefore tended to be on the sedate side, while Odessa was noted for lots of bars,
loose women, lots of night life (red neck variety), and hell raising in general.
Both towns are classic examples of oil-inspired growth; Midland now
has a population of over 70 thousand, and Odessa is in excess of 90 thousand. I have not been back to Midland since I worked there, but I understand it has since acquired the stature of a mini-metropolis, with an impressive array of office skyscrapers and high-rise apartment buildings, as well as
extensive plushy residential areas.
The low-key tenor of Midland in 1938 is well illustrated by an experience of mine early in my residence there. One day as I was walking a block
or two to lunch in the downtown section, accompanied by a coworker, we
passed the biggest bank in town. Seated on a bench on the sidewalk directly
in front, shaded in the bank's shadow, were three or four old scruffy looking
ranchers in weather beaten clothes and boots, conversing and busily whittling and spitting tobacco juice across the curb. After we'd passed out of earshot I said to my companion, who had been in Midland quite a while and
knew a lot of the inhabitants, “Wouldn't you think the bank would object to
these old coots cluttering up their sidewalk?” He laughed and said, “Those
old coots are all oil-rich ranchers, and two of them own the bank!”
Page 57
Since I still didn't own an automobile my social activities were confined
to the Midland vicinity, and therefore not very exciting. My Lands coworkers were all married, but I was never invited to their homes. A fellow
roomer at the private home where I rented my bedroom quarters had a car,
and we occasionally took in a movie or did some beer drinking together, but
he usually preferred girls to my company, and was disinclined to include me
on any double-dating ventures.
For that matter, I never met any girls in Midland that I was much interested in dating. My sole romantic interest at that time was Carol Ann
Snell a vivacious cutie I had one date with in Elmwood, Wisconsin, during
my visit home after the summer session at Brady. I wrote her shortly after
my arrival in Midland, wired her some roses, and finally induced her to respond. We exchanged several letters and snapshots over a period of a few
months, but I somehow failed to hold her attention, presumably due to her
already having a wide choice of suitors more closely available. I didn't hear
from or of her again until nearly two years later, after I had become engaged
to Betty Milnes and remarkably enough, both Betty and Carol were rooming
together while doing practice teaching in La Crosse, Wisconsin, as part of
their Stout Institute's teacher training program. Apparently they got along
well together, and Betty's letters to me frequently included entertaining
comments about her roommate, as well as occasional humorous messages to
me from Carol.
My job at Midland only lasted about nine months. One day in May,
1939, I was approached by a recruiting official from Standard Oil Co. (N.J.)
who was seeking young geologists for employment with Carter Oil Company
and Humble Oil Company. Both companies were SONJ subsidiaries, the
names having been derived from the men who founded them long ago. Operating territories were divided such that Humble operated primarily in
southern Louisiana, Texas, and New Mexico, and Carter principally in northern Louisiana, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Illinois, Michigan, Indiana, the
Dakotas, and most of the Rocky Mountain states. Although Carter had a
much larger territory it was a much smaller company than Humble, since oil
production in the latter's bailiwick considerably exceeded that in Carter's.
By then I was rather bored with both Midland and my work at Lands,
and I was pleased at the opportunity to move on. At that time I had seen all I
Page 58
needed to of Texas, and unhesitatingly chose the Carter position, primarily
because its extensive territorial spread sounded geographically and geologically diverse, and Humble sounded too big and too organizationally stratified
for my tastes. (In view of my easily decided rejection of Humble, and later
rivalry with Humble as a Carter employee, it's a bit ironic that 22 years later I
would become a Humble employee through no choice of mine, as the result
of SONJ merging Carter into the Humble company in 1961.)
An added incentive to the job change, of course, was that the $125
monthly salary offered was an improvement over the $100 I was receiving at
Lands. So, in June I bade Lands a fond (?) farewell and reported to work at
Carter's headquarters in Tulsa on the 15th. Upon entering the Personnel Office on the morning of my arrival, where I was to begin the procedure of becoming a Carter employee, I was surprised to encounter one of my Brady fellow-students, a short, stocky and smart-as-a-whip young man named George
Musselman (who was equally surprised to see me.) Other than his having
gotten married since the Brady days, I don't remember now what he had
been doing. For the next several days we were jointly processed through the
paper work, physical exams, and indoctrination channels necessary to officially become a Carter employee. Both George and I were then shipped off to
Carter's Northern Division, where geologic field work was being conducted in
Montana and the Dakotas. My assignment was to be half of a two-man field
party with an experienced geologist named Ray Hart who worked out of
Bismarck, North Dakota. Ray was Party Chief and did the geology, and I, as
a Junior Geologist, did the surveying and gained experience. George had a
similar assignment in Montana.
From June Until November, when winter weather shut down field
work in that area, Ray and I worked long and hard mapping the surface geology of an extensive region of northwestern North Dakota. Most of our assigned sector ranged from about 80 to 150 miles away from Bismarck, and
under normal circumstances we would have spent the weeknights at some
small town closer to our area of operations. But Ray's wife Lucille, who was
with him in a small Bismarck apartment, was in an advanced stage of pregnancy, and Ray insisted on being home with her every night in case of possible medical emergencies or an early delivery. So each weekday we drove to
and from our work area, frequently traveling anywhere from 150 to as much
Page 59
as 300 miles roundtrip, much of which was over unimproved country roads
in the boondocks.
Total travel time therefore usually ranged from 4 to 7 hours, which necessitated a morning departure time no later than 6 a.m., and got us back
home anywhere between 6 p.m. and 9 p.m. after the required 8-hour workday in the field. And I was frequently committed to several hours each Saturday morning updating my surveying notes and computations, drafting our
field maps and conferring with Ray on plans for the next week's work. After
several months of this routine, although I did enjoy the work, I began looking
forward to winter weather and cessation of this particular project, since Ray's
unusual work schedule did not exactly enhance my lifestyle. However, in
early fall – early September I think it was, Lucille gave birth to a baby boy,
and after a few days layoff, while Ray tended to domestic duties and Lucille,
we began a normal schedule, staying in the field during the week at an assortment of grubby hotels in grubby little towns.
Both before and after the Hart's addition to their family, my social activities were necessarily pretty much limited to weekends, and mainly consisted of an occasional “movie and hamburgers” type dates, mostly with the
secretary to company lease buyers who occupied a small office in Bismarck.
These dates were a bit complicated by the fact that the secretary, Grace
Wilkerson, lived in the adjoining city of Mandan and I had to bus to and
from there since use of the company field car wasn't permitted for personal
social activities (Ray said). Incidentally, although Mandan is only a mile or
two west of Bismarck, it lies across the Missouri River, and is in a different
time zone. This required careful date-time specifications (“Your time or my
time?”').
****
At the end of October, with the advent of chilly fall weather and winter
fast approaching, Carter called a halt to geologic field work for the season
(although the company lease buyers continued working to acquire prospective acreage that our work had delineated). Cotty Seager, the Northern Division Exploration Manager, seemed pleased with the efforts of the several
geologic field parties that had been working in the Dakotas and Montana,
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and to show his appreciation gave us all several days of unofficial vacation
time before we reported to our next assignments.
George Musselman called me and reported that Seager had authorized
him to use a company car for a short visit to Yellowstone (which George had
never seen), and asked if I'd join him. I would and did, and we took off from
Billings, Montana, with a two days supply of wine, cheese, crackers and peanut butter. We did not anticipate that the Park would be closed for the season, and we were naturally quite disturbed to find it so when we arrived early
one morning at the Cooke City entrance. The Park ranger at the gatehouse
was initially quite adamant about “No more tourists this year!” But when
George, whose capability for smooth talk was one of his many talents, finished his spiel about how we were geologists who had always looked forward
to seeing Yellowstone, who had made special efforts and sacrificed several
paydays to get there, the ranger relented. He unlocked the gate, gave us instructions for a quick tour of points of maximum interest, and told us to
“...damn sure be back at the gate no later than 6 p.m. or you'll have to sleep
in the Park with the bears.”
So we literally had the Park to ourselves that day, a situation that
would seem incomprehensible to any of the hordes of tourists that infest it in
current times. Wildlife was abundant; humans were completely absent.
Most of the higher elevations were snow-covered by then and herds of elk
and deer were slowly migrating to lower pastures for the winter. Bears were
abundant, and frequently stopped us for handouts. (Peanut-buttered crackers proved quite acceptable.) It was a great day and a delightful experience.
We made it back to the gate at 5:45 p.m., stayed overnight at a motel in
Cooke City or Red Lodge, and returned to Billings the following day.
****
My next job location, I was told in Billings, would be in the Ponca City
(Oklahoma) office. This sounded like an interesting and relaxing change
from the summer's field work. Ponca proved to be a pleasant city of about
20,000, and was then the headquarters of Continental Oil Co. (Conoco). The
city's showplace attraction was the elegant mansion which once belonged to
a legendary oilman named Marland. The Oklahoma version of Texas' Glen
McCarthy, he made and lost three fortunes, and after losing the last one doPage 61
nated his home to the city (or had it taken from him by tax foreclosure; I'm
not sure which).
I was fortunate in obtaining a room in a nice neighborhood at a private
home owned by a widow lady, one Mrs. Bogan. The house was shared by
daughter Betty (a secretary about my age), Martha (teenage daughter), and
another renter named Juan Ponce (a Mexican national who worked for
Conoco). It was a friendly group, and I enjoyed the family atmosphere which
was a great improvement over that of the rat trap rooming house I occupied
in Bismarck.
Carter's Ponca office was a District office. (Carter's operating territory was divided into five Divisions; each Division supervised several District
offices.) The District Geologist was a kindly and gracious white-haired gentleman of considerable Carter experience named Jerry Maddox, and the office was staffed with an assortment of geologists, land men, and clerical help
totaling about twelve or fifteen.
My assignment was that of “subsurface geologist.” This oil industry
terminology refers to a broad category of petroleum geology which is essentially the analysis and mapping of data acquired during the drilling of wells:
core samples, electric logs, drill bit cuttings, etc. My work mostly involved
washing and preparing the many sacks of drill cuttings samples that arrived
almost daily from wildcat and production wells in the district, and examining
the rock fragments under a microscope. I determined and classified the lithology of each sample (whether sandstone, limestone, shale, or whatever;
their color, porosity, hydrocarbon stains if any, etc.), and plotted the data on
long cardboard strips scaled off to represent the well depths. The finished
products were termed, appropriately enough, “sample logs.” These differed,
of course, from the “electric logs” which we also studied and used in creating
contour maps of the subsurface geologic horizons encountered in the well.
Electric logs were run after the well was drilled to total depth. A type of logging tool would be lowered to the well bottom, then slowly raised as an electric current generated responses in a recorder at the surface, which varied
with the lithology, porosity, and fluid content of the rocks it passed in its ascent.
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My office routine was occasionally relieved by assignments to visit
Carter's drilling wells. The drilling of an oil or gas well is a 24-hour per day
operation, and oil companies usually require a geologist to be on hand for
most of the drilling time, especially in the case of “wildcat” wells (wells which
explore new territory, away from known and proven oil or gas fields). The
well site geologist is responsible, during drilling, for a variety of decisions requiring geologic interpretation: picking points at which to set pipe well casing to seal off salt water zones; selecting zones of interest for coring and testing, and helping decide whether a zone with producing potential should be
acidized or fractured by explosives to induce a flow of oil or gas.
Well-sitting assignments usually lasted three or four days of roundthe-clock attendance at the well site, during which the geologist slept in his
car (to be awakened at odd hours by the driller, if and as necessary). The
work was both interesting (during the periods of crucial testing and decision
making) and boring (during the extended periods when the well was simply
grinding away, far above the target horizon). One of the best features of such
assignments, however, was that such employees earned time off for the considerable overtime they spent well-sitting, and the time off could be accumulated and used in addition to regular vacation
****
A noteworthy event in my personal life occurred shortly before my
Bismarck assignment. After leaving University lands I spent a week or so in
Wisconsin before beginning my Carter career. Since Betty Milnes and I had
re-established a friendlier correspondence relationship after our mutual venture into other dating arrangements during my year at UT, I decided to
schedule a couple dates with her. Our reunion proved mutually agreeable,
past problems and other affairs seemed forgotten, and in a spate of romantic
fervor I impulsively asked her to marry me. Betty, equally impulsively, accepted and bingo – we were engaged!
In retrospect, I'm not sure why this happened with such lack of premeditation. It is true, I'm sure, as some cynic once observed, that young
people's actions are often controlled by their glands. Or, as another sage has
said, “Romantic love is the triumph of imagination over intelligence”. But I
suppose my action might have also been subconsciously motivated by the inPage 63
ner ego of my having reached a position in life where I felt I was now a
bread-winner able to support a wife (in retrospect, this was a dubious assumption, however), and I was ready to assume the responsibilities of an
adult and acquire one. Betty, being a hometown girl with compatible tastes
and background, with parents I liked and who was known and liked by mine,
seemed like a good choice for this role.
A long engagement, as ours turned out to be, had certain disadvantages
for me. Since I have been always burdened with an ingrained sense of ethics,
an engagement commitment implied to me a moral obligation to thereafter
cease and desist from pursuing and consorting with any other member of the
opposite sex in non-platonic activities. This required some modification in
my life style, since I always enjoyed a variety of female companionship. And
my engagement status of course required some revisions in what was rather
a tight cost-of-living budget, so as to allow for fancier and more frequent gifts
to my fiancée as well as the obligatory diamond ring.
Another factor was the need to reallocate my work schedules and travel
expense budget to accommodate more frequent trips to Wisconsin. Carter's
policy in those days allowed employees two weeks of vacation each year until
they had ten years of service, at which time they became eligible for three
weeks. But new employees had to work at least twelve months before being
eligible for any vacation time. So at Christmas time in 1939 (when I was in
Ponca with only six months' Carter service) getting to Wisconsin took some
stamina and tricky scheduling. The bus and train connections to Menomonie took about 24 hours travel time. I left Ponca after work on Friday,
and after traveling all night and the next day I arrived home late Saturday afternoon. Christmas was on Monday that year, and I started back to Ponca
that night, arriving in Ponca Tuesday afternoon. My boss kindly allowed me
that Tuesday “off” as a credit against some of my well-sitting overtime.
I made an even faster trip the following May, when Betty convinced me
that her fian6e' should accompany her to the Stout spring prom on May 11
(her last one, she being a senior in 1940). At that time I was working in Mattoon, Illinois. I left there at 4 a m. on Saturday (the day of the prom) with
my tuxedo packed, via train, through Chicago, arriving in Menomonie between 6 and 7 p.m.. I hurriedly changed into my tux, attended the prom, and
left Menomonie at 4 P.M. Sunday, arriving in Mattoon at 2 a.m. Monday, in
time for a few hours' sleep before reporting to work at 8 a.m.. I was young
Page 64
enough then for such schedules, fortunately, but I certainly felt a lot older for
the next several days!
But the major disadvantage of our long engagement was that it gave
Betty time to reconsider her options and look around, which she did. More
on that later.
****
My Ponca job lasted only about four months, from mid November
1939, to mid March, 1940, at which time I was summoned back to Tulsa for
briefing on a field work project in the Eastern Division. This pleased me
considerably since by then I had had my fill of microscope examination of
drill cuttings, plotting of sample logs, and well sitting.
In Tulsa I was temporarily assigned to the Geophysical Department
which, for organizational reasons that I didn't then understand and still
don't, was in charge of certain field operations associated with a geochemical
research program. The term “geochemistry' is a generic one embracing
many facets (as does “geology”); the program I was to work with was one of
the early concepts in this field. The idea was to test whether minute quantities of hydrocarbons from subterranean oil or gas pools could make their way
upward through micro fractures in overlying rocks and be detectable by
chemical analysis of surface soil samples. The object, of course, was to determine if this soil sampling technique could be used as an exploration tool
to find new hydrocarbon deposits.
My assignment was to collect hundreds of soil samples along profile
lines that crisscrossed both oil or gas fields and barren areas, pack and ship
them to Carter's Tulsa research laboratory, record and map the sample locations and soil types encountered, and prepare reports on the geology of the
oil or gas fields I sampled. I was based in Mattoon, Illinois (Carter's Eastern
Division office), and my travels covered most of southern Illinois and large
portions of Kentucky and Indiana. Weekdays I spent in the field; Saturdays I
worked on the required maps and reports.
The responsibility of planning and executing such a program on my
own greatly appealed to me, and in spite of the long days and six-day weeks,
Page 65
I thoroughly enjoyed this assignment. For one thing, my salary had been increased to $159/month (but only temporarily, my supervisor emphasized, for
the life of the geochemical research project, following which I would probably revert to the standard $125/mo.) However, I was on a full expense account during weekdays, for which I felt lucky, since hotel rooms then typically cost $2.50 per night!
After about three months of such field work, plus several brief returns
to Tulsa to give status reports on my work, the project was concluded and I
came back to Tulsa a final time to prepare a report evaluating the results.
Unfortunately the lab's soil analyses did not correlate with the presence or
absence of the underlying oil or gas fields; the variety of soil types involved
apparently altered the significance of the analytical data.
Nevertheless, Carter management's satisfaction with my work during
its progress was gratifyingly indicated by their recalling me briefly in late
May to Tulsa to attend an International Petroleum Exposition. This, in those
days, was the big event of the oil industry (Tulsa then being the nation's recognized “Oil Capital”). Being allowed to attend it for four or five days on full
expenses was a definite mark of my supervisor's favor. (The expense account
was especially welcome; I remember being appalled that hotel prices had
been jacked up to $4 nightly for the Exposition.) Another welcome item was
being advised that my salary would remain at $159, and not revert to $125,
as previously indicated, after the conclusion of the geochemical survey. In
fact, later that summer in August I received another increase to $173 per
month, and felt well on the road to financial security. That salary worked out
to about $1 per hour, based on the average of 22 8-hour work days per
month, which was a fairly decent wage in 1940.
August 15th, after completing my geochemical reports and reviewing
the results with my supervisors, I was given a new and exciting job, with Tulsa to be my home base. I was to become a photogeologist – Carter's first,
and a pioneer in this new field of oil exploration.
The federal government for several years had been acquiring aerial
photo coverage of the U.S., primarily through contractual arrangements with
private companies specializing in aerial mapping. Several sub-agencies of
the U.S. Department of Agriculture were the primary customers for such
Page 66
photography, using it for cropland assessments, soil conservation planning,
etc. Much coverage was also obtained by the Geological Survey and the Forest Service, for map preparation. By the 1940's over half the U.S. had been
covered, mostly in the central and western parts of the country. The photos
were also available for purchase by the public at nominal cost, and a few enterprising field geologists began using them to aid in their map constructions. Some discovered that occasionally geologic formations and such features as faults and anticlines not readily detectable at ground level could be
more easily recognized in the aerial views.
Carter's Chief Geologist decided that a detailed and systematic study
of aerial photos in areas of potential interest might be a valuable and heretofore relatively untried exploration tool. Through fortuitous circumstances (I
had had field experience, had just finished a project and was not yet committed to another) I was selected for the job.
We began ordering great quantities of photos – especially for the Williston Basin of the Dakotas and Montana, which had become a “hot” area for
exploration, both for Carter and for many other oil companies. I was given a
large office in Carter's headquarters building (aerial photo layouts needed
lots of elbowroom), and I was “off and running.” This project was to last until I left Carter for military service in mid 1942, and it became a fascinating
combination of office studies and field-checks, during which time I became
the Carter authority and expert on aerial photo interpretation.
I took my first official Carter vacation the first two weeks of August between the geochemical and photogeology assignments. It was another grind
on the train and bus, leaving Tulsa at 11:30 p.m. on a Friday, and arriving in
Menomonie about 8 p.m. Saturday, But I had two weeks to recuperate and unwind, instead of the harried long weekends of previous visits, and
I enjoyed that vacation as much as any I had ever had previously.
Betty had graduated and lined up a teaching job at Menomonee Falls, a
suburb of Milwaukee, not to be confused with my Menomonie, nor Menominee, Michigan, which is just across the state line from Marinette, Wisconsin,
on Green Bay (all spelled differently, see?). So our dates included a fair
amount of discussion about future marital plans: e.g. how long should she
teach? Should or could she teach after we were married? When and where
Page 67
should we get married? Can two really live as cheaply as one? If so, how? I
don't think we reached any conclusions along those lines, other than agreeing that she was obligated to teach one year, but just discussing them made
for some interesting conversation and seemed to make our engagement more
firm and believable.
However, those two weeks, as it turned out, proved to be the last in our
romantic relationship. After she started teaching that fall she began being
wooed by a local inhabitant named John Peterson (a Carleton graduate two
or three classes ahead of me, incidentally). He was apparently better qualified than I to stir the cockles of her heart, and of course he had the home
court advantage.
By mid fall the temperature of her correspondence with me was several
degrees cooler than normal. I did not then know why, but I suspected knowing the problem when she reported that she had decided it would be advisable for her to teach at least two years before planning any nuptials. In November or December Betty finally confessed to me in her letters the reason
for her increasing change of heart, and thus began the Winter of Our Discontent (that book title copyright is hereby acknowledged). She ultimately volunteered in late December to visit me in Tulsa over the 1940-41 New Year
weekend to discuss our situation. I agreed, although it meant canceling a
party arrangement a bachelor friend had gotten me a date for, after I had
told him of my imminent split up with Betty.
Our reunion in Tulsa was definitely on the cool side. However, as a
matter of honor, I suppose, I felt obliged to do the gentlemanly thing: I
booked us into the Century Room, (a classy night club) for New Year's Eve,
wined and dined her in style, and took her to a hockey game. She departed
January 4th by train to Menomonee Falls, via Chicago and Milwaukee, without our having yet crossed the bridge of no return. But in mid January she
finally sent me the “Dear John” letter that irrevocably terminated our engagement.
The bad news was that my pride was somewhat damaged; the good
news was that I subconsciously felt somewhat relieved, since our engagement's glamour had worn a bit thin, and I wasn't at all averse to investigating
some other options (of which Tulsa had a plentiful supply!). Initially, of
Page 68
course, I had exceedingly malicious thoughts concerning Mr. Peterson. But
from the perspective of several years later I believed his motives and actions
were the work of my guardian angel since had he not appeared on cue to
court and eventually marry my fiancée, I might not have ever married the
young lady who became my one really true love and wife.
As it turned out, 1941 and the first half of 1942 were very enjoyable intervals in my life, both job-wise and socially. I had established living quarters in Tulsa at a rooming house located at 605 South Elmwood (within
walking distance from the Carter's downtown office). And I very soon acquired a cadre of close friends of both sexes (not Carter people) with whom I
partied frequently.
I had also acquired a rather glamorous automobile in the fall of 1940 –
a 1938 8-cylinder LaSalle 2-door convertible coupe. It was butter yellow
with black leather upholstery, rumble seat, white sidewalls (which were
much less common then) and chrome supercharger pipes issuing from either
side of the engine into vents in the front fenders. LaSalles were made by Cadillac, and I got an exceptionally good buy on this slightly used one, since
Cadillac decided to quit making LaSalles in 1938, and the auto dealers were
trying to unload all LaSalles. It was priced at $1000, which I told the Cadillac agency salesman was too steep for me. But when the salesman told me I
could make a better deal if I had a trade-in, I got the hint. I went a few
blocks down the street to a used car lot, bought a 1934 Pontiac for $75, returned to the Cadillac dealer's salesman who, after a hurried inspection of
that clunker, said he'd allow me $350 for it as a trade-in. So I got the LaSalle
for a net $725 (which it took me about two years to pay off).
I was quite proud of that fine vehicle. My envious male friends liked to
refer to it as the “Yellow Peril” or the “Wench Wagon” (because of its good
“pickup” quality). A minor disadvantage of owning it, however, was its recognizability. In those days most autos were various shades of drab blue,
black or green, or perhaps occasionally white, but rarely yellow. So when I
happened to indulge in weekend night-clubbing I would often be greeted
Monday morning at the office by some co-worker's comment like, “Did you
have a good time Saturday night at the Stardust?” or, “Saw you parked near
the Kit Kat Klub. How was it?”.
Page 69
The only time I was ever jailed in my life was on a partying Saturday
night. After bar-hopping with my date (another Betty) and good friend Steve
and his date early in the evening, we were cruising in the LaSalle (top down)
through the edge of downtown Tulsa about 8 p.m. Hearing some substantial
noise nearby, we drove toward it and discovered a parade of American Legion conventioneers marching down the main street, band playing, flags
waving and most of the Legionnaires happily aglow. There were a few cars in
the parade, presumably full of Legion officials. We thought it might be fun to
join them in the LaSalle, so I did, at the end of the procession.
There was a good crowd on hand who were contributing lots of cheering and applause. Caught up in this patriotic fervor, I fished my .22 caliber
revolver out of the glove compartment and began firing a few shots in the air,
punctuating the band's drumbeat. Unfortunately, in my enthusiasm I failed
to note that a police car had joined the parade just behind us. I was promptly
hauled off to the pokey – fingerprints, mug shots, the whole shebang. Steve
drove the girls home in my car, collected bail money from some friends, and
got me out of the slammer about midnight. I subsequently appeared in
court, was convicted of the misdemeanor of disturbing the peace by discharging a gun in public, and paid a nominal fine – about $50 as I remember, plus
confiscation of my revolver. Not having a license for it wasn't an issue, since
licenses weren't required in Oklahoma then to own a pistol if one didn't actually wear it. I don't suppose my “misdemeanor” would warrant being jailed
these days, but I suspect the police were simply bored on that particular occasion and enjoyed some activity. And I liked to think they were envious of
my LaSalle.
****
Aerial photogeology was proving to be a real bonanza for oil exploration work, and my services were much in demand. The selection of geologically anomalous areas was especially enhanced by photogeology in areas
such as the Williston Basin (western Dakotas and eastern Montana). Subtle
drainage or vegetation patterns in the gently rolling and grass-covered terrain, suggestive of buried domes or anticlines, were often apparent in aerial
photos but not otherwise noticeable at ground level. Of course, the anomalous areas might or might not prove to be oil productive – only well drilling
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would ultimately tell, but locating such prospective areas was the first step in
an exploration program.
In those days (and perhaps still) Carter's parent company, Standard Oil
Co. (N.J.) (which was then usually referred to as “Jersey” before it eventually
was renamed Exxon) used to hold in-house annual meetings at which the
latest developments in company technology would be reviewed for Jersey
representatives. All oil industry fields would be covered: exploration, drilling, production, refining, marketing, etc. Attendees would number perhaps
400 or 500, and would include scientists and engineers from all corners of
the earth where Jersey had oil production or exploration interests.
Attending such an affair was considered quite a privilege, and was limited to personnel who either (a) had some new technology to present, or (b)
would benefit most from learning it. In early 1941 I was astounded and a bit
shaken to learn I had been selected to attend the March meeting and give
papers on the geochemical project, and on my photogeology activities and
techniques. The three-day meeting was in St. Louis, and headquartered at
the elegant suburban Chase Hotel (where the $6 room rates were a new high
for me!). I sweated blood preparing for and delivering those presentations
before such a distinguished group, since I was acutely aware of my neophyte
status in the company, but they apparently went well. Well enough, in fact,
that I was subsequently selected to attend the next year's meeting, also in St.
Louis, and give an update on my aerial photo work and results. By late
spring in 1941 the Williston Basin exploration activity had really heated up,
and many oil companies had geologists mapping prospective areas and land
men leasing them, in the hopes that the region was destined to become the
next big bonanza for the U.S. oil industry (which it ultimately did).
I had outlined numerous areas of interest from my photo work, and
our field geologists were hard put trying to map them all in detail in advance
of the Competition. So our Chief Geologist proposed that I spend a month
doing reconnaissance work in the field to check my prospects and grade
them for further work by the field geologists. I was given a salary boost to
$200/month in May, put on a full expense account assigned a company car,
and shipped off to Bismarck June 1, where I took up residence in the Hotel
Prince (4 stories; 100 rooms).
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Our Bismarck office had expanded to about twenty persons, including clerical staff, and was a beehive of activity. I spent two or three days there receiving briefings and general orientation from the Division Geologist, and
then headed off to South Dakota on my own. The “one-month” assignment
ultimately lasted into September, involving me in a continuing junket
through the back roads and god-forsaken areas of northwestern South Dakota, southwestern North Dakota, and eastern Montana, interrupted only by
periodic weekend returns to Bismarck for reports and recommendations. On
a few rare occasions, when I was working just north of the Black Hills, I was
able to squeeze in a Saturday afternoon and/or Sunday at Belle Fourche or
Lead, where their modest tourist attractions helped break the weekdays' monotony.
Fortunately I had decided before leaving Tulsa to vacate my rental
quarters, and store my LaSalle in a garage ($4/mo.) and my personal belongings in a warehouse ($1.50/mo.), a net savings of $l4.50 per month, since I
was paying $20 monthly in room rent. And $14.50 a month, times three or
four 9 months, was then a nice tidy sum to sock away!
I soon learned how it felt to be a “traveling man.” At the end of my first
month I had added 6,000 miles to my car's odometer, mostly on country dirt
roads, a daily average of 230 miles on a six-day work week basis. (I usually
spent Sundays doing reports and map work in the hotels.) Work days were
normally rather long, since I had to do a lot of boot-sole work in addition to
the driving, but I didn't mind too much since the little hayseed towns I mostly stayed in had very little entertainment to offer in the evenings. As of July
26 (per my letter of that date to my folks) I had stayed in 17 towns, several of
them more than once.
That summer was an unusually hot one for that country. (Bismarck's
high on August 6th was 109!) And auto air conditioning was unheard of. My
working environment is well described in the following quote from a June
15th letter to my folks:
“This sure is rough country to get around in, with only a few abandoned
cow trails to follow in most of the badlands country. I didn't think it was
possible to get a car in and out of some of the places I've been going the past
week. Lack of roads or trails doesn't bother me any now. I just set a comPage 72
pass course and take out across country, through the cactus and mesquite
bush, up and down hills and mesas, in and out of gullies. When I first started
this work up here I was a little bit “leery” about leaving the few wagon trails I
had to go by, but I'm getting used to getting the car in and out of tight places
and over rough country, so I don't mind it any more. So far I've only gotten
really “hung up” twice, once in a mud hole back at Buffalo, right after a siege
of rain, and another time a few days ago when I was driving along in some
waist-high grass and brush, and the wheels suddenly dropped into a deep
ditch, leaving the car setting on the axles with the wheels spinning. That
sure was a tough one to get out of, since the only tools I had were a jack and a
geologist's pick hammer. Took me 2 hours, from noon till 2 on the hottest
day we had, when it was 97 in the shade. And no shade!
“Oh, by the way, Mom, if it'll make you any happier – I haven't run
across a single rattlesnake yet, except one little baby one!”
Carter ultimately leased over 100,000 acres based on my work, much
of which was to prove productive in later years. Unfortunately, Carter didn't
keep the best acreage long enough; financial constraints limited their wildcat
drilling budget, and much leased acreage was eventually dropped or farmed
out to other companies, with Carter retaining only royalty interests.
In September I received another modest salary raise (to $210), a pat
on the back, and I returned to Tulsa well-tanned and ready to resume my
man-about-town social activities. I was in good physical shape from the
summer's vigorous schedule, and began participating in a variety of unorganized athletics. I joined the YMCA where I had access to pickup basketball
games, handball and swimming. Golfing was a fairly regular weekend activity, except for the occasional weekends when I joined friends on day long bicycle picnic trips, usually with a date and one or more other couples using
rented tandem bikes.
My social circle included a fair number of nubile young ladies whom I
dated rather indiscriminately, being careful to avoid any really serious romantic entanglements (which several of them seemed anxious to initiate).
One of my favorites, incidentally, was a lovely lithesome and affectionate
half-Cherokee brunette named Lahoma. On our first date when I wanted to
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express agreement with some statement or suggestion she'd make, I'd jokingly respond, “Oke, Lahoma,” but I soon found that this didn't amuse her.
In mid fall of 1941 I had to desert my social group for three weeks
when Carter sent me to a Jersey-sponsored aerial photo school in Washington, D.C. There were about a dozen “students” from various worldwide Jersey subsidiaries, and the school was taught by two government aerial photo
experts from the Department of Agriculture and the Navy. We received an
intensive course in the technology of preparing accurate maps from aerial
photos, not only planimetric detail (two-dimensional), but threedimensional data (elevations and terrain relief) from stereoscopic pairs. It
was an interesting and very educational experience from both the standpoint
of photogeology training and the opportunity to become better acquainted
with the culture and geography of D.C. in our spare time. My fellow students
were quite intrigued and amused when I took them downtown and showed
them the flophouse Jack and I had stayed in during our post-high school
trip.
Thanksgiving that year was a rather unusual one for me. During my
summer's work in the Northern Division I had had a few opportunities, when
I occasionally reported into Bismarck on weekends, to again date Grace
Wilkerson. She enjoyed scoffing at my lavish description of the Yellow Peril
and my tales of the exotic charms of Tulsa, so I had suggested that she sometime visit that metropolis to see for herself these wonderful tourist attractions, and I would help show her the sights. I didn't really expect her to do
so, and was pleasantly surprised to receive her letter in mid November advising that she planned to fly down Thanksgiving Day and stay the weekend
with a Carter couple she'd known in Bismarck.
After the Jersey school I had been assigned to a Louisiana photogeology project and had located some areas of potential interest. The acting Exploration Manager, Condon McKay, who had been Chief Landman, was then
occupying the EM position on a temporary basis, and he did not have quite
the rapport with geologists that the previous EM had. McKay called me into
his office the day before Thanksgiving and told me I was to spend a couple
weeks in Louisiana, field-checking my prospects with another geologist
named Chawner.
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“Yes sir, I'll leave Sunday and be in the Shreveport office first thing Monday morning.”
“No,” said McKay, “Chawner's ready to work this weekend. The area is
hot and our competitors have already started leasing. You can catch a plane
leaving tomorrow about 11 a.m. That way you can start field work Friday.”
“But tomorrow's Thanksgiving!”
“I know. But you're not married, are you?”
“No sir. But a girl friend of mine is flying in tomorrow from Bismarck to
stay with friends and spend the weekend with me!” I was sure McKay was
kidding.
“Well,” he said, “I'm sorry about that, but you're leaving tomorrow. If
she loves you she'll come again.”
He wasn't kidding! I slumped out of the office, and immediately called
Grace in Bismarck to give her the bad news. I thought she might cancel the
trip, but she decided that since her ticket was bought and non-refundable,
she would come anyway and visit her other friends.
I had no choice if I wanted to keep my job but to fly to Shreveport on
Thanksgiving Day. The only slightly redeeming feature was that I got to experience my first meal on a plane, and a Thanksgiving dinner at that. The
airline's noble effort consisted of a rather tough piece of turkey, soggy
mashed potatoes with sticky gravy (both rather cool), and a piece of pie alleged to be pumpkin.
Incidentally, Grace ultimately came to Tulsa again in the spring of
1942, shortly before I enlisted in the Army Air Force, and gave me a chance
to redeem myself as a Tulsa tour guide. (I must have done a fair job, since
she eventually moved there and married a geologist named McCoy.)
Oklahoma back then was a dry state and bars served only 3.2% beer.
However, it was generally acceptable (although technically illegal) for customers of bars and nightclubs to bring their own booze, if it was done circumspectly and the bottles were kept in paper sacks. Bootlegging was an informally recognized profession, and considered by most citizens (especially
the non-Baptists) to rate several notches higher on ethics and respectability
scales than, say, used car salesmen or lawyers.
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A few bootleggers didn't deliver but simply maintained supplies in
their homes or garages, as a source of supplementary income. One of these,
which my friends and I usually patronized because he was a bit cheaper than
others, was an old bachelor named Charlie who lived in a modest bungalow
several miles west of downtown, and who kept his stock in his kitchen cabinets. The old gentleman was rather deaf, and it often took a lot of pounding
on the door before he would hear and open it. So, since he was almost always home during the evenings, we got in the habit of merely giving a perfunctory rap on the door and then entering if it was unlocked. He'd be invariably sitting in the front room, would jovially greet us, and tell us to help
ourselves. He'd stay put in his chair while we proceeded to the kitchen and
made our selection, for which we'd pay him on our way out.
To celebrate my return from the Washington aerial photo school, my
friend Steve and I planned a weekend party and about 5 p.m. headed out to
our favorite bootlegger's to stock up. As usual we knocked once and went on
in. We were a bit startled to see a little old lady sitting in Charlie's spot in a
rocking chair, and no Charlie. She seemed a little startled too, but we assumed, of course, that she was a visitor, that maybe old Charlie was “keeping
company”, and that he was probably in the john.
I said, “Good evening, ma'am – we're just here for some supplies.
Won't be a minute.” As we proceeded past her rather hurriedly into the
kitchen, she simply glared at us, kept rocking rather vigorously, and didn't
say a word.
You can doubtless imagine how dumbfounded we were when we
opened the kitchen cupboards and found them full of groceries! The truth
suddenly dawned on us that Charlie had sold his house in recent weeks to the
very indignant lady sitting in the front room. We hurriedly made an exit,
mouthing some incoherent apology, and thoroughly embarrassed. And she
never uttered a word, just kept rocking and glaring at us as we stumbled out.
When Steve and I got back to our car we collapsed in laughter. We decided
the poor lady's reaction probably indicated that we weren't the first of Charlie's former customers she'd encountered.
Notes on “inflation” in 1941 (quotes from letters to my folks):
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Early March: “The hotel restaurants here (in St. Louis) were sure rough on
my pocketbook, you can't get out of those places for less than @ $1.25 per
meal!”
March 15: “I paid my income taxes yesterday, and boy it sure is rough this
year! My combined federal and (Okla.) state tax runs to $43.65."
(Well, at least postage was cheap then: 3 cents regular mail and 6 cents airmail.)
Page 77
Chapter VII
THE WAR YEARS: Part 1 - Geodetic Journeys
War clouds were gathering throughout the world before I left Carleton.
During my last year there Japan had invaded China, but the ensuing slaughter and pillaging of the Chinese did not engender much concern outside of
Asia. A few western governments, including the U.S., felt obliged to figuratively shake their fingers reprovingly at Japan, but none offered China help
of any consequence.
Meanwhile in Germany, Hitler was gathering power and strength. In
March 1938 he had taken over Austria in a bloodless conquest, and in September of that year he humiliated England's Prime Minister Chamberlain
and France's Premier Daladier by forcing them to agree to let him acquire
part of Czechoslovakia (the “Sudeten”). In March of 1939 he occupied the
remainder of that country, and successfully demanded and received a portion of Poland's territory.
The storm finally broke on September 1, 1939, when the Nazi Wehrmacht invaded Poland to finish that takeover. Britain and France declared
war on Germany three days later, and subsequently on Italy who had allied
themselves with Germany, and the fat was in the fire. World War II, which
was to kill more persons, damage more property, cost more money, and affect more people's lives than any war in history, had begun.
Poland was rapidly crushed, and Germany's “blitzkrieg” (lightning war)
attacks on the rest of Europe were unstoppable. By mid 1940 France had
fallen and Britain had its back to the wall, defending itself against the punishing bombing raids of the German Luftwaffe. By mid 1942 the Germany/Italy “Axis” empire was at its peak, with all of Europe west of Russia (except Britain) under its control, as well as Norway, Denmark and all of
northern Africa.
The U.S. was a concerned observer during the dark days of 1940 and
1941, but was a partisan only to the extent that it shipped substantial
amounts of supplies, ships, planes and armaments to the beleaguered British
in the crucial Battle of Britain. The U.S. made some modest efforts to imPage 78
prove its own military resources, and a military draft system was established.
I of course registered willingly, as did most young men then, since the general consensus of opinion was that the Nazi empire was an evil menace that
might someday threaten the U.S., and it was everyone's patriotic duty to help
prevent that. (An interesting coincidence of dates was that I registered for
the draft on October 16, 1940 and after the war was over received my discharge from the Army Air Force exactly five years later.)
Ironically, while the U.S. was mostly facing east toward Europe, it was
Japan at our backs that proved to be the greater threat. By 1940 that “yellow
peril” had bogged down in their war with China, and had started campaigns
in Indochina. Then, in an audacious effort to gain control of the Pacific, they
elected to attack the U.S. at Hawaii. At the very time when Japanese emissaries were in Washington negotiating with the U.S. Secretary of State, a 33ship Jap fleet was secretly steaming eastward. In the early morning of Dec.
7, 1941, about 360 planes from their carriers bombed Pearl Harbor and
nearby naval installations, plus the army facilities at Hickam Field. The surprise was complete and the destruction awesome; four battleships were sunk
plus two other smaller vessels, and ten other warships (cruisers, destroyers)
were badly damaged. The attack also destroyed 174 planes at Pearl and
Hickam. The US’s naval and air defenses were effectively neutralized.
The U.S. promptly declared war on Japan the next day, following President Roosevelt's speech in which he referred to December 7 as “a date which
will live in infamy.” Germany and Italy (whom Japan had joined in a military aid pact in 1940) declared war on the U.S. on December 11; the U.S. immediately retaliated with war declarations against those Axis partners, and
all the world's major powers were now committed to participation in a holocaust which would not end until 1945, when Germany surrendered in May
and the U.S. dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August.
Most people who were of adult age then vividly remember where they
were and their reactions when they heard the news of the Pearl Harbor attack. It was Sunday morning and I had just finished a golf game with a
Carter co-worker, (one Dan Beckner), at a Tulsa course, when we heard the
awesome report on the radio. We rushed to our respective homes, and I
spent most of the rest of that day glued to the radio, listening with dismay to
the ever-worsening reports of damage and casualties, with the occasional
Page 79
quotes from Washington officials. Next day little work was accomplished at
the Carter office. We all discussed the war and listened to Roosevelt's speech
on portable radios.
A popular subject for discussion by men in the ensuing weeks was the
question of draft status. It was generally believed that married men with
children would be draft-exempt, or at least draft-deferred for a considerable
time. Men with wives but no kids were not so safe unless they could prove
other dependents, and unmarried young men were prime candidates for military service. However, any male who held an important job in a waressential industry (armaments or airplane factories, petroleum production,
etc.) was probably exempt regardless of marital status. Geologists and petroleum engineers in particular, I learned, were relatively safe categories, and
my status as Carter's primary photogeology expert was a gilt-edged guarantee against receiving one of Uncle Sam's “Greetings.”' letters.
My supervisors strongly urged me to remain a civilian and continue in
oil exploration activities, and I did so during the first half of 1942. However,
the prospect of sitting out the war in that capacity did not appeal to me; patriotic fervor had set in. After ascertaining that Carter would grant military
leaves without penalties or loss of service credits, in late June I took the
plunge and applied at an Army Air Force recruiting center for flight training.
I was disappointed to find that my slightly imperfect vision (I was 20-30; 2020 was required) would preclude me from being a combat air crewman.
However, I was told that aerial photography was a viable option, so I enlisted
as a cadet for training in that field at Lowry air base, near Denver. I drove
there in the LaSalle and began a three-month course as an Aviation Cadet on
July 10, 1942.
I eventually remained in the Army Air Force for three years and three
months. I'm somewhat embarrassed to acknowledge (in view of the troubles
and tragedies sustained by so many in that war), that for me that period of
military service was an exciting and fulfilling one.
I had two obsessive ambitions as a youth: to explore an uncharted jungle, and to become an airplane pilot. As remarkable luck would have it, the
AAF arranged for me to have both these experiences to an undreamed of degree: six months of mapping the upper Amazon wilderness of Brazil and, latPage 80
er, the opportunity to become a pilot qualified to fly several varieties of AAF
bombers (including the B-29, then the largest and most powerful plane in
the world). And all this occurred without my ever being shot at (except once
by Brazilian Indians with bows and arrows; more on this later), or being subjected to any particular dangers (other than those normally inherent in the
course of a hurried pilot training program, which did claim a few casualties).
Another ambition of my youth which I accomplished during that war
(but no credit for the AAF in this case) was to marry a lovely, vivacious and
affectionate young lady who already owned her own set of silverware. (OK, I
didn't really expect that last qualification, but it happened to work out that
way!)
****
My career as an aviation cadet at Lowry got off to a sour start. During
the first week we cadets were not allowed to leave the base until the first Saturday. My LaSalle I had parked on arrival at a large parking lot adjacent to
the cadet compound, and I of course headed for it as soon as our Saturday
morning inspection was over and we were dismissed for the day. You can
well imagine my horror at finding it missing all four tires! War time requirements had by then created many shortages, and auto tires for civilian
use were very scarce and in much demand, with no questions asked as to
where they came from.
I was of course enraged, and I was highly suspicious of the nightshift
gate guard who I was sure must have been a collaborator to the theft. The
car was parked within 20 or 30 yards from the gate where the operation of
the tire thieves could hardly have gone unnoticed. But there wasn't much
that a lowly cadet could do about it. I advised our commanding officer of the
theft, but he said it was not within his jurisdiction, since the parking lot was
outside Lowry property. He seemed somewhat amused by the situation,
which didn't improve my frame of mind, and suggested I report the matter to
the police. I did, but with no hope of any action, and I didn't get any. Fortunately, good old dad was eventually able to scrounge up a set of well-used
tires in Wisconsin and ship them to me, so that the LaSalle was usable again
after a month or so. From then on, I stored it in a garage in Denver.
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Cadet school turned out to be pretty much like boot camps are portrayed in the movies - early morning assembly and roll call, lots of spit and
polish and white glove inspections in the barracks (the inspecting officer
wore the gloves with which he felt for hidden dust accumulations), lots of exercise hours including regimented calisthenics and time trials on the obstacle
course (last two men got latrine duty), and plenty of marching in drill formations. I never did understand why potential air force crewmen needed to
be so adept at the latter; we were never called on again to do any marching in
the AAF.
But we did get comprehensive courses in all phases of photography,
camera construction and usage, film technologies, etc. When we graduated
three months later we were theoretically capable of filling several possible
functions, from managing photo labs to conducting aerial photo operations.
I received my commission as a Second Lieutenant in the Army Air
Force on October 10, 1942, as did most of my cadet classmates, and we simultaneously received orders which dispersed our class to a variety of assignments. I had enlisted hoping to ultimately secure a flying job as aerial photographer, but this was not to be. About twenty four of us were shipped off to
the AAF's First Mapping Group, at Bolling Field, Washington, D.C., where we
were to receive further training pertinent to map construction from aerial
photos. (I suppose some personnel officer had noted my civilian job experience listed on the résumé form I was required to fill out when I enlisted.)
D.C. was of course a beehive of wartime activity when we arrived. We
had the option of living in a crowded BOQ (Bachelor Officers' Quarters) at
Bolling Field, or hunting civilian quarters in the city. We had been warned
before leaving Denver that available rental facilities of any kind were almost
unavailable in crowded Washington. I traveled there with three friends from
Lowry, two of whom were married and were hoping for quarters of some sort
where they could be joined by their wives.
After we checked in at Bolling we told the adjutant we planned to go
hunting rooms for rent in the city. He guffawed impolitely at that, and said
we'd be lucky to get overnight space on park benches. Undeterred, although
somewhat discouraged, we nevertheless went into Washington and began
with the obvious but naive approach. We bought a newspaper and checked
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the classified ads. There were three ads in the “for rent” section. Two were on
a share-the-room basis and the third – we couldn't believe our eyes – was for
a whole house to rent!
We hailed a cab, bribed the driver to exceed the speed limit, and tore
off to the address given. It proved to be a lovely two-story four-bedroom
house in an attractive residential area, convenient to busses, that was owned
by a doctor who had been suddenly called into military service. Our guardian
angels were all on the job that day! The ad had just appeared for the first
time, and we had gotten a paper which was just off the press and barely onto
the streets, so we were the first callers, and the last since we of course immediately signed the rental agreement with the doctor's wife. She was ready and
eager to leave and join her husband at some military base in another city. It
was an ideal setup for the four of us. The house was excellently furnished,
with all modern facilities and appliances. The haste of the owners to depart
was indicated by the fact that much clothing remained in the closets, and the
bar was still stocked with liquor! The two married men's wives soon arrived
and ran the establishment. They occupied two of the bedrooms and Kirk (the
other bachelor) and I each had a queen-size bed in the master bedroom.
An interesting sidelight on our occupancy was that for two or three
weeks after we moved in we kept getting phone calls from the doctor's patients who were unaware of his sudden departure. Some of the calls came in
the middle of the night, reporting an emergency of some sort, and Kirk (who
claimed to have taken some paramedic course) happily took those at the bedside phone. Listening to his responses I was often quite intrigued as to what
the patients' ensuing reactions and state of health might have been!
“Hello. No, I'm sorry, but the doctor has gone into military service,
and I'm temporarily renting here. Ah, what is your problem, if I may ask? I
might be able to help, since I -uh- have had –uh some medical … What?
You're hemorrhaging? Again, eh? Well, let's see, what you should probably
do is…”
I did notice that Kirk never mentioned his name, so no malpractice
suits ever resulted.
****
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By the end of 1941 Germany was in control of all of Western Europe,
and in the summer of 1942 the Germans and the British were engaged in a
bloody contest for northern Africa, with Germany then having the upper hand
at that stage of the conflict. Germany and Italy needed control of northern
Africa to prevent the Allies from using it as a base of operations for invasions
of Italy and southern Europe.
To support the British the U.S. planned to send planes and supplies to
Africa (prior to the ultimate shipment of troops there) by way of Central and
South America. This route was necessary because the fighter-bombers and
DC-3 cargo planes did not have the range capacity to fly the North Atlantic;
the mid-Atlantic crossing from the eastern tip of South America to the western tip of Africa is substantially shorter.
Prior to WWII the Germans had several airline operations in South
America, and when Brazil joined the U.S. in declaring war against the Axis
they confiscated all the German airlines' planes and equipment. This included some apparently excellent navigation charts, which Brazil turned over to
the U.S. for use by AAF planes in crossing the Andes and Brazil en route to
Africa. But good navigation charts were lacking in Central America for the
aerial trip by planes coming from California bases and factories. In addition
to this need for charts there was a nagging fear on the part of the U.S. military
chiefs that Japan might somehow stage a diversionary sneak invasion of Mexico, since their Pacific war progress was being halted by the U.S. Navy. In
such an event both our air force and navy would need accurate maps of the
west coastal areas of Mexico for defensive action, and the U.S. commanders
were anxious that they be made available. So the First Mapping Group became involved in a crash mapping program, with primary emphasis on Mexico. (They were also engaged in similar projects elsewhere, but Central and
South America had top priority.)
Navigation charts were constructed then by first taking wide-angle aerial photos of the area to be mapped, then sending in survey parties on the
ground to establish a network of latitude and longitude coordinates (“ground
control”) at selected prominent landmarks on the photos with which to “anchor” the photos to their proper map grid locations. Once the photos were
Page 84
thus properly oriented into a large mosaic, the geographic detail could be
traced and accurate charts could be produced.
My peers from Lowry and I were selected to be survey party chiefs with
responsibility for providing the necessary ground control. We were therefore
subjected to a training program of several weeks in which we were taught the
rather arcane procedures then required to determine latitude and longitude
positions from astronomic star observations. The technologies we learned
were state-of-the-art in 1942, but were rather primitive and cumbersome
compared to modern era methods which, by combinations of radar and satellites in systems called by such names as “Shoran” and Loran”, can do in the
wink of an eye the survey work it often took us days to do.
****
The following brief description of our procedures might be of interest
to readers having some scientific curiosity; the rest of you have my permission to skip ahead.
The ground control sites selected on the photos by the party chiefs had
to be recognizable and accessible on the ground, since star observations had
to be made at the sites. Optimally, their distribution would provide a grid of
control points about 40 or 50 miles apart. The program at each site involved
an all-night series of observations of about 30 or 40 stars, in which the precise split second Greenwich times at which they crossed a point 60 degrees
above the horizon were the desired pieces of information. The following day
the ground control information (latitude & longitude) would be laboriously
hand calculated from these data (no pocket calculators then!).
Our basic equipment items were l) a battery radio, powerful enough to
bring us precise Greenwich time signals from observatories in the U.S, 2) a
highly precise chronometer (carried in a cotton batting lined case); 3) a
stopwatch; 4) a telescopic device for measuring the angles of stars above the
horizon (like a sextant, only much more accurate); and 5) several volumes of
astronomic data pertinent to star observations. The telescopic device was a
type of prismatic astrolabe called an “Equi-Angulator.” It was a black tube
three inches in diameter and about three feet long. In operation it was
mounted and leveled on a tripod on which it could rotate 60 degrees. At one
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end was a system of prisms and a shallow disc into which we poured mercury
when doing observations, which served as a mirror. (Use of mercury instead
of a glass mirror assured that the mirror was perfectly level, which was essential to an accurate observation.) When the observer looked through the
tube from the other end, he would see stars reflected from the mercury mirror through the prisms, slowly passing across the field of view. When they
passed across a hairline marker in the viewing lens they would be precisely
60 degrees above the horizon, and the observer would click his stopwatch
and determine the crossing time from the chronometer (which had to be calibrated before and after each evening's observation by coordinating with the
Greenwich time signals).
The most common impediment in this line of work was of course the
caprices of weather. Any substantial interruption in an evening's observation
schedule by an excessive buildup of clouds would nullify the whole night's effort, and in the tropics and coastal areas this was all too frequent an occurrence. Also, the presence of a thunderstorm or weather front somewhere between the observation site and the observatory broadcasting our time
signals, might interrupt radio reception enough that we couldn't record the
margin of error on our chronometer. I recall several occasions, especially in
Brazil where radio reception was poorest (because of distance from source),
when we would have completed an observation schedule about 3 or 4 a.m.,
only to have our work invalidated because we were unable to get the final radio time signal which was necessary to complete our chronometer's timeerror graph for the evening,
Incidentally, a weather impediment of quite a different sort was occasionally experienced by some of our party chiefs working in the Alaskan arctic regions, where the First Mapping Group was also engaged in a mapping
project for the AAF. There the winter night temperatures were often –40 degrees F or colder, which precluded use of the Equi-Angulator since mercury
freezes at –38º F.
After several weeks of our training at Bolling Field in
what was technically called “geodetic map control” (we were classified, upon
completion of our course, as “Geodetic Officers”), seven of us were assigned
to the Mexico coastal project, as members of the Second Photo Charting
Squadron. Only one of my fellow house renters, Keith McCallum, drew the
Mexico assignment; the rest were ultimately shipped to other projects, including, (heh! heh!), Alaska.
Page 86
After making arrangements for some other lucky officers to take over
our rental digs, Mac and I and five other fellow geodets took off for the army
base at Douglas, Arizona, where we had previously shipped our survey
equipment. There we were checked out with three army trucks for three twoman parties; the seventh man was a “floating” spare in case of illnesses or accidents, who rotated duty with all parties.
We drove from Douglas to Nogales, Mexico, where we were to link up
with our Mexican “supervisors.” Mac (my first partner) and I were assigned
a Colonel Diaz, who represented the necessary Mexican army control of the
project, and Alfonso Vaca Alatorre, a civilian with an engineering degree of
some sort. His proper title was “Ingeniero Vaca A.”) Vaca spoke English
quite well, fortunately (which was one of his official functions); Diaz very little. Vaca's other presumed official function was to provide technical assistance, but it turned out that his best talent was that of a P.R. man – arranging accommodations, parties in our honor sponsored by small town mayors,
and “wheel-greasing” in general. He was a delightful fellow, who was more
interested in comfort and the amenities than in geodetic surveys. The Mexico assignment was to last about nine months, until early August 1943, during
which time our survey parties leapfrogged each other all the way from Hermosillo south to Acapulco. As soon as we obtained ground control data we
airmailed it to the First Mapping Group at Bolling Field, where it was continuously incorporated into navigation charts. It was an interesting and for
the most part enjoyable experience, during which my compadres and I acquired a get-by familiarity with Spanish and a thorough sampling of the culture and character of the Mexico that casual tourists never see. True, we who
had enlisted with patriotic notions of fighting the Japs or Germans did have
twinges of conscience from time to time, as we read in the papers of the war's
agony elsewhere. But we reconciled ourselves to the fact that we had tried,
and now had no option in the matter but to enjoy our all-expense-paid holiday in the tropics.
We had checked out camping gear at Douglas, but Vaca and Diaz were
disinclined to camp out at our observation sites. The day-to-day trip planning was subject to their jurisdiction, so they always managed to get us bedded down at night at some hostelry. Those in the larger towns and cities
were always quite adequate, although seldom first class since the Mexicans
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paid all the living expenses and billed the U.S. for reimbursement, which I
suspect listed and valued the expenses at first class rates.
But accommodations in some of the hotels and inns in the smaller
coastal villages were a bit on the primitive side. In many there were two
basic classes of rooms: “expensive” ones with beds, and cheaper ones without. The latter had only hooks on opposite walls for hammocks which many
of the less-affluent Mexican travelers carried with them.
Most hotels of all grades were built around an inner open-air courtyard
with all rooms opening onto it. There was little risk of thievery, since the
main hotel entrance was locked at night, so we were therefore able to leave
the door and windows in our rooms open for air circulation. (No air conditioning then!)
In many cases, especially in the southern areas, a lush tropical garden
would occupy the courtyard; trees and great varieties of exotic flora. In one
small village hotel which had such a courtyard garden, while we were admiring the garden we were exceedingly startled to see a large green black-ringed
anaconda coiled in a tree! The hotel manager, when we excitedly consulted
him, told us he was a long-time house “pet” (!), and estimated his length at
four meters (about 13 feet).
“Se llama 'Fernando’”, the manager informed us.
“Is he tied to the tree?" I asked.
“No, no, señor, but he stay there most time, except when he get hongry.”
“Then what?”
“Then he go round el hotel, een rooms, look for las ratas y ratones. Ees
good hunter, mucho mejor que un gato.”
I'm wondering if this guy is serious, a snake who does duty as a rat and
mouse catcher, better than a cat? Vaca, who has been here before, confirms
this.
“Wait a minute! ” I say. “He comes in the rooms?”
“Ah, si, señor, but not to worry. He weel not bite personas. Solamente
las ratas.”
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In those days I was not a very light sleeper, but I sure was that night,
with a flashlight handy with which I scanned the room about every fifteen
minutes. But next morning Fernando was still in his tree, apparently hadn't
gotten “hongry.”
Our Mexican supervisors, usually Vaca, generally made arrangements
for our meals when we were traveling. Although we did carry a supply of army victuals with us for emergencies, outdoor picnics had little appeal for Vaca and Diaz, and they almost always managed to make arrangements for
meals at some eating place in the nearest town, regardless of how dingy or
flea-bitten it appeared. And on some occasions where the village was too
small to have a public restaurant, Vaca or Diaz would consult with the local
police chief or mayor who would then make arrangements for us to be fed in
someone's house. While this might seem like an imposition to many Americans, it was usually considered quite an honor, in the off-the-beaten-path
places we visited, to have the opportunity to host visiting American military
officers. In fact, in such places we were often the first Americans of any sort
the villagers had ever seen!
One such occasion was memorable. It was in an impoverished fishing
village somewhere on the Sonoran coast, I can't remember the name, and I
don't think it even appears on most maps. It was about 1 p.m. when we
pulled into the settlement, quite famished. The main street (the highway
through town) was a dirt road, and most of the buildings had thatched roofs
and mud-plastered walls. I voted for using our army C-rations, but Vaca said
he'd had fine meals in villages like this, and we probably could here. After he
consulted with some local jefe, we were directed to a no-door and dirt-floor
shack, presided over by a very flustered toothless little old lady wearing a
dress that must have recently been a coal sack.
After seating us on some rickety chairs and shooing out some chickens
and young pigs that were meandering in and out of the open sided hut, she
spread some newspapers on a decrepit table for a tablecloth and assured us
the almuerzo (lunch) would be “listo muy pronto”. Fortunately, Vaca had the
foresight to lug along a bottle of tequila, and we imbibed several samples to
help us cope with the coming repast, while we awaited its preparation.
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The meal turned out to be an all-you-can-eat supply of frijoles (served
in coconut bowls; Vaca says, “Isn't this quaint?”) and lots of tortillas. The
only seasoning on the beans was salt, and the tortillas had none. But it was
all the poor lady had to offer. To make up in quantity for lack of quality, she
felt obliged to keep baking more and more tortillas on her little charcoalheated stove. And at one disastrous moment when la Señora was carrying a
fresh stack to our table she tripped over a piglet and spilled the tortillas onto
the dirt floor. Greatly agitated, she kicked at the porker who rushed up to
sample the spill, then picked up the tortillas, dusted them off on her dirty
skirt, and plopped them onto the growing pile already on our table. It goes
without saying that we were about through eating by then anyway.
After a graceful after lunch period of smoking a cigarette and chatting
with the old lady to calm her nerves, Vaca paid her, we all thanked her for
her hospitality, and departed. Vaca must have paid her quite well, since her
effusive gratitude as we left was almost pathetic. And I'm sure she was looking forward to the notoriety she would locally enjoy as the one who was hostess to both Mexican and Americano officers!
Most of our meals were much more satisfactory than the preceding
event, of course, and generally were the more or less standard meat and vegetable fare. Mexicans do not dine primarily on what Americans call “Mexican food” (i.e. tacos, tamales, fajitas, etc.) any more than Americans dine
primarily on hamburgers and pizza.
We did have a few unusual gastronomic experiences, however. On one
occasion at some coastal village Vaca persuaded us to wade out at low tide
one evening to an oyster bed some local person had told him about, and collect our own oyster supper. After drying off and warming up with copious
quantities of tequila, we ate about 10 p.m., lots of raw oysters with Tabasco
sauce, washed down with lots of good Mexican beer. About 3 a.m. my stomach was turning inside out and I was hoping for a quick death. I don't know
if it was the result of bad oysters, excessive tequila, or the tequila – beer –
oyster - Tabasco combination, but I've never since been able to look a raw
oyster in the eye.
Another time Mac and I were having a few pre-dinner beers at a cantina in a small town. It was rather a shabby establishment, and the outstandPage 90
ing bar item was a beautiful big cut glass bowl filled with some sort of salty
snacks neither Mac nor I could identify. They tasted somewhat like small
very tender pieces of shrimp, in a crusty coating, and were exceptionally tasty
complements to our beer. I asked the bartender, who spoke no English, what
they were.
“Estos son gorgojos fritos, señor.”
“Oh?”, I turned to Mac. “Translation, please.” (Mac was somewhat more
proficient at Spanish than I was.)
“Got me,” said Mac, scarfing up another handful, “but they're mighty
tasty.”
It wasn't until we got back to the hotel and conferred with Vaca that we
found out they were french-fried grub worms.
****
One of my more unusual souvenirs was obtained at a “point of interest”
near the south end of the state of Sonora. We had done an evening's star observation, at Huatabampo or Navajoa, I believe it was, and the next day Mac
was busy trying to trace some calculation errors in our computations. That
was a one-man job, and the rest of us were free for the afternoon, and bored.
At some point Vaca told me that Colonel Diaz wondered if I'd like to see
where the Mexican army had its last skirmish with the Indians.
I of course agreed, and we three took off in the truck over some longneglected dirt trails into some coastal desert boondocks. We traveled an
hour or so through barren country, and Diaz increasingly seemed to be in
doubt as to where we were going and how to get there. I was beginning to
regret authorizing the trip when Diaz finally brightened up and exclaimed
“Aha! Está allá!”
The area was a flat cactus-covered desert adjoining the coast, into the
edge of which the prevailing westerly wind had migrated large sand dunes.
There wasn't much else to see, but we got out and Diaz began a long explanation (in Spanish, with Vaca translating for me) of the events which had taken
place there. In summation, it seems that in the early 1920's (or maybe 1918
or 1919? Diaz wasn't sure) a tribe of renegade Indians had attacked a train
somewhere in northwestern Mexico, doing considerable robbing and killing
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in the process, and a troop of Mexican cavalry was dispatched to hunt them
down.
After several days of chase, the cavalry finally cornered them at this
spot. The Indians took refuge in the sand dunes, but the cavalry charged in
and killed them all after a vicious fight. Diaz did not know all the details or
exact casualty statistics, but he believed there were about 15 or 20 Indians
and that 4 or 5 Mexicans were killed or wounded in the fracas.
As we wandered through the sand-covered area I happened to spot a
short piece of pointed rusty metal protruding from the base of a dune. I
tugged at it, and was astounded to eventually unearth a cavalry saber! Needless to say, we were all wildly excited, and spent another hour or so probing
through the dune area, but with no further success,
The saber now hangs in the Kyle/Sharpe Valley Hi cabin in Colorado.
The blade was too rusted to be polished back to its pristine sheen, and I had
to add a new leather wrapping to the grip, but its historical charm outweighs
its physical defects.
****
I have previously commented on Alfonso Vaca's ability as our unofficial
public relations director. His efforts to keep los Americanos happy and
healthy were unceasing, and he was most anxious that we like Mexico and
feel welcome in it. To this end he usually made a point of visiting the mayor
and/or a prominent citizen in the small towns where we would be staying
two or three days, and delicately implying that a social gathering in our honor would not only be appreciated by us, but would probably earn them some
political brownie points (since our mission was a joint venture of the Mexican and U.S. governments). Vaca, of course, had an obvious motive in such
promotions, since he enjoyed the parties and banquets as much as anyone.
We were thus honored on numerous occasions, but I don't think our
hosts ever really felt pressured to entertain us. Their hospitality and friendliness was obviously honest and sincere, and they all seemed proud and
pleased to be entertaining representatives of the U.S. military forces. And in
many cases there were nubile young ladies, usually daughters of the host,
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who seemed especially delighted at the opportunity to associate with unmarried U.S. lieutenants. (Mac was married, so this usually meant me alone, except when a Lt. Horace Harned replaced Mac in my party from time to time.)
Most of these señoritas were charming, intelligent, and quite attractive.
Most spoke English about as well as I did Spanish, so our social contacts
were learning experiences (speech wise!) for both of us. One of my better
teachers was an exceptionally pretty mayor's daughter from Acaponeta (between Mazatlan and Tepic) named Maria Garcia de Leon, who gave all indications of wanting to make a career of furthering my education.
I hasten to add that all our contacts with these girls from well-to-do families
were strictly above board; the parties and picnics were usually chaperoned,
although not so rigidly that we didn't enjoy them. The only time I inadvertently violated the chaperon system was early in our expedition, before I had
been indoctrinated in such matters of etiquette. At that time we were working out of Alamos, a quaint small town in the mountains about 35 miles east
of Navajoa. Alamos then was (maybe still is) almost like a movie set version
of l9th century Mexico, delightfully old-fashioned. Incidentally, we met a
couple of former Britishers there (Welshmen, I believe) who had come to
Mexico 25 or 30 years ago to supervise mining projects, and had been there
so long that they had all but forgotten how to speak English!
Anyway, we were socially entertained at a banquet about the second
night we were there, and a lovely young lass named Dolores was seated next
to me to be my individual hostess for the evening. We hit it off well together,
and after the party broke up about 9 p.m. I offered to walk her home. She
seemed a bit hesitant, which I thought a bit strange in view of our fine rapport at dinner, but she finally rather bashfully agreed. So we strolled the six
or eight blocks to her home, I thanked her for a fine evening, and bade her
good night without so much as a kiss on the cheek. On the way to her house I
had learned that she was a school teacher, and she was quite insistent that I
visit her school the next day. I did and got a standing ovation from her preteen students.
That afternoon Vaca, who had been gone all morning on a trip to Navajoa for some supplies, greeted me with a grin and reported that the town gossip was that the Americano teniente was practically engaged to Dolores, havPage 93
ing escorted her home last night without a chaperone! This, I rapidly gathered, was roughly the equivalent in Alamos' 19th century culture of cohabiting without benefit of marriage! I thought at first Vaca was kidding. He
wasn't, but he thought the matter was funny as hell. The humor of the situation didn't really appeal to me until we were well on our way out of Alamos
the next morning.
Although both Ing.Vaca and Col. Diaz enjoyed the social perquisites
associated with their assignments as our mentors, they did get quite bored
with our day to day (and especially night to night) survey work, and hankered for occasional exposure to the bright lights and night life of larger cities.
This they finally achieved by a rather devious system. Diaz (in collaboration
with Vaca, I'm sure) claimed that it was required of him and us to periodically report in person to the commanding general anytime our operations took
us into a different military district. Diaz would not show us those district
boundaries on a map, but we soon found that the district headquarters were
always in a metropolis like Guadalajara or Mexico City.
Such visits always entailed a break in our work schedule of two or three
days, which I protested vehemently but in vain. I recognized the transparent
ruses involved, of course, but since we were technically on loan to the Mexican army there wasn't much I could do but go along and enjoy the holiday.
Actually, we did visit the district commandantes on those side trips,
which I suppose was necessary to support Diaz' and Vaca’s expense accounts.
One general we called on in Mexico City – I've forgotten his name – was a
very interesting character. His face and physique resembled an old time
movie star named Wallace Beery. He was overweight and sloppy in appearance; with a rubbery looking face that looked too big for his head. We spent
an hour or so visiting him, and very little of our conversation dealt with our
mapping project.
His English was rather sketchy but understandable, if the listener also
knew a little sketchy Spanish. At some point the subject of languages came
up, and he claimed to have a passing familiarity with four other foreign
tongues: French, German, Russian, and Portuguese, I believe they were. The
general did not exactly give the impression of being of college caliber mentality, and we tried hard to mask our disbelief. Sensing that some acknowledgPage 94
ment of this remarkable statement was expected, I said something like,
“That's amazing, general. How does a busy man like yourself find time to
learn so many languages?”
This elicited a loud guffaw from him, and gave him the opening he was
obviously hoping for to explain his linguistic prowess. His reply went something like this:
“Teniente, la Ciudad de Mexico tiene muchas personas de nacionalidades, variados. Es, how you say, un melt pit.”
“Ah yes,” I responded, “melting pot of many nationalities, right?”
“Si, si! Yo …”, (the general smiled broadly and expanded his chest), “yo
tengo una ama, una concubina of each those nacionalidades: Rusiana,
Francesa, Alemana, y. Portuguesa. Entiendo, amigo?”
I said, “uh, a mistress of each nationality, right?”
The general beamed. “Si. Para hablar, ah, to speak anozzer, uh, how
you say, lengua de otra patria...”
“Language of another country?”, I volunteered.
“Si. Ze best way ees een la cama weeth una señorita bonita, eh?!”
“Ah, I guess so, General, – I, uh, never thought about that angle before.”
The general continued on that subject at some length, pointing out that
his learning system had the advantage of giving the learner a strong incentive
to succeed, plus the fact that it is easier to hear the subtle nuances of accent
and inflection in a woman's voice than in the deeper and more guttural tones
of a man.
I had to admit the general's theories seemed valid, and wondered if I
should consider such arrangements to improve my Spanish.
The most interesting phenomenon of nature we encountered in Mexico
was the birth of a new volcano. On February 20, 1943, near the Indian towns
of Parangaricutiro and Paracutin (about 15 or 20 miles northwest of Uruapan), an Indian plowing his field one afternoon became disturbed by underground rumblings. He rapidly headed for town to seek the services of a
priest to exorcise the devils responsible, but that evening when he returned
Page 95
the field had ruptured and lava was starting to emerge. Within a few days
the volcano was a hundred feet high and growing rapidly.
We heard of the event during a general-visiting mission to Guadalajara,
and since the area was only about 120 miles away, we all agreed we should
have a first hand look. We headed southeast and obtained lodgings in a rather primitive inn in Paracutin. This was about a week or two after the initial
eruption; the volcano was several hundred feet high by then and growing
rapidly. It was intermittently belching huge quantities of lava, black smoke
and soot, and was most spectacular at night as it spewed out great towers of
white-hot rocks and cinders while the red-hot lava streams crept down the
sides. By then the town and surrounding countryside were covered with cinders and soot to a depth of from several inches to a foot or two – the scenery
gave one the impression of looking at a photographic negative of a snow scene. The atmosphere was so saturated with soot that we had to keep our hotel
doors and windows shut, which made for a stifling night. The local church
was getting lots of non-scheduled business, but the priest's efforts did little to
stop the lava which was slowly approaching town.
Carol and I, with another couple from Tulsa, subsequently had occasion to visit the volcano about eight years later, and found the town had been
totally engulfed, except for eight or ten feet of the church steeple which still
protruded above the lava field. Knowing that the hotel I had once stayed in
was now entombed somewhere under our feet in lava rock gave me a slightly
spooky feeling, and inspired some reflection on my part as to the frailty of
human civilization and existence. Incidentally, we took mule rides to the
crest of the volcano, and were surprised to have our young guide at one point
reach down into a lava crevice and pull out rock samples which were still too
hot to hold comfortably. The volcano was named “Mt. Paracutin” in recognition of the town it devoured.
****
By mid May, 1943, the Allied forces had eliminated all organized Axis
resistance in North Africa, and had begun an Africa-based offensive against
Italy. This required an increasing buildup of armaments and supplies in Tunisia and Libya, and U.S. bombers and cargo planes continued the Central
America-Brazil route to Africa. But a disturbing frequency of plane crashes
Page 96
in the Andes-Brazil portion was causing the AAF considerable worry. Many
were occurring in the high mountains, and frequently some were getting lost
and crashing in the Amazon jungle.
The AAF planes were using the German airline maps Brazil had turned
over to the U.S., (as mentioned previously), and it finally became apparent
that the maps were at least partially in code. Some mountain altitude figures,
for example, might be understated; a pilot flying on instruments over a
cloud-shrouded mountain ridge, which the map showed to be at 10,000 feet
elevation, would allow himself, say, 1000 feet of clearance. But the mountain
crest really reached to perhaps 12,000 feet. Result: another plane down. Or,
a plane crossing the mostly-jungle 2,000 miles of Brazil might have engine
trouble and be unable to find an erroneously mapped emergency airfield, or
be led off course by mis-located landmarks or mapped features that were in
reality non-existent, and run out of fuel. Result: another “overdue and presumed missing”.
So, the German maps were junked, and the First Mapping Group acquired another crash program: mapping the Andes and the Amazon Basin.
My Mexican survey had reached the Acapulco vicinity by mid July, and I was
notified that several of my fellow “geodets” and I would be assigned to Brazil.
Vaca and Diaz had become my good friends, and I was sorry to leave what
had been a mostly enjoyable project. But the adventure and glamour (in my
mind) of working in the uncharted Amazonian wilderness was highly appealing.
I was permitted a week's leave in the U.S., and of course headed home
to Wisconsin. That visit fortuitously became one of the most important and
consequential ones of my life: Carol Snell and I began a romance which lasted 55 years.
It was late July, and Carol was at her folks' home in Elmwood during
summer vacation. A couple days before I was due to return to Texas, her
mother just happened to mention that the local newspaper reported that
Lieutenant Jerry Kyle was home on leave, and so Carol on a trip to Menomonie “just happened” to drop in at Downsville to say hello. I was delighted at the opportunity to renew an old acquaintance, and our subsequent
date developed into a very romantic evening.
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I had to depart the next morning for Laredo, but I knew then that Carol
was to be (to use one of my friend Crassweller's favorite phrases) “the real
thing at last,” who would thenceforth become the sole recipient of my romantic thoughts and mushy correspondence. Carol wasn't as exclusive as I was
in this direction, but she did retain a soft spot in her heart for me, as well as
my extensive correspondence from Brazil. And, as it turned out, I was able
to capitalize on that soft spot when I eventually returned from Brazil, and
fast-talked her into a quick marriage.
****
I was in Laredo three or four days, checking equipment and awaiting
preparations for a transfer to Brazil. While there I heard that the AAF was
now slightly easing the physical requirements for aircrew duty, to the extent
that someone with 20-30 vision could squeeze by if otherwise in perfect
health. So I filled out an application, received the usual comprehensive
physical exam, and passed readily with the new relaxed requirement for visual acuity. I was told then that my application would have to be reviewed at
some AAF training base, which would take an unknown period of time, and I
left with a directive which said in effect, “Don't call us, we'll call you.”
On August 20 eleven officers and enlisted men and I departed Laredo,
flying to McDill Field (Tampa, Florida) in a twin-engined “Vega Ventura”, piloted by a personable fellow named Major Payne. (The Vegas were also
known as B-34's, a pre-war medium bomber type; by WWII they were considered too slow and obsolete for combat duty, and were converted to use as
personnel and cargo carriers.)
After one day layover at McDill due to engine trouble, we got off and
headed south August 22, refueling in Jamaica, and landing that evening in
Barranquilla, Colombia, where we were booked into a better-than-average
hotel called El Prado.
For reasons I don't fully recall, our route to Manaus (formerly spelled
Manaos), Brazil, was exceptionally indirect and time consuming. We left
Barranquilla August 23, and didn't arrive in Manaus until six days later. We
made our first overnight stop at Cali, Colombia, then spent two days and
Page 98
nights at Talara, Peru, back to Barranquilla (and El Prado), then to Waller
Field in Trinidad for an overnight at the VOQ. We made one more overnight
stay at Atkinson Field in Georgetown, British Guyana (now called Guyana),
and finally arrived in Manaus on August 29. I do remember that numerous
stops involved some shuffling of personnel and cargo at several points, especially at the military base in Talara. Talara is the westernmost point in South
America, and presumably was a focal point of defense against possible action
by the Japs. And I suppose the airfield at Cali was a possible refueling station for the Africa-bound air traffic, before crossing the Andes. But why we
returned to Barranquilla and stopped in Trinidad and Georgetown I don't
now know. Anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed being a non-working passenger on
that extended tour around the northern and northwestern coast of South
America.
I was to remain in Manaus until early November working with a dozen
or so newly-arrived geodetic officers. We applied for and waited for tediously processed government clearances, sorted and studied the aerial photos as
they arrived (they were still being flown when we arrived in Brazil), and
planned in detail the areas to be mapped and the required survey programs
for the several ground control parties.
While there we got a personal feel for the air traffic casualty situation:
two plane crashes occurred involving some of our friends and acquaintances.
These are briefly noted in the following transcripts from my “Official Business Diary”:
“Sept. 5: Report received in Manaus that Major Payne's B-34 missing en
route to Cali. Capt. Abbey arrived in a B-34 from Iquitos about 2 p.m. Sept.
5. He plans to leave on search mission tomorrow. Lt. Stallings and I are
scheduled to go with Abbey, to conduct rescue party if Abbey finds Payne's
plane.
“Sept. 6: Capt. Abbey left in a.m. for Iquitos in B-34. Lt. Stallings and myself were omitted from party on last-minute notice by order of Capt. Abbey,
there already being eight passengers for the preliminary hop to Iquitos. Abbey will get volunteer rescue party in Iquitos, then proceed to Andes to initiate search activities. Major Crowley also left on search mission in PBY early
a.m.
Page 99
“Sept. 7: Message received from Iquitos last night in Manaus advised of
crack-up of Capt. Abbey's plane in taking off from Iquitos. Plane exploded
and burned, killing all personnel aboard except one, who was severely injured. Wire from Cali advised that Major Payne's plane had been found in
mountains about ½ hour flight time from Cali. Discovered by Colombian
planes, but no details available.
“ Sept. 8: No further information on either crash has been released here in
Manaus. Casualties of Abbey's crack-up were buried in Iquitos yesterday.
“ Sept. 12: Information from Cali is that a ground party has reached Major
Payne's plane; found entire crew dead.”
****
Manaus in 1943 was a city of about 150,000 inhabitants. It is an inland port city on the great Rio Negro about ten miles above its junction with
the even greater Amazon River. Although Manaus is 1,000 miles from the
mouth of the Amazon, that river's volume and depths are such that oceangoing cargo and passenger ships regularly visit Manaus.
For the benefit of any geography lovers who may be reading these pages,
some descriptive comments about the mighty Amazon River should be of interest. It drains an area three-fourths as large as the United States, is 3,900
miles long, and contains more water than the combined volume of the largest
rivers in the U.S., Africa, and China (Mississippi, Nile, and Yangtze). At its
mouth, which was once a gulf of the ocean, it is over 150 miles wide and 200
feet deep. The point where it enters Brazil from Peru is only 300 feet higher
than the level of the Atlantic Ocean, and the level of the river drops only oneeighth inch per mile during the last 400 miles of its course. The Amazon's
current therefore, is extremely slow, and in many places it looks like a broad,
calm lake. Brazilians sometimes refer to it as the “river sea.”
The depth of the water, and its lateral extent in the low flat terrain
characteristic of most of the Amazon basin, varies considerably according to
rainfall volume; at Manaus the water level can rise as much as 60 feet during
the tropical rainy season. The river and its tributaries are home to 750 kinds
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of fish including the vicious piranha. Alligators, giant turtles, and fresh water dolphins are common everywhere.
****
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Manaus' years of glory were in the late 1800's and early 1900's when it
was the rubber capital of the world. Crude rubber was concocted from the
sap of the wild rubber trees (“Hevea brasiliensis”) in the Amazon wilderness,
and shipped worldwide for refinement into many products. But the British
in 1876 imported about 70,000 tree seeds to England, grew seedlings in
greenhouses, and ultimately transplanted them in large rubber plantations in
Ceylon and Indonesia. By the beginning of WWI in 1914 their plantation
production exceeded that of wild rubber, and with the advent of synthetic
rubber in the early 1920's the Brazilian rubber industry was nearly extinguished.
But during its heyday at the turn of the century Manaus was a
boomtown. The wealthy rubber producers were responsible for financing
many commendable civic enterprises and artistic public buildings. Most notable of these was (and still is) the famous opera house, where many of the
most famous European orchestras, musicians, and singers were imported for
gala performances subsidized by rubber company profits. The opera house is
still today one of the tourist attraction highlights.
By 1943 a company called the Rubber Development Corporation was
established to revive flagging rubber production for WWII needs. RDC acquired several estates and mansions formerly owned by the rubber “barons”,
and one was assigned to our mapping project personnel to be used as living
quarters. The accommodations were quite comfortable, after we got used to
mosquitoes and cockroaches having free entry and exit privileges. The bedrooms were large with high ceilings and Brazilian houseboys in attendance,
and we ate in a roomy dining hall with fair-to-middling meals prepared by a
live-in chef. There were several rather elegant bathrooms with sunken tiled
tubs, which I had never encountered before. The toilet tank, separate from
the stool and mounted high overhead, was also a new experience – it had two
chain pulls. New arrivals were always instructed to pull the one on the right;
actually, the one on the left flushed the toilet. The other administered an unexpected douche bath as one sat on the stool, which was an unnerving experience, and one which of course “made the day” for the practical jokers who
had given the erroneous instructions.
The relative comfort and service in these guest house quarters were
somewhat offset in the opinion of several drinking type Americans (not me!
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not me!) by the scarcity of good alcoholic beverages in Manaus. Scotch and
bourbon were prohibitively expensive when available, and the Manaus beer
(of that era, at least) made one nostalgic for the Mexican product. The only
liquor that was cheap and in abundance was a fiery red-eye rum called
“cachaça.” Anyone who imbibed it straight was advised not to follow by
blowing out candles or matches, or a blowtorch effect was liable to result.
Personally, I always diluted it with a substantial amount of a popular root
beer-like soft drink.
Brazilians speak Portuguese, and much of our spare time was devoted
to acquiring a smattering of that lingo, since English-speaking locals were in
short supply among those with whom we were in frequent contact in Manaus.
Portuguese is a bit harder to learn from a book than Spanish. In Spanish the rules of pronunciation are rather precise; one can look at a written
word and know exactly how to pronounce it. This is less true in Portuguese,
since many syllables tend to be nasalized or slurred. The Spanish “no” is
identical to the English “no”; in Portuguese it is a nasalized “nao”, like the
English word “now” spoken through the nose.
Learning Portuguese, I found, is more difficult if one knows some
Spanish, since many words are similar or identical (“Por favor” for example),
but many are not, and I had trouble remembering which was which. “Good
morning, how are you?” in Spanish is “Buenos dias, como esta usted?”. The
Portuguese equivalent is “Bom dia, coma vai?” The Spanish response to that
question might be “Muy bien, gracias” (“very well, thanks”); in Portuguese
it's “Muito bem, obrigado.” And so forth.
I never became very proficient in Portuguese, but eventually could get
by in situations requiring only very simple questions and answers. But on
our mapping trips in the jungle each survey party was assigned an interpreter which took care of most communications problems (except with Indians!);
and in any event, we seldom met anyone we needed to talk to.
The jungle surrounding Manaus was filled with wildlife, of course,
samples of which enterprising young Brasilieros frequently tried to sell to “os
soldados americanos.” Our servants took a dim view of this, not wanting the
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added burden of maintaining a small zoo in the officers' quarters and tried to
keep the local lads away from the house. However, the peddlers were clever
at gaining entry, or waylaying us during our errands in the city, and after a
few weeks several geodets had acquired a variety of interesting pets. At various times the collection included a couple macaws (large parrots with long
tails and brilliantly colored plumage), a toucan (bird with a huge beak), two
monkeys, and an ocelot.
The birds were caged but the monkeys and ocelot were usually kept in
separate rooms on leashes. On one occasion a monkey somehow slipped out
of his collar and leash, and before he could be caught he enjoyed nearly two
days of freedom, scampering throughout the house and taking refuge on the
high ceiling beams when capture seemed imminent. He was quite a practical
joker; while he was on the ceiling beams he got his jollies from urinating on
anyone incautious enough to walk underneath.
But the most notable addition to the menagerie was my mountain lion
(a.k.a. puma) which I bought from an itinerant trader who had just returned
from the Andes. I described this charming animal to Carol in one of my letters: “Hey, wish you could see the pet I've just acquired.
It's a cat that's four feet long from nose to the tip of his tail, and about
fourteen inches high. He's a puma or mountain lion from the Andes, not native to these parts. He's still a kitten, and nearly as harmless and playful as
one. Well, almost as harmless, unless he forgets himself when he's gnawing
on my arm or ankle and bites a bit too deep. Also, he's very uncongenial
while eating, not the social type at all while so engaged. Otherwise he's quite
the spoiled brat. And pretty as a picture, tan back and body, white underneath, big oversize gray paws, and a beautiful tan, black and white head with
a mouth that encompasses my wrist very neatly!”
I named him Oscar, but the house servants always referred to him as
“lo leon” (the lion). Since the last two letters are nasalized in Portuguese
pronunciation, it sounded like “Leo,” and that's what he was mostly called,
especially when we were discussing his care and feeding with the servants.
They and their friends were quite fascinated with Leo, incidentally, but rather nervous about getting too close to him, since most of them had never
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seen a mountain lion except in the zoo. (The only cats native to the Amazon
basin are the jaguar and the ocelot.)
I mostly kept Oscar/Leo outside, leashed to a tree, in the walled yard
behind our house, where I provided him with a large doghouse (cathouse?)
type of accommodation for his use during the frequent rainy spells. Initially
I tried to keep him in a spare room at night, but his habit of yelling for breakfast at an ungodly early hour every morning made it necessary to permanently evict him outside where his dawn vocals were somewhat less audible to the
indoor sleepers.
His favorite game was tussling with met but I had to be careful not to do it
with him shortly before his afternoon mealtime, or he was apt to mistake my
ankle for a ham bone. The scenario he enjoyed was for me to stroll past him,
pretending not to notice him as he lay on his belly, chin on paws, with his tail
twitching. As I passed him with my back to him, he’d suddenly leap on my
shoulders, knock me down, and we'd roll around and wrestle. He generally
avoided biting too strenuously or clawing too vigorously, but on occasion
held get excited enough that I'd end the match with a torn shirt and needing
a few Band Aids. The house servants always enjoyed these shows and, of
course, firmly believed the American tenente was definitely “poco loco.”
Oscar grew rapidly and became a problem for the servants to take care
of when we were off for a week or two at a time on surveying missions, since
he had developed an obvious dislike of most Brazilians and became rather
ornery in their presence. I suspected that they teased or mistreated him during my absence. So, when two American women, who worked for the RDC
and shared a house with suitable yard facilities, expressed an interest in adding him to their menagerie (two monkeys and a housecat), I was glad to sell
him for a token payment. But Oscar's new living arrangements didn't last
very long, unfortunately. When I returned from a week's jungle trip I found
that the gals were rather distraught and having problems. Oscar, it seemed,
wanted to rough-house (playfully) with them as he was used to doing with
me, but they didn't realize for certain that he was playing, and considered
him “unmanageable.” Besides, they told me, he had eaten a neighbor's monkey. So I reacquired my pet, who seemed delighted to be back “home.”
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The biggest flap Oscar caused occurred a month or so later, when he
was getting close to being fully grown. Another geodet and I were having an
afternoon refreshment at a sidewalk cafe five or six blocks from the house,
when one of our houseboys came dashing up, his face pale as paper.
“Tenente,” he gasped, “you come back quick! Leo, he eating little boy!”
We were horrified, and as we ran back to the house I envisioned all
sorts of international repercussions, not the least of which might be my
probable demotion to buck private. Fortunately, we found that the houseboy's story was considerably exaggerated (he was probably anticipating the
outcome of the preliminary events). “Leo” had somehow broken his leash
chain, leaped the wall, and landed in the neighboring yard to confront an appalled and thoroughly terrified 8-year-old Brazilian boy. Fortuitously, that
yard contained a large chicken coop, a small shed with the front side entirely
of chicken wire and a walk-in door, and the boy had had the presence of
mind to dash inside. When we arrived the boy was wailing at a high decibel
level, the equally terrified chickens were squawking, and the lion was stalking back and forth in front of the coop, lashing his tail and snarling ominously.
I was weak and shaking with relief to find that no damage to life or
property had occurred, and hauled the unrepentant puma home by his collar.
In passing through the neighbor's yard to the street and back into ours, I encountered a gathering crowd of Brazilians who had heard of the situation. I
at first expected some angry reactions from these onlookers, but none developed, and some almost fell over each other clearing a wide path for me and
Oscar as he contributed an occasional growl to the babble of Portuguese. In
retrospect, as it turned out, the incident was quite funny but the humor of
the situation didn't really strike us until a few hours later as we were soothing our nerves with a bottle of cachaça.
I had no further difficulties with Oscar, and it was with considerable
sadness that when I eventually returned to the States I had to make arrangements for him to be turned over to the city zoo. I did consider loading
him into a truck and driving him as far into the forest as possible, and giving
him his freedom. But an animal authority convinced me that a mountain lion without previous wilderness experience would have difficulty surviving in
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the Amazonian jungle, and that he would probably eventually wander back to
the city's edge and be shot. I hope the zoo treated him kindly.
****
The usual routine for us geodetic officers, while we headquartered in
Manaus, was to be in the field a week or two at a time doing our astronomically-determined ground control surveys, followed by a respite in Manaus for
a few days to complete our book work and survey reports, and overhaul and
replenish our equipment for the next trip.
The work in town was not strenuous, and our stays there became rather
boring, once we had “done” the city's sights and points of interest. Unlike
Mexico, social activities for us were minimal, and no local officials felt it necessary or desirable to host us at any parties. In my case, the most-lookedforward-to event was the once-a-week arrival of mail from the U.S.A., which
usually contained letters from Carol and my folks. And my principal sparetime activity was writing return letters, especially to Carol, with whom I was
deeply in love. I of course advised her of this state-of-the-heart situation
with monotonous regularity. She saved most of my letters, and in reviewing
them I find that in one I told her what a different person I had become!
“I am becoming a Peculiar Person. Even my best friends tell me this.
Mac (my copartner in Mexico and one of my room mates in Boorish Manor
in Washington, not to mention being a fellow cadet at Lowry Field) is particularly concerned when I turn down a poker game of an evening and instead
idle away two or three hours on my back in my bunk poring over some
month-old letters from you which are already dog-eared from rereading.
Remembering with what wolfish glee he and I used to pursue the frightened
señoritas through the streets of Guadalajara (but never quite catching them;
stop fussing!), Mac is quite aghast at my present preference for strolling solo
in the moonlight instead of conducting light banter with the local female inhabitants. 'Jerry', he sez, shaking his head sadly, 'you ain't the man you usta
wuz.” And, when we're bending the elbow a bit in public places, and he discovers me looking at your picture instead of, as in my pre-Carol days, casting
an appraising eye at the 'passing parade', he sighs gently and meditates audibly on the “Jerry-that-usta-be.”
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Living conditions at the headquarters house and officers' barracks,
while far from ideal, were infinitely better than those in the jungle. However,
the one thing common to both environments was the abundance of insect
life. Several of my letters to Carol commented on this problem. In one I
said:
“Up at the crack of dawn, as usual. Fed the cat and went back to bed.
(Must educate that cat to quit yelling for breakfast so damn early! He's a
big boy now.) Rolled over and got up again, roundly cursing the ants who
somehow always manage to penetrate my mosquito netting, plus the various intricate defenses of insect powder lanes, fly paper, sulfur, and kerosene-filled saucers with which I surround or impregnate the legs of my
bunk.”
And, on another occasion: “It's a sticky hot night, I'm tired, and these flies,
%@?-** mosquitoes, and @o#-*@ ants are driving me nuts. Also, these
damn cockroaches are annoying. It's very discouraging to sit and listen to
them gnawing on things in the shadows. One of them tried to run off with
one of my boots a short time ago – about the size of a mouse he was, and we
had rather a battle, which ended with me finally clubbing him to death with
a short length of lead pipe.”
Meals at the officers' quarters were of considerably less than Epicurean
quality, but they still beat the fare usually available at the local restaurants.
One discouraging feature of both our dining hall's menu and that of the public eateries was the complete absence of fresh vegetables. In response to an
inquiry from my mother, (a typical mother's concern, right?), “What are you
eating?" I wrote, “Well, mostly meat, fish, beef, chicken, ham, corned beef,
etc. But no fresh vegetables and the canned ones are pretty expensive, so we
don't have much in that line. But lots of rice and manioc root (something
like a variety of sweet potato.) And vitamin pills. Altogether, food (American
types, that is) is much more expensive here than in the States, due to transportation costs, and the fact that there isn't much agriculture around here.
But there are fruits, very similar to what we had in Mexico: bananas, papayas, mangos, and pineapple.”
By early November most of our unit's survey work had been completed
in regions easily accessible from Manaus, and the general thrust of our acPage 108
tivity moved westward to tie in with the Andes surveys. My assigned sector
was in extreme western Brazil in the Purús River region where my party
would be based for an extended period at a town called Bôca do Acre. This
“Mouth of the Acre” derived its name from the junction of the Purús and
Acre Rivers. It was (then) the size and type of village which in the U.S. would
be called a “crossroads” town; no roads then went through Bôca (the transAmazon highway now does, or is scheduled to), so I suppose the term “crossrivers” town would have been more appropriate. Bôca's only claim to fame
then was that it was a port of entry for river traffic between two Brazilian
states.
My survey party partner was
Paul (“der”) Fuhrer. (For any
reader to young to be knowledgeable about WWII, I must explain
that the “der” nickname stemmed
from the “Der Fuhrer” title by
which the Nazi villain Adolf Hitler
was known in Germany.) Our interpreter was a young Brazilian
named (an ancestor was doubtless
one of the many German immigrants to Brazil in the 1800's).
Since the nasalized pronunciation
of João’s name (Zhoe-wah) didn't
slide off our tongues too readily, I
usually shortened it to “Joe”
(which sounded closer to João
than “John”).
Interpreter João Bauerfeldt
Bôca is about 650 miles' direct flight from Manaus, and we and another
party assigned to the same general area were scheduled to be flown to Bôca
in a Catalina flying boat. (They were designated by the military as “PBY's,” a
large amphibian plane used elsewhere during the war mainly by the navy to
scout for enemy submarines.) A couple PBY's were due into Manaus early in
November for such transport work, but two weeks came and went with no
PBY arrivals, So it was finally decided by Col. Doran, our squadron com-
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mander, to load us on a commercial river steamer and ship us upriver as cargo.
On November 20th we accordingly embarked on the Inca, a paddle
wheeler somewhat similar to the Mississippi River boats of the Mark Twain
era, operated by a government-owned shipping line. But once we were
aboard and began chugging upriver, we were immediately disabused of any
notion that this voyage would be in any way similar to that on a Mississippi
steamer. We discovered that our co-passengers included 200 Brazilian rubber harvesters, and 12 head of cattle plus a diverse assortment of chickens
and pigs to help feed those workers at their destinations. A considerable
quantity of additional cargo included about a hundred cases of cachaça to
keep the rubber workers happy, and a great variety of tools, equipment, and
supplies for the upriver settlements.
Our six survey party members were fortunate enough to have separate
single-bunk cabins (slightly larger than the average closet), while the 200
other passengers had to find their own sleeping space on the open decks. We
shared one toilet and washroom with the boat crew, and overall there was
considerable congestion, lack of privacy, and an abundance of fetid odors
that the boat's limited speed did little to dispel. The food wasn't too bad (we
ate with the five crew members) but, as was the case in Manaus, the complete lack of vegetables made the steady menu of meat, fish, rice and farinha
a bit monotonous.
The trip became monotonous, too, as the days wore on and we became
increasingly disturbed by the boat's slow progress. It used wood for fuel, and
stopped two or three times a day for an hour or so at a time at nearly every
grass shack settlement to load firewood, and deposit and pick up mail or other minor cargo items.
November 25th was Thanksgiving Day. I wondered how Carol and my
folks were spending it, and I reflected on the fact that my last Thanksgiving
Day in Wisconsin was in 1935. At that time in 1943 I hadn't spent Thanksgiving twice in the same state in the past six years.
After five days' travel we were only 210 miles out of Manaus. We celebrated Thanksgiving Day by opening a new bottle of catsup we'd been saving,
and sending a position report by ship's radio to Col. Doran. Since we were
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still about 800 miles or so of river travel away from Bôca, our present rate of
progress would take us approximately another 20 days to reach our destination, considerably in excess of the estimate of two weeks for the total trip
which the shipping line officials had given us before we left Manaus!
A day later we received a radio message from the Manaus headquarters
advising that Col. Doran had been able to arrange for one of RDC’s company
PBY's to “rescue” us and return us to Manaus. On the 27th that Catalina did
land in the river near the Inca, much to the awe of our co-passengers and the
inhabitants of the settlement where the boat had temporarily docked. We
transferred our 3600 pounds of equipment and supplies to the plane, and a
few hours later we all were back in Manaus.
The following day Der Fuhrer, another party chief named Dave Radcliffe, and I checked into the RDC hospital with severe diarrhea. Some antidysentery pills finally cleared up our problems, but in any event I was “feeling no pain” since I learned that during my cruise on the Inca letters had arrived advising Col. Doran and me of my appointment to flight training! My
orders were to return to the States sometime during the first half of February, and report to San Antonio March 2 after a suitable furlough. That evening I bought several rounds of drinks at a neighborhood bar for all geodets
currently in residence at the officers' quarters!
A week later the RDO plane loaded us up again for the flight to Bôca.
Five of us were the former Inca passengers, but Fuhrer, who hadn't fully recovered from his bout with the dysentery bugs, had been replaced in my party by Harold Loden.
We left Manaus at 6 a.m. December 4th, and arrived in Bôca after a
four-hour flight weaving through a sequence of turbulent thunderstorm
clouds which made for an extremely bumpy flight. To pass the time en route
I drew a sketch of a greasy onion-laden hamburger sandwich and, as a joke,
passed it to Radcliffe who I noticed was getting a bit green around the gills
from the plane's instability. He took one look at my picture and promptly got
rid of his breakfast in a pail the RDC flight crew provided for such purposes
as standard equipment. He subsequently felt much less airsick and grinned
at me, but I was a bit ashamed afterward to have pulled such a mean joke on
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poor old Dave. I had no idea when I handed him the sketch that his reaction
would be that immediate and dramatic!
Three days after our arrival in Bôca Radcliffe, his assistant Chet Lowe,
and their interpreter departed by river steamer for Rio Branco, another river
port settlement about 100 miles up the Acre River, where they would headquarter and operate in the Acre headwaters region. Loden, our interpreter
“Joe” (João), and I were destined to spend over a month surveying in the
Purus and lower Acre Rivers sector. Most of that time we were working and
camping on those jungle-country rivers and their tributaries, but we headquartered at Bôca where we returned intermittently to restock supplies, send
and (hopefully) receive mail, and dispatch our survey data to Manaus.
We were fortunate in obtaining quarters when in Bôca at the house of
Sr. Jose Alves de Sant'Anna, who was a deputy port official (“Agente da Capitania dos Portos do Amazonas” – an impressive title). Transportation was
considerably harder to arrange. We had received no instructions or suggestions from Manaus concerning travel arrangements; we were on our own to
get to where we needed to go. Local river traffic up both the Purús and Acre,
mainly small boats ferrying supplies and produce to and from the “seringals”
(rubber plantations), was highly erratic, unscheduled and undependable, we
soon learned, and was of course unlikely in any event to take us into the
more remote tributaries and backwaters where we might need to go. Fortunately, our supplies from Manaus included a 22 horsepower Johnson outboard motor for such use, so we began hunting for boats to rent. These
proved very scarce, and the few that were rentable were mostly unserviceable. But after two days of search and inquiry I was finally able to negotiate
the rental of a 25-foot “launch” (the owner's term) for 50 Mil Reis per day
(then the equivalent of about $5 in U.S. currency, as I recall). Arrangements
for gasoline and oil supplies for our outboard were made with a local RDC
agent.
The “launch” was in reality an oversize dugout canoe, hewn from one gigantic log. It was round bottomed with no keel, and was understandably rather unstable and awkward to maneuver. But it was the best we could find,
and more or less suitable for our intended use; the Johnson could be mounted on it, it had a sunshade roof over most of it, and we had no plans to do any
water skiing.
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We ultimately christened it the Oopah (the Brazilian phrase equivalent of “Whoops!” or “Yipes!”), which was Joe's frequent exclamation during
our initial operations as we often narrowly avoided collisions with river debris or misjudged our docking speed and rammed into mud banks. River
currents were much stronger here near the Andes foothills than in the lower
Amazon, and our motor had no reverse gear to serve as an emergency brake,
so it took awhile before we learned the finer points of river navigation.
After two days of reconnaissance work in the Bôca area, we loaded the
boat and began chugging up the Acre on December 8, heading for a small
settlement called Floriana Peixoto (about 40 water miles above Bôca), near
which we had been instructed to establish ground control stations. This accomplished, we returned to Bôca, and began a much longer mission up the
Purús, to and beyond another village called Sena Madureira. In 1943 both
these settlements, like Bôca, were little more than collections of small shacks,
a few shops, and a trading post or two to service nearby seringals. Currently,
according to recent National Geographic maps, portions of the TransAmazon Highway (either proposed or completed) go through or near these
towns, so I presume their economic status and population has grown accordingly.
Our typical routine per ground control station on the Purús and its
tributaries involved at least a day's boat travel between locations, followed by
an average of two or three nights of work before getting a successful set of astronomic data. Many were the times when we would be halfway through a
star observation schedule near midnight and our evening's work would be
nullified by a sudden thunderstorm or cloud cover, or loss of contact with
our radio time signal source. The days following all-night observations were
devoted to doing our computations, translating star data into latitude and
longitude data, and trying to catch up on sleep.
The rainstorms were a major problem, and seemed to have no particular preference for either daytime or nighttime activity. The sunshade roof on
our boat was quite porous, barely keeping the sun out, and a large canvas
tarp we had purchased in Bôca to protect our equipment proved to be about
as waterproof as mosquito netting. We seemed to spend a major share of our
days either huddled under raincoats while trying to keep the boat from hurPage 113
dling floating logs in a driving thunderstorm, or drying ourselves and our
equipment afterward.
A frequent source of annoyance at night during our sack time hours
was the abundant reptilian population, present almost everywhere on or near
the riverbanks. The Amazonian alligator, incidentally, is a species of the
crocodilian genus called Cayman (optional spelling: Caiman). They are almost identical in appearance to the North American alligator, but blacker,
more active, and reputedly more aggressive. The Brazilians call them jacarés
(Zhock-ah-rays).
Our campsites were invariably on riverbanks so as to be near our boat,
and since we were told the upper Purús and its tributaries might occasionally
rise four or five-feet overnight as the result of flash floods upstream, we
thought it desirable to have one of us sleep in the boat, in case a sudden
surge in river level might break the boat's moorings. Another reason was to
guard against the (probably remote) chance that Indians might try to steal
the boat. Had we lost our boat in those jungle wilds, of course, we would
have been definitely left “high” but not “dry,” and literally “up the creek
without a paddle”! It was decided that I, being considerably the lightest in
weight of our threesome, should permanently occupy the boat at night, being
the one least likely to collapse the rather shaky sunshade roof supports to
which the hammock was slung.
A somewhat typical travel day and night is narrated in this summarized
excerpt from my “official business” diary:
“ Dec. 17th: On Rio Purus Rain finally routed us out about 7 a.m. and continued all morning as we broke camp and continued our journey upstream.
We managed to cover most of equipment and supplies with our raincoats
and one small oilcloth tarp (we have abandoned the large, useless canvas
tarp we got in B.A.), but at the expense of soaking ourselves in the morninglong pelting rain.
Made camp about 3:45 p.m., got dried out, ate, and hit the sack at
nightfall, about 7 p.m. No rain during night, but was again considerably
disturbed by jacarés, which chose our campsite as a playground, and indulged in considerable splashing, snorting, porpoise-chasing, and general
Page 114
hell raising, until I became sufficiently annoyed to get up, don a pair of
boots, and go jacare hunting with a .45 pistol on the riverbank adjacent to
the boat. After shooting a couple, the activity quieted down sufficiently to
permit a sound sleep the rest of the night, although Loden & João, who had
their hammocks on the ground, for lack of trees in the adjacent swamp,
spent a restless night.”
I should explain that reference to porpoises. The waters of the Amazon basin are full of fresh-water porpoises. Like their dolphin cousins on
display in the numerous Seaworlds in the U.S. the Amazonian porpoises
seem quite intelligent and playful. During our river travels, the Oopah was
frequently escorted by porpoises swimming alongside, who were probably
curious as to what category of fish or whale the Oopah might be. They often
congregated in the water near our campsites, probably still motivated by curiosity, and during the quiet of the night could be heard as they periodically
surfaced to exhale and inhale before again submerging. The jacarés, when
also present, often made ineffectual attempts, thrashing and gnashing in the
process, to seize them when they approached too closely. But the porpoises
were much too fast and adroit in the water, and I doubt that any ever got
caught. In fact, I suspect that the porpoises may have actually had fun teasing the 'gators.
We had many interesting and exciting encounters with the jacarés.
One occasion was narrated in one of my letters to Carol (and illustrated by
the cartoon below.)
“Speaking of 'gators, we had an experience yesterday which is one of
those incidents no one whom you tell about it ever believes. We had hit a
submerged log and broke the propeller shear pin, so we paddled ashore and
started to fix it. We were ashore by a flat mud bank covered almost to the
water's edge by a heavy growth of some sort of cane-like reeds, which didn't permit tying up the boat, so João was standing on the bank holding the
rope. Suddenly he let out a yell and practically dove headfirst into the boat,
subsequently explaining that he had seen a jacare tail lying about a yard
from his feet, with the rest of the critter concealed in the brush. So, very
quietly, Loden and I sneaked up on it, me with a .45 army automatic and
Loden with the shotgun. He stood by the boat while I eased through the
reeds to near the 'gator’s head.
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“He was asleep in the sun, and how it was that the yell João let out
didn't awaken him, I can't imagine. Anyway, I held the gun about two feet
from the head and pulled the trigger, expecting he’d do no more than kick
once or twice. But after a split second in which he didn't move, that tough
son-of-a-dinosaur reared up, thrashed toward the water, and went squarely between Loden’s legs. The whole thing happened in about two seconds,
and Loden only had time to do an Apache war dance, waving the shotgun
in one hand, as the jacare went under him, before the animal disappeared
in the river. It was funny as hell, and after the shock passed, we sat down
and laughed till we cried. But if that ‘gator had been able to see where he
was going, held no doubt taken Loden's leg with him. You've no doubt read,
of course, that a wounded or cornered alligator will not hesitate to attack a
man, and that a 6 or 8-foot one can easily break a man's leg with a slap of
its tail.”
I don't want to be a bore with stories about jacarés, but they occupy a
rather prominent place in my memory since they were such a prominent feature of our environment. And our frequently close association with them as
unwilling neighbors was bound to result in our getting in each other's way
now and then. Herewith, then, is one more (and last! ) account of one of our
territorial disputes, extracted from another of my numerous letters to Carol.
(Readers who have heard enough about alligators have my permission to
skip ahead)!
“Night before last I got a scare that was probably the worst I've had
since I was a kid. In preface, I might remark that the practice of hunting
jacarés at night by flashlight gets my vote as being one of the most thrilling
sports going. Lion hunting has its thrills too, I suppose, but at least one
generally hunts those in the daytime and can see what one is doing.
Anyway, I was sleeping in a hammock in the boat as usual. I was just
dropping off to sleep when the ‘gators began their customary snorting and
flopping about, and frequently bumping or scraping against the boat. So,
as usual, I got up, donned a pair of boots (and nothing else, since what I
had in mind would require only a few minutes, and at this point a few dozen mosquito bites more or less on my carcass wouldn't make much difference.) I got a flashlight and the shotgun loaded with buckshot, and crawled
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to the rear of the boat to shine the light up and down the bank. A 'gator’s
eyes are like cats', only more so, and when you catch them just right they
glisten like fiery red diamonds – fairly sparkle and red as hell. My idea
was to plaster one or two with buckshot and scare them off - not that buckshot would hurt them, it bounces off their hides like peas, but the noise generally runs them off.
“Well, the first thing I saw was a helluva big red spotlight, that looked
as big as the end of my flashlight, glaring back at me. And, as I kept the
light focussed on him, he swung around and slowly headed toward the light
(and me!). Then I could see both eyes, and man alive, they looked to be
more than a foot apart – which makes for a good sized ‘gator, the head being normally rather long and narrow. So I waited till he was about 10 feet
from the boat, laying the flashlight down so that the eyes stayed in the light
beam, and let go with the buckshot. Immediately the red lights blinked out
and there was a tremendous thrashing and splashing, and I could hear him
flounder back along the bank, finally stopping in a little backwater area,
surrounded by brush, about 25 yards from the boat.
“It occurred to me that I might be able to bag him, so I grabbed my
.45, tumbled out of the boat (still nude, except for boots), and started down
along the bank through the brush. (Might explain here that Loden and João, camped ashore 50 yards away, never paid much attention to my shooting at night, since it got to be such a frequent occurrence.) When I reached
the bank by the backwater, there was the biggest damned 'gator I'd ever
seen - 15 feet if an inch. And a black cayman, which are always meaner
than the common garden variety of green-gray ‘gator.
“I could see all of him now because the water was only 4 or 5 inches
deep where he was lying. I'd been wanting a big 'gator skin as a trophy,
and when I saw him I thought “Hot Dog, I've got me a winner!” So to make
sure I fired from a few yards away, hitting him just back of the eyes. Nothing much happened, he just jerked his head once or twice. So I advanced
closer and to make sure he wasn't just playing possum I plugged him in the
head again, expecting the same result as before. Instead, to my horror, he
went into violent convulsions, lurched around facing my flashlight, opened
his mouth so wide I swear I could see his kidneys – and what a mouth,
gad!– and headed up the bank straight for me! And those babies can really
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move, too. I subconsciously recalled in a flash all I'd heard about the ferocity of wounded ‘gators, and their speed, and I'll swear that in the split seconds that followed my hair stood on end.
“I fired one shot down his gullet as he came out of the water, pulled the
trigger again and nothing happened. I hadn't reloaded that afternoon after
some target practice, and there had been only three shells in it. (This
sounds like something out of a pulp thriller, but heaven help me, it's true!)
Well, I was ready to leave by then anyway, and I didn't waste any time doing so. I blasted a path through that shoulder-high brush like one of those
cartoon characters in movie shorts do when they run through a wall or
closed door – you know, leaving a hole which is a perfect silhouette! I made
the 25 yards to the boat in nothing flat, and dove atop the sunshade roof –
the gunwale of the boat is only about a foot above water, and I figured this
character could probably simply step into the boat with the proper incentive, which he certainly had. But he didn't follow me, and after I got over
the shakes I climbed down, reloaded the pistol, and started back. I was
scared silly, but the prospect of bagging a monster like that was more than
my common sense could withstand.
“When I finally made it back to the backwater (after some difficulty
with my feet, which didn't want to go in that direction) I could see where
he’d climbed up to where I'd been standing, then shoved back into the water. And he was still there, but what a mess! The backwater looked like a
slaughterhouse.. I climbed an overhanging stump a few yards back from
the water's edge where I figured he couldn't get at me, and watched him for
awhile, waiting for him to die. But he didn't seem to be doing it quickly
enough, and the mosquitoes were rapidly depleting my blood supply, so I
shot him again. That was a mistake. I apparently hit some reflex nerve
and he gave one final lurch which sent him feebly paddling out into the
main current. Then, attracted by the blood in the water, a horde of piranhas suddenly appeared and began attacking the wounded 'gator! They
really churned the water into a bloody froth, ripping away at his softer belly section, and he and they finally drifted downstream out of flashlight
range. My intended trophy was gone! When I got back to the boat finally, I
was well perforated by mosquito bites. The rest of the night was comparatively peaceful, but it did take me awhile to get to sleep!”
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****
Speaking of sleep, I never did get thoroughly acclimated to hammocksleeping. One of my letters to Carol, obviously written after several days of
less-than-ideal living and sleeping conditions on the river , contained some
philosophical musings on the subject of beds vs. hammocks!
“This seems like a good time to vent a long standing gripe about
hammocks. Hammocks: one of the principal reasons I didn't join the navy
was because I never could sleep in hammocks. Now, through force of necessity, I'm doing it anyway. Theoretically at least. Every night in the boat
I park my carcass in one for 8 hours or so, but the inference that I sleep in
one is not necessarily true. The proper way to do it, as near as I can translate from the Portuguese, is to lay crosswise (or “slaunchwise” as we'd say
in Oklahoma), not parallel with the hammock axis. Thus you do not bow in
the middle, but are enabled to maintain a more or less horizontal position.
(Of course, no consideration is thereby given to the fact that this position
leaves head and feet protruding on opposite sides, which quickly becomes
tiresome. Moreover, the damn thing envelops one side like a shroud, and if
you're in the habit of breathing while you sleep, it's just too bad.
“But, in the jungle you have your choice of slinging a hammock in the
boat or in the trees and suffering accordingly, or bunking on the ground
and exposing your carcass to the tender mercies of ants, sand fleas, ticks,
and jacarés, all of whom are reputedly especially fond of white meat.
“However, in spite of the intricacies of hammocking, even the local
inhabitants who live in houses are prone to use them instead of sleeping
(prone) on the floor, like sensible people. This fact raises in the mind of a
person like myself, to whom the mere process of sleeping in a hammock is a
problem in higher acrobatics, certain speculations regarding the prolific
number of offspring in evidence everywhere. I'm told there are “double
hammocks,” but even so – well, I suppose it's all in knowing how.
“And, in the process of wishful thinking as regards hammocks vs.
beds, have you ever considered what an achievement, what a contribution
to civilization, is a bed?! Perhaps no other single device or contraption
plays such an important part in the life of the average individual as a bed.
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Consider: the average person is created in bed; in a majority of cases is
born in a bed; during babyhood practically lives there; and until death averages in the neighborhood of 8 hours a day in it, or one-third of his adolescent and adult life. He experiences during his life his greatest pleasures and
pains in bed, and will probably die there. (Some day I'm gonna write an
essay on beds.)
“ All this talk of beds has made me a bit sleepy, and reminds me that
it's about sack time. Jeeves, prepare my couch, the one with the Beautyrest
mattress that George Washington slept on. Plenty of soft quilts. Open wide
the windows. Ah! What nice cold, refreshing air, with crisp snow flakes
fluttering on the sill. (Golly, I gotta quit smokin' that stuff!)”
****
A few days after the preceding diatribe about hammocks, one of my letters to Carol included the following bit of whimsy:
“Recipe for One Case of Extreme Discomfort.”
*
Take one lieutenant, preferably young and soft-skinned
*
Soak and chill thoroughly in rain for 3 days
*
Raise temperature to 100 degrees F. with sufficiently high humidity
to, prevent evaporation of perspiration; thus, the piece de resistance
will baste itself
Expose to intense sunlight for several hours, thus searing the “roast”
to a delightful cherry red, and preventing the juice from escaping
*
*
Season well with a liberal quantity of mosquitoes, flies, and bloodsucking gnats, with a dash of sand fleas, chiggers, ticks and
leeches. This will serve the dual purpose of shredding the nerves
and tenderizing the meat.
*
Simmer for several days under these conditions, then slice with a
machete and serve. He won't even wiggle.”
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****
Our contacts with the jungle-dwelling Indian tribes were quite infrequent. In the Oopah we occasionally would pass clearings on the riverbanks
where we could see small clusters of shacks constructed of mud-plastered
walls of bamboo or sapling poles with roofs of palm fronds, which were obviously Indian villages. But we seldom saw any inhabitants except occasionally
a few naked urchins. Joe told us the Indians generally tried to avoid being
seen by outsiders, and that the adults probably retreated into the jungle
when they heard our motorized boat approaching.
Two experiences with Indians are worth mentioning. In one instance
Joe and I were one day chugging up a remote tributary of the upper Purús on
a reconnaissance trip above Sena Madureira (where we had left Loden to do
some computation work and send some data records to Manaus). At a narrow stretch of river, where the increased current slowed our up-river progress, we were suddenly the target of a hail of long arrows issuing from the
densely forested riverbank. None quite reached the boat as we abruptly
swerved out of range, and after we shot a few times at random into the brush
with our .45 pistols (we never did see any Indians) the barrage abruptly
ceased.
Nevertheless, it was a stimulating experience, particularly since we had
recently had news of another of our geodetic parties being wiped out by a
band of raiding Indians on the upper Rio Negro. Someone told us later that
our attackers were probably the Jivaro headhunters, although the Purús was
a bit south of their usual territory. Incidentally, I later obtained some similar
arrows from a friendlier tribe, which I have mounted in my cabin wall in Colorado. They are about four feet long, stone-tipped.
Our next encounter with Indians involved a more direct contact. Loden, Joe, and I were camped on an upper Purús tributary and sacked out after a long night's star work. All three of us were in hammocks onshore on
that one occasion, since we had pulled the Oopah into a backwater where it
could not be seen from the main river, (we thought), and where we felt it
would be safe from any possible sudden surges of river level.
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It must have been about 6:30 or 7 a.m. when something suddenly
awakened me, although I was conscious of no unusual noise. Our jungle
hammocks, incidentally, completely enclosed us with heavy mosquito netting
on the sides and a rubberized canvas tarp on top for rain proofing, so that
visibility from inside was rather limited. I cautiously unzipped one side of
the netting, and was stunned to observe that our camp was surrounded by
about 15 or 20 Indians, all quietly squatting on their haunches and apparently waiting for some sign of life in the hammocks.
Joe's hammock was closest to mine and I nervously croaked, “Joe,
wake up -we've got company!”
After some yawns and grunts from his hammock I heard his netting
zipper open, followed by a gasp and a phrase or two of Portuguese which
sounded suspiciously like profanity. “Joe, get out and talk to them,” I said.
“Uh-uh.” was the muffled reply as he retreated into his bed.
“Dammit, Joe, you're our interpreter. Get out of that sack and interpret!”
“Tenente,” he responded rather plaintively, “Ees no use, I don' theenk
these fallows speak Portuguese, and I dom sure don' speak Indian.”
Some action on our part was certainly required at this point, since the
Indians now knew we were awake. We usually slept nude because of the
heat, and I was a bit reluctant to get out and dress in front of an audience.
But I had no choice, and anyway the Indians themselves were nearly naked
except for loincloths. As I emerged from the hammock and retrieved and
donned my clothes from a tree branch, I tried a long shot gamble that maybe
someone of them just might know a little Portuguese.
“Bom dia, amigos!” No reaction from our guests.
“Somos soldados americanos.” Deadpan expressions greeted this piece
of information. I couldn't tell which was their head honcho, but it occurred
to me that it would be handy to know that, as a matter of protocol, so I gave
my Portuguese one more try: “Onde está o seu chefe?” No results.
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At this point I had my shirt and pants on, then pulled on my boots, and
very cautiously and with as friendly an expression as I could muster, took
down my gun belt with the .45 pistol in its holster and slowly buckled it on. I
gave Joe's hammock a shove and told him to get up, and walked over to Loden's hammock (he was still asleep) and did the same.
While Joe and Loden dressed I started a campfire and had opportunity
to unobtrusively observe our visitors. They were mostly males with two or
three women, all quite dark-skinned with no evidence of recent baths. The
men all had machetes and/or long knives in crude belts or sashes, and a few
carried bows and arrows. The presence of the women, and the lack of any facial or body paint on the men suggested that they were not a war party out
headhunting, which was somewhat reassuring.
As soon as my compadres finished dressing, the Indians decided we
were ready to receive guests. They all rose and began swarming through our
camp, inspecting our hammocks, grub boxes, cooking utensils, etc. – all the
while chattering and laughing among themselves. One, who I finally deduced was the chief, came to me, smiled, extended his arm and placed his
hand on my shoulder. He made some comment in Indianese which I took to
be an expression of welcome and friendship. I guessed that a similar reciprocal gesture might be in order, and put my hand on his shoulder, mumbling
something or other, like “Glad to be here; nice place you have.” I apparently
guessed correctly, from the way his smile broadened. He then approached
Loden and Joe, and he and they performed the same ceremony.
Our nervousness and unease quickly disappeared, as we realized the
Indians were just making a social call, and from then on it was a fun day. We
skipped breakfast due to the exigency of entertaining our guests, but we did
brew up some coffee which some Indians sampled and didn't like. I suppose
the Indians, like many Brazilians and other South Americans, preferred yerba maté, a tea made from the dried leaves and shoots of a type of holly tree
which is grown commercially in Brazil, Paraguay and Argentina. (I sampled
it once in Manaus; I thought it had a vile taste as though it might have been
brewed from old shoe soles.)
Later in the morning we served up some of our grocery hoard – mostly
precious canned goods and not-so-precious army rations. Not surprisingly,
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the Indians, like the Americans, much preferred the former to the latter! The
Indians were nevertheless polite enough to eat sparingly, seemingly recognizing that the midmorning lunch was more ceremonial than nutritional.
We of course couldn't communicate verbally, but were able to do so after a
fashion with much arm-waving, gesturing, and pointing. We deduced that
they had been alerted to our presence the previous night by our noisy boat
motor,
Following our lunch, the chief called and beckoned to a couple of the
women who were carrying sacks, from which they proceeded to present gifts
to us. One sack contained three small melons of some kind and a dozen or so
green bananas (the cooking variety, called plantains, which are a staple food
item in the tropics). The contents of the second sack were a large fish, scaled
and cleaned. We of course indicated our considerable appreciation of this
hospitable gesture, and began discussing among ourselves the matter of
some reciprocal presentation. Some of our tools – axe, shovel, or whatever,
would doubtless have been welcomed, but we really had no spare hardware
we could part with. As we debated the problem the chief, obviously sensing
the subject of our conversation, approached and smilingly pointed to some
cooking pots and a couple of empty 5-gallon gasoline tins we had emptied
the night before. Metal containers of any kind were apparently in short supply in that neck of the woods, and the Indians were overjoyed to get the gasoline tins and a couple of aluminum camp kettles we figured we could do
without.
I was mildly disappointed that none of our guests were carrying blowguns, since I had always wanted to see one used by an expert. But those carrying bows and arrows were anxious to demonstrate their prowess, and did
so when we indicated interest in them – in fact, I was quite sure they had
brought them to the party strictly to show off. At the conclusion of the archery demonstration one friendly fellow presented me with a couple arrows
as souvenirs. (These are like the ones referred to earlier.)
Later our visitors indicated a great interest in our boat. I am sure they
had heard and seen motorized boats pass by occasionally, but had probably
never had the opportunity to inspect one. This gave rise to my best idea of
the day. I fished out a long rope, got them to tie two of their canoes in tandem to the back of the Oopah, and then gave them a tow up and down the
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river as fast as the Oopah could go. No ride at Disney World ever created
more hilarity and exuberance among its riders, the Indians whooped, hollered, and waved at those on the bank as we sped by. Needless to say, we
spent most of the rest of the day in this fashion, until all the males, and finally even the women, had had rides.
When the tribe finally departed in mid afternoon, after much camaraderie and back-slapping, we opened a bottle of cachaça and toasted each other's good fortune in having lucked into an adventure that few people have
been privileged to experience.
We arrived back In Bôca do Acre about 4 p.m. on Dec. 24th, having
completed our work on the Purús. We planned to do a repeat observation
the next night on a station near Bôca where we had discovered some errors
in our previous work, and accordingly decided to leave our equipment in the
boat. But since a heavy storm was threatening I spent Christmas Eve night
in the boat to protect against a storm or pilferage, while Loden and Joe reoccupied their quarters in Sr. Alvez' house.
However, we discovered on Christmas Day that our radio had decided
to call it quits, and we were unable to find the problem in spite of considerable effort – replacement of tubes and batteries, some rewiring, and much
threatening and swearing at it in two languages. We interrupted our labor
for a couple hours at noon to accept the RDC agent's invitation to Christmas
dinner at his boarding house. The main dish was river turtle, served in 6 or 8
different courses in as many styles of cooking. Not too bad … the roast flippers were best, as I remember.
My only other Christmas “celebration” was opening Carol’s gift package
(much appreciated pictures and a diary book) and her letters which had arrived at Bôca during our absence upriver.
We ultimately had to give up on the radio. I sent a message to Manaus
headquarters, via RDC radio telling them to ship a new radio to Bôca along
with a new man for my replacement, since it appeared unlikely that enough
time remained before my scheduled departure to the U.S. to await receipt of
the radio and still complete another expedition to do some additional
planned work on the Acre.
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However, the weather had turned foul with almost constant overcast
and rain, and no plane could arrive for days. In the meantime, even if we'd
had a working radio for surveys, the weather would have precluded star observations, so our consciences didn't hurt too badly. I signed over the party
equipment to Loden who would replace me as the future party chief, and we
spent the time completing our computational work, drafting reports and
maps, and watching the increasing volume of logs and debris go by on the
rapidly rising river.
By December 31 the weather was still socked in, and there had been no
planes from Manaus. We received occasional communiqués on the RDC radio telling us a plane would be due as soon as the weather lifted, but it didn't.
This of course meant no mail, either incoming or outgoing, which made me
rather fretful; Carol would wonder why I'd quit writing, and I was wondering
who'd be entertaining her over the holidays.
My mood wasn't improved much on New Year's Eve by attendance at a
“festa”, (Portuguese for “big blowout”), at a Bôca official’s house, although
the invitation was certainly appreciated. But it was a rather uninspiring affair, especially for Americanos who didn't speak much Portuguese, and I left
early. I saluted the advent of 1944 in my room writing Carol and included
the following description of the party. (In fairness to the party's goodhearted host, I should confess that part II, “As It Really Was”, was a bit exaggerated, but not too much!)
I.
(As a fiction writer would picture it:)
“A full moon shone from a starlit sky, silverplating the black jungle river as it silently slid by on its way to the sea. On the bank, a soft glow of lights
shone from the windows of the wealthy seringalista’s palatial hacienda,
wherein Don Ricardo Lopez de Gomez was deigning to honor the visiting
American officers with a Grande festa, to which all the countryside was invited.
“Inside the dancers swayed in the throbbing rhythm of the samba, as
the musicians, their handsome, aquiline features beaded with perspiration,
poured heart and soul into the pulse-quickening tempo. In one corner the
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lovely señorita Margarita, only daughter of the Don floated effortlessly in the
arms of the young lieutenant, immaculate in his crisp white uniform, her
head resting lightly on his shoulder and her lithesome body pressed close to
his. The exotic odor of tropical flowers, wafting through the windows from
the nearby jungle, mingled in the lieutenant's nostrils with the dizzying fragrance of her lustrous raven-like hair, and his blood surged passionately,
pounding in his temples. Cheek brushed cheek as he bent his head and
whispered tenderly in her ear. Her even white teeth flashed between full red
lips as she raised her head and coyly smiled a reply, and arm-in-arm they
slipped quietly out on the patio, where they stood silently in the shadows,
watching the moon flit through the palms.”
II. (As it really was:)
“An anemic moon strove valiantly to penetrate the hovering rain
clouds, occasionally illuminating the muddy jungle river as it protestingly
gurgled its way across the mud flats. On the bank, a glow of lights from a
dirty thatched roof shack was almost obscured by the clouds of mosquitoes
and assorted insects which surrounded the place, in which old Sr. Lopez was
throwing a party for the local cabocos in honor of the visiting Americans to
whom he fervently desired to marry off one of his daughters with the ultimate hope of thus paying off all his mortgages.
“Inside, in the hot, sticky stench of b.o. and cheap perfume, the dancers struggled and shuffled in a vain attempt to keep up with the vibrations of
a fat, baldheaded accordion player and a black drummer who howled a primitive chant while accompanying himself on a trap drum arrangement of tin
cans and pot covers. In one corner, glaringly illuminated by a blazing gas
lantern, the senhorita Margarita stumbled about under the feet of the young
lieutenant, sloppily clad in dirty khaki shirt, pants, and boots. Her young
body – with contours resembling those of a sack of potatoes, stayed the prescribed six inches away from that of her partner, while her seven sisters
stood nearby, waiting impatiently for their turn to dance.
“The odor of rotting garbage and animal excrement, wafting through
the windows, mingled in the lieutenant’s nostrils with the dizzying rancid
scent of her stringy hair, and his stomach surged convulsively, making him
wonder whether it was the effects of the rot-gut cachaça which had been
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served, or whether he was due for another round of dysentery. Bracing himself, he said, in a ghastly attempt at polite social conversation, ‘Faze tempo
muito bom, eh?’ (Nice weather, eh?) Her full red lips parted, revealing three
missing front teeth, as she raised her head and laughed shrilly, replying, ‘0
senhor fala Portugues muito mal.’ (The gentleman speaks lousy Portuguese.), concluding her remark with a giggling hiccup. At the conclusion of
the dance, his soul shriveling at the thought of 4 or 5 more hours of this stuff,
the young tenente unobtrusively slipped out the side door into the darkness,
tripped into a mud puddle, and made his way into the brush where he stood
silently in the shadows, hoping they wouldn't find him, and watched the rain
clouds gather.”
****
The RDC and AAF planes were of course equipped for instrument flying in bad weather, although the instrument technology was somewhat more
primitive then than now. But Bôca provided no landing facilities (only the
river), and there were no networks of directional radio beacons and navigational aids in that part of Brazil, such as blanket most civilized countries today. So a plane embarking from Manaus for Bôca had to be assured by radio
of clear weather at its destination before undertaking the 650-mile trip
across uncharted jungle.
The first week in January, 1944, was no better weather wise than the
last week of December 1943. When we'd ask the locals when they thought
the skies would clear, we always got the same answer we got when we asked
any Brazilian when a promised job would be finished or a delivery made:
“Amanhã, seguro!” (Tomorrow, for sure!) I began getting a bit nervous,
since I was scheduled to depart Brazil for the U.S. the end of January, for a
furlough and flight training.
Finally, at noon on January 11, an RDC PBY arrived from Manaus
with my replacement, a new radio and other supplies, and I happily boarded
it for the return flight to Manaus. The plane left about l:3O p.m. with plans
to make a refueling stop at Pôrto Velho, on the Rio Madeira. However,
stormy weather was still prevalent, and we were forced to land in the river
about 10 minutes before reaching P.V. The rain and zero ceiling conditions
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continued until it was too late to make P.V. before dark, so we had to spend
an uncomfortable night in the PBY.
Ground fog was a problem next morning until about 9 a.m., at. which
time, after some difficulty in getting the PBY off a mud bank and in a position to take off, we finally made it to P.V. and eventually to Manaus.
I remained in Manaus nearly two weeks, mostly working on reports
and trying to obtain commercial airline reservations to the States (which
were hard to come by in war time). I finally secured a booking on Panair for
January 25th which was a considerable relief.
One diversion during that period was to join a search party in a
Grumman amphibian looking for a geodetic party that hadn't been heard
from for over a month. We found them, isolated on some God-forsaken tributary of the Rio Madeira. They were O.K.; rather moldy, but doggedly hanging on at their prescribed ground control station waiting for the weather to
lift and permit them to complete their astronomic work. We made arrangements to re-supply them by plane with food and gasoline, wished them well,
and returned to Manaus.
On January 25 I finally left Manaus for the last time, aboard Panair
which arrived in Belem at 2:30 p.m. My continuing reservation to the States
was not until January 30, so I proceeded to Val de Cães Field and obtained a
bunk at the transient Officers' Quarters. I had to cool my heels in Belem for
four days, touring the town to kill time, and meeting and socializing with
other geodetic party personnel who were inward bound from the U.S.. (Included in these, incidentally was a Lt. Con Lundgren, a Montanan with
whom Carol later became a partner in an oil production venture in his home
state. But that's another story.)
On January 29 I gambled by canceling my Panair reservation to the
U.S. in hopes of getting a free ride the next day in an AAF PBY bound for Miami. My luck held, and on January 30 I had my last view of Belem at 6:15
a.m. as the PBY and I took off and headed north. However, I had not anticipated such a leisurely, time-consuming trip. The plane made a gas stop
about 2 p.m. at Waller Field, Trinidad, then for reasons not clear to us lowly
passengers, the pilot elected to remain there overnight. (I think he probably
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had booked a social engagement there, since he didn't appear again after
checking in at Officers' Quarters until he fired up the plane again at 6 a.m.
the next morning.) That day we flew only till noon, arriving at Haiti where we
again stayed overnight. But that stop was more interesting than Trinidad,
since we all visited a sugar cane plantation and rum distillery owned by a
personable white-mustachioed old Frenchman whom our pilot knew. We
sampled quite a bit of his better vintages and his excellent hospitality, and all
of us bought several wicker encased jugs of his best product to add to our
South American loot.
The following day, February 1, we made it to Miami, debarking at the
commercial airport, where our knowledgeable pilot (who had obviously
made that trip a number of times) pulled some “military exemption” shenanigans to permit the crew and us to bypass the customs office with our substantial load of Haitian rum. A day or two later I thumbed another ride on a
military transport plane to Washington, D.C., where I was required to check
in at Bolling Field and spend a week or so being debriefed” and declassified
as a Geodetic Officer in preparation for my transfer into … FLIGHT
TRAINING! The Great Brazilian Adventure was finally over.
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Chapter VIII
THE WAR YEARS: Part 2 - Into The Wild Blue
In February, 1944, Carol Snell was halfway through her first year of
teaching Home Economics at a high school in Muskegon, Michigan, following previous similar positions in Juneau and Wausau, Wisconsin. I was of
course desperately anxious to see her again, and find out whether she really
meant all those nice things she'd said in her letters to me in Brazil. I was
gratified that she seemed very receptive to the proposed visit I discussed with
her by phone.
But I had to fret and stew for about 10 days at Bolling Field, waiting for
my furlough to be approved. I was assigned to writing reports analyzing the
progress of work in Brazil and visiting the map-makers for technical consultations, while the endless paper work required of me and for me to check out
of the First Mapping Group proceeded at a glacial pace. Finally a two-week
furlough was authorized; I wired Carol to expect me by train arriving sometime on February 14, and to reserve me a hotel room.
Our reunion was, to put it mildly, a joyous one. Carol explained that
the nearest hotel to her apartment was a considerable distance away, which
would be highly inconvenient since neither of us had cars. (Car rental agencies were in short supply then, and in any event my cash was also in too short
a supply to even think of such an extravagance!) So she modestly suggested
that, since her roommate, a very thoughtful and understanding girl named
Margie Walters, just happened to be “visiting friends” for a week, I might
consider staying at her apartment and sleeping on the sofa so we could spend
more time together. To me the key word, of course, was “together”, and I
was confident I could eventually convince her that I wouldn't fit on the sofa,
so I naturally enthusiastically agreed.
Carol's dinner that night was both a romantic and gustatory delight –
candle light and wine with a beef roast that must have cost her a month's
supply of meat ration stamps. And it was prepared and served by the lovely
girl of my dreams with whom I was thoroughly and irrevocably in love.
So then, on Valentine's Day, I asked her to marry me.
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“When, dear?”, she said.
“Now, sweetie!”, I replied.
Carol, apparently then being addicted to impulsive and risky adventures, happily accepted.
In those days of WWII, when so many people were directly or indirectly involved in the war effort and Life Expectancy Statistics for those in military service were not looked on favorably by insurance companies, life proceeded at a much faster pace than normal, and quick marriages by
servicemen were not too unusual. So we had no particular qualms about getting married and informing our parents and friends later of the “fait accompli”. A minor inconvenience to our plans, we discovered when we applied for
a marriage license, was that Michigan required blood tests and a three-day
waiting period. So, being completely optimistic that our tests would reveal
no venereal diseases, we scheduled the ceremony for Thursday afternoon,
February 17, in a Congregational church, and asked Margie Walters and another acquaintance, one Catherine (“Erfie”) Erffmeyer, to participate as witnesses. (To use a Wisconsin idiom which I have never heard used elsewhere,
they “stood up for us”. Makes it sound like they were defending us against
possible critics!)
The wedding ceremony was well done, solemnized before a candle-lit
altar. Other than our two witnesses, there were only two other girlfriends of
Carol in the audience, one of whom had a car and provided transportation
for the wedding party. The only glitch in the hitch was that I, being in that
mentally numbed state many grooms experience in anticipation of the matrimonial yoking, forgot the marriage license on my first trip to the church
and had to return to the apartment for it, to assure the minister of the legality of our wedding vows.
I don't recall much about our modest wedding party dinner at a restaurant that evening, except that it was delightful. Later that night in the
apartment, as we prepared to retire, Carol asked, “Would you like to see the
nightie I bought for our wedding night?” My reply was, “Yes, but show it to
me in the morning”. (I think it was pink.)
Carol finished her week's teaching the next day, and was amused by her
pupils' exuberant use of her new title, “Mrs. Kyle”. Her superintendent Mr.
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Booker, bless his heart, congratulated her and graciously agreed to her taking a week off for the “honeymoon trip”. Meanwhile I was negotiating ferry
and train reservations to Wisconsin where we would stay at our parents'
homes. Airline reservations were almost impossible to secure during the
war, unless the traveler was on government or military business, and in any
event we couldn't afford that mode of transportation.
So our trip home was a long and tedious one. That Friday night we left
Muskegon about 9 or 10 p.m. on the ferry across Lake Michigan, arrived in
Milwaukee about 3 or 4 a.m., then waited several hours for a train which got
us into St. Paul in the afternoon. We adjourned to the Commodore Hotel
where that evening Carol's parents, uncle, aunt, sisters, brother-in-law, and
my folks met us for a celebratory champagne dinner, at the conclusion of
which we drove with Carol's parents the 65 or so miles to their home in
Elmwood. By the time we finally collapsed in bed about 11 p.m. we had been
about 40 hours without sleep. No sleeping pills needed that night!
I especially remember that ferry crossing. That part of the country in
February is seldom balmy, and the night of February 18/19 was the antithesis
of that category of weather. Unfortunately I was poorly acclimated to winter
weather, being relatively fresh from the tropics. And on my return to Bolling, I had discovered that much of my woolen winter uniform supply that I
had stored in a trunk – except my heavy coat, thank heaven – was moth eaten! So I was “making do” with a combination of summer weight and winter
weight clothes, which didn't insulate me as well as I needed. The problem
became more acute when Carol persisted in dragging me protestingly out on
deck to watch the icy waves crash over the bow in the moonlight. She could
not understand why that experience didn't inspire in me the same romantic
thrill that she felt, and wondered whether my shivering and teeth chattering
might indicate a latent case of malaria picked up in the tropics. We had a
lovely week in Wisconsin, dividing our time between Elmwood and
Downsville, and happy as cockroaches in a sugar barrel. We designed and
had wedding announcements prepared, visited friends and relatives who dutifully listened to my Brazilian experiences while admiring my beautiful
bride, and made love as though there'd be no tomorrow. Which, as time
wore on, there wasn't. The day finally came when Carol tearfully departed
for Muskegon, and I left for San Antonio to start my new military career as a
fly boy.
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I reported February 28 to begin what was to be a grueling six weeks of
tests and training. The first two were the toughest and most crucial hurdle;
they would determine whether we'd get to have a chance at becoming airmen, or wash out then and there. We were subjected to an exhausting
schedule of examinations: an all-day, every-day series of physical, mental,
and psychological tests. One group, referred to as “psychomotor” tests, I described this way in a letter to my wife. “They test your reflexes, physical coordination, muscle control, etc., by means of an elaborate assortment of dials, colored lights, buttons, levers, etc., which you have to manipulate
properly in response to signals. An hour and a half workout on these is guaranteed to give the recipient a case of the screaming meemies!”
Because of the large number of flight training applicants they were sectioned into groups, and it was necessary to give portions of the tests to various groups at different times. In my group the physical exam was not scheduled until several days after other tests, so I spent much time worrying about
whether I'd pass the eye exam portion. And it turned out that I didn't get my
eyes tested until late one afternoon, after a tiring day of other tests, so I was
quite discouraged that night as to how I did, since I was not advised of the
results. In fact, as we progressed through the gamut of tests we were not informed as to how we were doing in any thing, which of course kept us all on
edge.
However, one test I knew I had scored high on was the map reading
and aerial photo interpretation (mostly simple recognition of terrain features
- a “piece of cake”.) This would rate me well on the “navigator eligibility” portion. Another event I was sure I scored well in was a night vision test. We all
sat in a theatre-like room and recorded messages flashed on a screen in everdecreasing light, until a point of near-blackness was reached. I could still
read “no. 10”, which we were told was the last message.
One of the more interesting experiences was the “altitude tolerance”
test. We were put in an air-sealed chamber (“iron lung”) is and the pressure
gradually reduced, simulating high altitude flight. I described this in a letter
to Carol:
“They stuck 20 of us in one “lung”, with a couple attendants to take
care of casualties, and “flew” us up to 18,000 feet (by reducing pressure
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and oxygen) where we “leveled off” for 6 minutes, without oxygen, till our
lips began getting blue and we couldn't count our fingers anymore. Then,
after the attendants dragged out (through a “ lock”) a guy on my left who
suddenly became pop-eyed and began jerking as though he had an epileptic
fit (symptoms commonly preceding a blackout from lack of oxygen), we put
on oxygen masks and went on up to “28,000 feet”.
“Funny feeling under decreased pressure like that – as if one's innards
were distended like balloons. Left us there for half an hour to see if anyone
got the “bends” (i.e. - pains in joints and muscles from expanding nitrogen
bubbles in the blood). One volunteer took off his oxygen mask to give us a
demonstration of what happens from oxygen starvation. It's like a man becoming drunk. He gradually gets woozier and woozier, and loses physical
control and muscular coordination, although – and this is what makes high
flying dangerous – the guy doesn't realize it himself. It's like being intoxicated; one thinks he can do anything perfectly, that he is in complete control of his facilities and is mentally “on top of the world” – when quite the
opposite is true. Finally, when the guy became quite blue – like a drowned
corpse – and began the jerks, the attendants replaced his mask just before
he passed out.
“Very interesting, in a morbid sort of way. Tomorrow the rest of us,
minus those eliminated today on the basis of the “bends”, ear trouble, or
other physical difficulties, do another run, this time up to 18,000 feet. They
say the last 10,000 feet are the roughest.”
Following that second day's test, the iron lung had washed out four or
five of our original 20. By the end of the two weeks of tests, we “testees”
were all “nervous in the service,” awaiting the verdict that would so greatly
influence our further careers. The grading system boiled all tests down to a
final set of three numbers, each from 1 to 10, which rated us according to our
qualifications for pilot, navigator and bombardier, and the scores were given
in that sequence. Ten was perfect, but almost no one ever received tens
(we'd heard), and as I recall a 7 was necessary to qualify for a position. If, for
example, a man’s score was 3-7-5, he'd be eligible for navigator training. If it
was, say, 7-4-8, he could ask for either pilot or bombardier, but would be
subject to the training staff's decision, and would be probably classified for
bombardier school.
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I should have explained earlier, incidentally, that these three positions
were filled by officers only; if you entered as a non-officer (aviation cadet)
and qualified, you received a lieutenant's commission on successful completion of your training. Other air crewmen, (in bombers – radiomen and gunners), were all “noncoms” (enlisted men) who were processed at different
training schools than the ones I was trying for.
On grading day we were all called in, alphabetically and individually, to
the office of the training director and informed of our scores. Mine? I don't
like to brag, (so coax me), but my score was 9-9-9! The director beamed,
congratulated me, and told me it was quite remarkable, that he only remembered two other cases of anyone scoring that high in all three categories. So I
had a choice of all three positions, and of course chose pilot. Needless to say,
I left the office walking several inches off the floor!
Later that evening in the barracks there were about equal numbers of
happy faces and glum faces. Approximately half of our officers' group had
washed out, either earlier during the various physical tests or in the final
scoring. I never heard what the washout percent was in the aviation cadet
detachment.
****
March 14 was moving day. Those who had washed out in most cases
were shipped back to their original military units. Those of us who were
lucky enough to qualify for pilot training were transferred to another barracks and training center at Kelly Field. Our official mailing address was
“SOG - AAFPS(P), SAACC, San Antonio,” which made my mother wonder if
it was a coded designation for some super-secret military project – until I
subsequently explained that it was merely a conveniently simplified way of
addressing “Student Officer Group, Army Air Force Preflight School (Pilot),
San Antonio Aviation Cadet Center.”
Next day all hell broke loose. We began a 3-week schedule of ground
school that started with reveille at 5:30 a.m. followed by breakfast and barracks cleanup, then classes from 8 a.m. till 5 p.m., (interspersed with a halfhour for lunch and an hour for Physical Training). Study schedule began after supper, and most of us hit the books until lights out at 11:30 p.m. As I
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complained in a letter to my folks, “This is as bad as cadet school all over
again, and I've already sweated out one cadethood! We have officer's ratings,
but that doesn't mean much as far as privileges are concerned. Outside of
being saluted as usual, and getting officer's salaries, we're practically in cadet
school.” But we couldn't really complain - we'd all asked for it.
Courses included everything we wanted to know about planes and flying, and a lot we didn't like: aeronautical technology, radio operation and
communication procedures, Morse code proficiency, aviation weather, map
and aerial photo usage, first aid, military protocol, navigation, types and capacities of military aircraft, etc., etc.
We had Saturday afternoons off, and usually bussed into San Antonio
for a movie, restaurant meal, and a few beers and relaxation at the famed
Buckhorn Bar. San 'Tone was only about 7 miles away, but it was fairly difficult to get to by bus; it was necessary to change buses three times to make
the trip, and they were always full and never on schedule. (We always suspected the head honchos at Kelly planned it that way to discourage cadets
from leaving the base.) Check-in time at the barracks was not until about 1
a.m. Sunday, as I recall. Sunday was also a free day, but most of us used the
time to catch up on studies and letter writing.
Good Friday, April 7, was our last day of exam week and everyone joyously anticipated a completely free Easter weekend, plus a relatively leisurely
week to follow while we awaited reassignment. But the in-residence commandant of student officers, who seemed to have an inherent dislike for officer trainees and our group in particular, paid our barracks a surprise inspection visit after classes Friday afternoon decided it was rather unkempt (it
probably was!), and to our infinite disgust and outrage confined us to the
base for the weekend! And on Saturday and even Easter (except for two
hours to attend church service on the base) we were to attend classes. Furthermore, he decreed that we would also continue classes of some sort for
another week after Easter, even though they would have no bearing on the
final exams we had just concluded. We discussed plans for burning that equine rear end in effigy but couldn't find enough rags and old clothes to construct the dummy.
****
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A week later on April 14 we received our assignments to Primary flight
school and the next day bid Kelly and our commandant a kiss-my-foot farewell. I drew Cuero, located about 75 crow-flight miles southeast of San Antonio. It was a relaxed and friendly town (probably still is) of perhaps 5000
natives, whose apparently comfortable financial status had been somewhat
further enhanced by the hurried construction of a small air base nearby a
couple years earlier.
I remember being impressed by a very nice residential district. As I
wrote my folks, “I've never seen so many classy houses in such a small town
before. There must be a lot of rich cattlemen live here. There are a lot of the
old colonial and ‘southern mansion’ style homes – big, white 3-story affairs
with big white pillars in front.” Another married officer named Lee and I
managed to rent a lovely 4-room furnished apartment on the top floor of one
of these lovely homes, at 401 E. Reuss Blvd.
Lee's marriage, incidentally, was coincidentally very similar to mine;
he had returned from overseas duty, married within a few days after being
back, had an 8-day honeymoon, and left his wife teaching school when he
began flight training. He was expecting his wife to join him at the end of
May when her school would be out, so I anticipated having to seek other accommodations then.
Primary training at Cuero, where we were scheduled to spend ten
weeks (if we didn't wash out), proved to be quite the antithesis of the grind at
Kelly, especially for officer students who could live off the base. Learning to
fly was mostly fun, the ground school courses were easy, and life in general
had almost a “country club” atmosphere. All our information about future
flight schools into which we might progress – Basic, Advanced, and eventually Combat training – indicated that training got progressively tougher and
more disciplined, and that living accommodations became increasingly
scarcer and more Spartan.
So it appeared to me that if Carol was ever to join me during my flight
training, my Cuero period would be optimal. This theme began permeating
my letters to Carol as I initiated a campaign to get her to leave her job before
her school’s end and join me. And Carol was apparently ready and eager to
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do so; I was amazed by her willingness to forego the cultural and social stimulation of that Michigan Mecca (!) for the dubious delight of following me
from air base to air base.
On April 25, hopeful of her imminent arrival, I was able to rent a modest one-bedroom apartment at 509 S. Esplanade, and hoped fervently I
wouldn't be living in it alone too long. The Muskegon school was not scheduled to end that year until June 20, and I was overjoyed one day to learn that
Carol had been able to negotiate, with good ol' Mr. Booker, her early job release at the end of April. She, accompanied by her mother and mine, ultimately drove my LaSalle to Cuero during the first week in May. Our apartment was too small for guests, of course, so our mothers stayed at a hotel for
a few days before bussing to San Antonio for a tourist look-see and later on
home . Carol and I began our first experience in connubial domesticity –
although it was two or three days before we got around to opening the bedroom window shades.
****
The planes used for Primary flight trainers at Cuero were made by
Fairchild, and designated by the AAF as PT-19's. They were a light, fabriccovered low-wing monoplane with two tandem open cockpits. (The navy
trainer, incidentally, was the well-known Stearman biplane, of which a few
are still seen flying today. I don't know whether the AAF ever used them, but
I never met an AAF pilot who had trained in them.)
Both the PT-19 and Stearman were “tail-draggers” (tail wheel design),
as were most military and commercial planes of that day, up to and including
the famed B-17 “Flying Fortress” bomber. Designers finally decided that the
tricycle landing gear system (nose wheel instead of tail wheel) offered pilots a
better field of view and more stability on takeoffs and landings, and many
later models of both fighters and bombers (e.g. P-39, B-24, B-29) used tricycle gear.
Flight instructors were a varied lot, but most of them tended to exhibit
the manners of a drill sergeant while flying with a student. PT-19's had no
radio equipment, and the instructor in the rear cockpit issued directions
through a “gosport.” This device (same name as a town in England, which
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may or may not have some relationship) consisted of a rubber tube between
cockpits. At one end was a mouthpiece into which the instructor spoke
(yelled, more commonly), and at the other end it plugged into earpieces on
the student's helmet. The student, therefore, could only listen and not talk
back.
My first ride was a scary one, as the instructor intended (though he
didn't so advise me in advance). Telling me he'd do all the flying to give me a
“feel” for the plane, he took off and climbed to a couple thousand feet or so.
Without warning he suddenly stalled the plane and kicked it into a vicious
tailspin. As I watched the horizon and landscape rotate in circles about the
plane, and tried to keep my stomach out of my throat, it occurred to me that
I might have made a bad choice of career.
We did some more indescribable and unpleasant acrobatics before
landing, which did nothing to stabilize my sense of balance. But I managed
to disembark by myself, restrain my impulse to kiss the earth, did stand
erect, and managed a sick smile as the instructor laughed and said, “Well,
Kyle, you didn't puke! That's good. You'll probably make it.”
****
I had driven my LaSalle from Denver to Bolling Field in Oct. 1942.
When I departed for the Mexico assignment I left it with cousin Jane (Swenson) Cummings and her husband Fred, who then lived in D.C. A year later
they drove it to Wisconsin where my Dad stored it.
With Carol with me in Cuero, life took on a very rosy hue. Flying lessons, interspersed with ground school and physical training, occupied most
of my time during the week and frequently on Saturday. Learning to fly under the tutelage of a hard-nosed and somewhat abrasive type of instructor
was, I found, a bit hard on the nerves and rather energy-draining. As a result
I indulged in more before-supper naps and Sunday afternoon snoozes than
Carol probably thought a new husband was entitled to. But we compensated
for that with an enjoyable social life with other officer students and their
wives when our off-hours permitted. Our duplex apartment neighbors were
Dick and Alice Kimber, a fun couple with whom we took occasional Sunday
trips to San Antonio or the ocean beaches near Port Lavaca.
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One function required of officer students was to serve periodically as
Officer of the Day at the cadet barracks. Since there were only about a dozen
or so officer students at Cuero among whom that job was rotated, each of us
served in this capacity about every two weeks. I often seemed to draw the
weekend duty for some reason (I suspected the draw might have been
rigged), and my records indicate that June 17/18 was only the second weekend there at which I had both Saturday and Sunday free.
Being OD was not hard work, just confining. Duty began Saturday
noon, for example, with the main activity being to check cadets out of the
base Saturday afternoon and back into their barracks no later than 2 a.m.
Sunday, at which time I had to do a bed check. This deferred my bedtime till
about 3 a.m., at which time I could snooze on an office cot until 6 a.m.. Sunday morning I had to handle and issue various reports; at noon I'd be off duty and back to the apartment for a nap, storing up energy for Monday's adventures in a PT-19.
****
Learning to fly is not a great deal more difficult than learning to drive a
car, except that minor mistakes can be much more costly and major mistakes
can be hazardous to one's health. One factor that makes auto driving easier
to learn, of course, is that the Drivers Ed student has invariably previously
ridden in an auto many miles as a passenger, and thereby acquired a feel for
car speeds and reactions, and street and highway environments. Most pilot
trainees, on the other hand, have never or seldom ridden in a small opencockpit training plane, and the physical sensations and environment are
completely new.
We had no fatalities during my stay at Cuero, although at the end of
our 10-week period several planes were considerably the worse for wear. I
fortunately managed to avoid any such property damage, and soloed after
about eight hours of dual instruction, which was about average for our group.
That solo flight was a real pulse quickener, of course, although not as scary as
a later solo night flight during Basic training on a black and moonless night
when I couldn't see the horizon and, after a few prescribed maneuvers diso-
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riented me, wondered whether the lights I was seeing were from the ground
or the stars.
But the greatest thrill and pleasure I experienced in Primary was on
the subsequent flights when we were allowed to fly anywhere on our own for
“practice.” Soaring and diving through the mountains and valleys of massive
cumulus clouds, free as a bird and completely alone, or skimming the terrain
at 90 mph and “hedge-hopping” the cotton fields and cow pastures (very illegal, of course) were exciting and adrenaline stimulating experiences of indescribable joy and exhilaration. Even only one such flight would have been
more than worth all the toil and travail that preceded its consummation.
The process of pilot training, as done in WWII, was inevitably productive of many unusual or unexpected events and situations – some amusing,
some tragic. One of the former that is worth relating concerns a cadet whose
instructor was teaching him to do a basic acrobatic called a barrel roll. In
performing this maneuver the pilot dips a wing, rolls the plane upside down,
and completes a 360-degree rotation about the plane's flight axis, hopefully
without losing or gaining altitude and without deviating from the direction of
flight.
The cadet had performed two or three rolls with indifferent success,
and as the instructor was making notes on his clipboard he dropped his pencil on the cockpit floor. To retrieve it he had to unbuckle his safety belt, and
as he bent down he spoke into the gosport, “Hold it!” As the cadet testified
later at the investigation, he thought the instructor said “Roll it!”, and he
proceeded to do just that. After completing the roll the cadet flew straight
and level for several moments waiting for comments or further instructions
from his instructor. Finally he looked back and was horrified to see an empty
cockpit! He circled the plane and finally observed, with decidedly mixed
feelings, no doubt, the instructor floating earthward in his parachute a mile
or so behind and below.
I didn't know the cadet, but it is said he later told his friends he seriously considered continuing his flight on into Mexico, but was deterred by
the realization that the plane didn't have enough fuel for the trip. At the investigation the enraged instructor recommended the cadet be washed out,
but he was overruled by the investigating officer who maintained, correctly
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so, of course, that the event was caused by the instructor's failure to communicate properly. (And the cadet was assigned a new instructor!)
****
My Primary pilot training class and the “Cuero Country Club” days
ended Saturday, June 24, and I “graduated” into Basic with a total of 65 flying hours credit in my log book. I was hoping for a transfer to Brady, Texas
(site of my UT summer field work in 1938) where, like Cuero, another hurried air training base had been established when WWII began. Like Cuero,
the Brady base was rumored to have a rather relaxed environment. But my
group was assigned instead to Lackland Army airfield near Waco, reputedly a
tough school where student officers were supposed to live on the post, except
for weekends. Also, rooming accommodations for wives were reportedly
hard to find – even worse than Washington, D.C., we heard.
For some reason all pilot trainees were to report in Waco on Thursday,
June 29, but were not allowed to leave the Cuero base until the day before.
But I was aware that most officers' and cadets' wives would be heading for
Waco Monday (June 26) to house-hunt, so I sent Carol ahead on Sunday.
She did well, and secured rooms at 2225 Parrott St. Initially, fortunately, and
contrary to earlier rumors, officer students were able to live off the base most
of the time. But this was not the convenient arrangement we had in Cuero,
since the trip to and from Lackland took from two to three hours, depending
on time of day. So on many occasions, after a particularly exhausting day of
dual flight instruction, I elected to stay overnight on the base at the BOQ.
Then, about August 1 our Commandant got a burr in his britches and decided
all officer students would henceforth have to abide by regulations and live on
the base, except for Saturday and Sunday nights.
So Carol spent some lonely weeks in August. Moreover, the summer
heat was breaking records. During July the day's high never got below 97,
and August started off with a 102 mark. And our rooms were not airconditioned! Carol had every right to regret leaving the comfort of Wisconsin just to keep me company, but she never admitted it even though I urged
her to go there for a month or so till I finished Basic. What a gal!
****
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The planes used for Basic at Waco were built by Vultee, designated by
the AAF as BT-13's, and nicknamed by student pilots the “Vultee Vibrator” for obvious reasons. They, like the PT-19's, were tandem-cockpit, low-wing,
tail-dragger monoplanes, but considerably more sophisticated. They were
all-metal, powered by very authoritative sounding Pratt & Whitney 450-hp.
engines (vs. 175-hp in the PT-19's), had a fuller instrument panel and radio
equipment, and included other pilot-friendly features such as wing flaps and
trim tabs on the tail assembly. Learning to fly them was a bit more worrisome than in the PT-19's, however.
For one thing, we began learning instrument flying. This wasn't too
bad when done in the planes, but the training included a series of sessions
totaling 12 hours in the Link Trainer. This was a fiendish contraption consisting of a simulated cockpit with an instrument panel, completely hooded
and closed so the student couldn't see out. The instructor, sitting outside
with an instrument panel giving duplicate readings of those inside, would
communicate with the student by an intercom system, ordering him to “take
off”, climb to specified altitudes, and “fly” prescribed compass courses to hypothetical airports where he was to make instrument “landings”. The Trainer would move, rotate, or alter position accordingly, such that the student
felt as though he was in a real aircraft.
Normal “flying” in the Link wasn't too hard, but the trainee often had
to cope with sudden “storms” (induced by the instructor whose controls
permitted him to tilt the Link and alter its bearing), or incorporate numerous
course and altitude changes ordered to avoid “bad weather” or other hazards.
If the trainee was so unfortunate as to get confused and “stall” the Trainer by
too steep a climb and/or loss of sufficient air speed, the Trainer automatically went into a “tailspin”, “crashing” after several dizzying plunging spins
which ended that session and gave the student a zero grade. Two or three
such crashes during a student's Link course was enough to wash him out.
A more enjoyable part of Basic was the several extended solo navigation flights we had to make – a round-robin course of 200 or 300 miles involving several landings at other small fields en route. These daylight flights
were fun, but night flights which required increased reliance on instruments
were considerably less entertaining.
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Our Basic class (officers and cadets combined) had about the average
number of minor accidents (which, again, I luckily avoided), and one fatality
by a cadet. The latter event involved trim tabs. These are small panels built
into the rudder and elevator surfaces which can be adjusted by controls in
the cockpit during flight to help maintain desired flight directions or rates of
climb without the need for constant pressure by the pilot on his control stick
or rudder pedals. Part of the pilot's required checklist before a takeoff is to
verify that all trim tabs are in “neutral.”
The unfortunate cadet failed to do this, and it somehow happened that
the elevator trims had been left by the plane's previous user in a maximum
“up” position. As the cadet’s plane during the takeoff run attained flying
speed the trim tab settings caused an abrupt steep climb to 50 feet or so before the surprised cadet could apply enough force on his stick to counteract
it. The plane suddenly lost flying speed, stalled, nosed over and crashed. Investigators' ruling: pilot error.
The washout rate during my Basic training at Waco was about 10%. I
accumulated about 75 flying hours during those 10 weeks, and felt like an accomplished pilot by the end of that period. As the end of Basic approached,
the main subject of discussion among students was speculation as to whether
we'd be assigned to Advanced school for training in fighters or bombers.
Theoretically we were entitled to express a choice – and did – but it was
common knowledge that the training staff made the final decisions.
I opted for bombers, and was pleased to be put in that category. My
main reason was that I then contemplated the possibility of a postwar career
as an airline pilot, and I presumed the experience of flying the multi-engine
“heavy” stuff would look better on a resume than if I'd been limited to flying
single-engine single seaters. One hazard of multi-engine training, however –
at least to my way of thinking – was that if one didn't eventually “cut the
mustard” as a bomber pilot he could be relegated to flying transports or cargo planes, which didn't sound very exciting to me. So I was assigned in early
September (on my birthday, I believe it was) to Advanced multi-engine training at Frederick, Oklahoma, which turned out to be another air base somewhat similar to Cuero's, both in recent origin and the more relaxed training
regimen.
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But as in most air base locations, housing facilities for transient military personnel were extremely scarce. The morning Carol and I arrived we
drew a complete blank in our search for rooms. At noontime, rather disconsolate, we adjourned to a small cafe for lunch. We selected one of several
booths which were separated from each other by a high partition between.
As our order arrived and we began eating we could hear the conversation of
another officer student and his wife in the next booth. They sounded rather
excited, so we paused to listen. The wife was telling her mate how she'd
lucked onto the address of a house with a room for rent, which really pricked
up our ears. They were apparently studying a map of Frederick, and she
committed the faux pas of mentioning the address. I hastily scribbled it
down and, leaving our lunch uneaten, scurried out unseen by the couple and
sped off to the quoted address. It was, the nice home of a friendly elderly
couple named Burkhart, and we agreed to rent the room almost sight unseen. Just as we concluded the negotiation and were exiting, the other couple arrived. I tried to assume an expression of sympathy as I told them the
room had been rented, but it was a bit hard to do. We really did feel sorry for
them, of course, and a bit guilty, but we kept reminding ourselves it was a
“dog eat dog” world in those days.
****
The training planes at Frederick were twin-engine Cessna tail draggers,
designated by the AAF as UC-78's, and powered by two Jacobs 450-hp engines. Handling dual throttles took a little getting used to, especially since
instructors were adamant about the student pilot keeping both engines “in
sync” (identical rpm) when cruising or performing required maneuvers. We
soon learned to do this “by ear” however, without needing to constantly refer
to the instrument panel.
Also, the UC-78 was our first experience with retractable landing gear,
which added another step in the taking off and landing routines. Simple as it
was to do, many a student earned demerits when concentrating on making a
perfect landing approach, only to suddenly hear a harsh yell from the instructor, “Abort! Gear not down!”, and have to shamefacedly apply power to
climb and retrace the landing pattern again.
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We were also introduced to close (wingtip to wingtip) formation flying,
the learning of which took a lot of sweaty concentration and careful throttle
manipulation. (No brakes on airborne planes!) But the main stress when
flying dual with an instructor was never knowing when that sadist was going
to abruptly cut off an engine. This would require the student to suddenly
have to adjust power and propeller pitch settings to permit the plane to limp
along on one engine, visually search for a relatively flat cow pasture or empty
country road, and prepare to execute a simulated emergency landing. This
nerve-wracking exercise would continue until the pilot had the plane gliding
in at landing speed only 10 or 20 feet above the ground, with gear down, before the instructor would yell “power on” and the pilot would thankfully
mash the throttle full forward and resume flying speed. (Whew!)
The more entertaining flying times at Frederick, as at Waco, were the
extended solo navigation flights, with stops and departures at several fields
en route. Two of these were 21-hour night flights, which by then I'd gotten
used to and rather enjoyed. For me there was a unique and stimulating thrill
in cruising alone at 160 mph in a black sky with only occasional glimpses of
earth-bound lights some 5000 feet below, and only a map and compass for
guidance. (Radio navigational equipment and training came later, when we
graduated to bombers.)
The training at Frederick occupied another ten-week period, during
which I added another 112 hours of flying time to my log book, and another
19 hours in that damned Link Trainer. We were now deemed ready for a final polish in combat-type aircraft, and on November 21 most of us Frederick
graduates were assigned to Brooks Field to train on B-25's, named the
“Mitchell” in honor of General “Billy” Mitchell, an early and vigorous advocate of air power (who died in 1935, before events of WWII proved how right
he was).
So, back to San Antonio. Carol had enjoyed a couple visits there when
we were stationed at Cuero, and she was pleased at the prospect of living in a
more charming city than had been our lot so far. But securing quarters was,
as usual, a problem. The three large air bases in San Antonio, Kelly, Brooks
and Randolph, kept the city flooded with a wartime transient population.
We finally ended up renting a room in a third rate motel for the month I was
at Brooks.
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****
B-25's attained public fame in April 1942 after Col. Jimmy Doolittle's
squadron of sixteen of them took off at sea from the carrier “Hornet” and
bombed Tokyo. The timing of that raid, when the war had been going badly
for the U.S., was a great boost to American's morale, even though actual
damage to Tokyo was minimal.
The “Mitchell” had two 1700-hp Wright engines, had a gross weight of
up to 35,000 lbs. when fully equipped with weapons and armament, carried
a combat crew of six, and a 3000 lb. bomb load. In our pilot training, of
course, we did without bombs and armament, and usually had only three or
four persons aboard (pilot, instructor, and one or two student observers). It
was our first experience with tricycle landing gear (nose wheel instead of tail
wheel), and we found this design much preferable to the tail draggers since
visibility was greatly improved on takeoffs and in the final landing attitude.
The engine power really impressed us; progressing from UC-78's to B25's was roughly comparable to going from a model A Ford to a modern Cadillac. Flying B-25's was much more fun than later experiences in the fourengine planes. They were both fast and quite easily maneuverable, like a
high powered sports car; flying the B-24's and B-29's was more comparable
to handling an 18-wheeler truck. I've forgotten the exact B-25 speed ranges,
but I think the landing approach speed was about 90 mph, and maximum inflight speed (in our unloaded planes) was about 325 mph or better. As can
be imagined, we students got some high-octane thrills out of roaring over
Texas in them.
We trained at Brooks for a month, and were rewarded with a graduation exercise that officially gave us the coveted title of AAF Pilot. The final
step in the activities was the awarding of our pilot's silver wings which, for
those of us lucky enough to have wives or girlfriends on hand, were ceremoniously pinned on our jackets by those wonderful gals who had so loyally
stuck with us during those arduous months of our training. As it happened,
we received our wings on December 23, which, plus the ensuing 10-day
leave, was to us an impressive Christmas present.
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I hadn't been home for Christmas since 1941 three years ago. And a
good way to better appreciate holidays at home is to skip several. So we had
a relaxing and enjoyable Christmas and New Year in Wisconsin, after which
we returned in early January (we're into 1945, now) to Texas for my assignment at the Fort Worth air base. Here I was to be trained on the B-24 “Liberator”, one of the workhorse “heavy” bombers in both the European and Pacific war theaters. This time Carol and I were fortunate in renting our first
roomy and well-furnished apartment in an older section of Ft. Worth. This
was fortunate since it turned out that our stay there was to last longer than at
the other earlier locations.
The B-24 was powered by four 1200-hp Pratt & Whitney air-cooled engines, and had a wing span of 110 feet. It was similar to the comparably
powered B-17, but had a longer range and carried a heavier load. In combat
operations it carried a crew of ten: pilot, co-pilot, flight engineer, navigator,
bombardier, radioman, and four gunners – two in the waist, one in the ball
(belly) turret and one in the tail. Armament usually included ten .50-caliber
machine guns, guns for all hands except pilot and co-pilot, with twin guns in
the belly and tail positions. Depending on the length of trip (which involved
balancing fuel weight vs. load), a B-24 could carry from 5000 lbs. to 12,500
lbs. of bombs. Maximum speed was a shade over 300 mph, service ceiling
was 32,000 ft., and under normal conditions it had a range of 2850 miles.
Since most bombing attacks were conducted at an altitude of 25,000 ft. or
higher, under such conditions all crew members were encumbered by heavy
insulated flight suits (electrically heated, if we were lucky) and oxygen
masks.
We had over three months of serious and intensive flight training, and
ground school courses that made the earlier ones seem like kindergarten.
The only really enjoyable part was the occasional full-crew simulated combat
operations, like the “bombing” mission to Oklahoma City in which we theoretically wiped out the airport and the refineries. (This was a night mission,
so as to not unduly disturb the residents. By mid April we were finally considered ready for the real thing, and we were granted a last brief furlough before being shipped overseas, which Carol and I, as usual, took in Wisconsin.
At this point Carol was over two months into a planned pregnancy;
February, we had decided was “let's have a baby month.” It appeared then
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quite certain that I'd be booked for overseas duty by summer, and we
thought it would be nice for Carol to have somebody else than me to take
care of while I was gone. True-blue Carol, ever the dutiful wife, wanted to return to Ft. Worth and be around to wave goodbye when I took off into the
“wild blue yonder” (as the AAF's theme song puts it). But we finally decided
she should stay in Wisconsin. If she returned to Ft. Worth and I shipped out,
she would have the burden of packing up and driving home by herself. So I
returned to Ft. Worth alone, moved into the BOQ at the air base, and, along
with a lot of other expectant airmen, awaited our marching orders.
But the orders didn't come, and I didn't go on overseas duty after all.
The war in Europe was approaching a bloody climax. Berlin was being
crushed by heavy bombing and encroaching U.S./British troops on the west
and Russians on the east. Hitler, realizing defeat, committed suicide, and on
May 7 Germany surrendered! V-E Day, ending the long bloody debacle in
Europe, was a day of wild celebration in all the Allied countries.
For the Europeans WWII was finally over, but the U.S. still had Japan
to dispose of. In the Pacific the AAF had begun concentrating on a program
of devastating raids on Japan and its outlying bastions, using fleets of the
newly developed long-range B-29. The workhorse B-24's used most extensively in Europe, were no longer needed. So, after a month's inactivity in Ft.
Worth after V-E Day – due, I suppose, to indecisive foot dragging in AAF
high officialdom – most of us were reassigned to B-29 school at Randolph
Field. Once more, San 'Tone!
In view of the changed circumstances in my status, Carol decided to rejoin me in San Antonio, since she always enjoyed that city and came down by
train. San 'Tone was unfortunately still a beehive of military activity and
personnel, of course, when we regrouped there in early June, and available
decent housing facilities had long since disappeared. We finally found a onebedroom-and-bath in an un-airconditioned rooming house, and were glad to
get it. I needed the car to commute to Randolph Field, which was quite a
long ways out of the city and not readily accessible by bus from our rooming
house. So poor Carol, by then about 4½ months pregnant, was left to swelter in one room all day during the remarkably hot Texas summer weather.
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There were no food storage facilities or a refrigerator in our quarters,
so our evening meals were of necessity all eaten in restaurants. These, due to
wartime supply problems, unfortunately almost never served any vegetables,
which was to us a source of both gastronomic and nutritional dissatisfaction.
My Saturday afternoons and Sundays were often free, however, and
our entertainment then usually consisted of cooling off in air-conditioned
movie theaters, or driving around the city with the LaSalle's top down, or
picnicking in Brackenridge Park. On one occasion I took Carol for a plane
ride. Another roomer at our establishment owned a Piper Cub and learning
that I was a pilot kindly offered to let us use it on a weekend. Carol who had
once taken flying lessons in a similar plane, was willing and eager. So we
cooled off for an hour or two one Sunday floating around over San Antonio.
Flying a 50-hp Piper J3 was quite a change from the four-engine aerial
trucks I had gotten used to. On my first landing approach I came in too fast
before cutting the throttle and floated all the way down the runway, never
getting closer than about 100 feet above it! I circled the pattern again and
made it all right on the second pass, with the help of some advice from Carol.
It was hot at Randolph too, but at least I did not have to suffer from
boredom. The prospect of flying what was then the biggest and most powerful plane in the world was exciting enough to mitigate any physical discomfort. The Boeing B-29 had a wing span of nearly half the length of a football
field, and four engines of 2200-hp each which permitted the plane to carry
heavier loads farther and faster than any bomber then in operation. It used a
crew of ten, but unlike other bombers it was pressurized and had remotely
controlled gun turrets. The instrumentation and controls were so sophisticated and complex that we spent nearly two weeks in intensive ground
school studies before our first flight.
Unlike the training schedules for the previous planes in which I qualified as pilot, trainees for the B-29's first had to spend a training period as a
co-pilot before graduating to pilot (or “airplane commander” as we were then
called in multi-crewmember bombers). So the pilots I learned to co-pilot
with were recently promoted co-pilots. After four weeks at Randolph I qualified as a co-pilot, and promptly received orders to move to Barksdale Field
Shreveport, in late July to train as a pilot. (I don't know why this couldn't
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have been done at Randolph – typical military “efficiency” I suppose.) Remarkably enough, though, I was given another week's furlough before reporting to Barksdale. Having just had a week's leave in April, another so
soon was really icing on the cake. I could only surmise that the record of my
April leave had somehow slipped through a crack. But needless to say, I didn't argue the matters so Carol and I packed the LaSalle, bid another farewell
to San Antonio, and headed north again. This time after a pleasant week in
Downsville and Elmwood, I left both Carol and the LaSalle in Elmwood and
choo-chooed down to Shreveport.
Flight training at Barksdale was not much different from that at Randolph, except that it was even hotter and we had only one day off in nine.
The BOQ seemed like an especially miserable place, so several fellow students and I took up residence in the not-too-classy Buckhalt Hotel in
Shreveport where there was a modicum of air conditioning. On one of my
days off I dropped in the Shreveport Carter Oil Co. office, with an eye toward
“buttering my bread” relative to a post-war resumption of employment. I
was pleasantly surprised to find Ray Hart and George Musselman (they of
the North Dakota days) working there.
An interesting respite to the daily flight training grind was related in
one of my letters to Carol: “Had quite an experience Sunday at the field.
Classes involved emergency escape methods in the B-29, such as might be
encountered in crash landings, and part of the course was a discussion of
parachute technique. Following the latter they hauled us, to our horror, out
to a tower from which they make simulated parachute jumps. It's a 40-foot
tower, with a long steel cable sloping in front of it to the ground, on which a
pulley travels. Attached to the pulley are long straps, or shroud lines as
they're called on a chute, the other ends of which are buckled onto the chute
harness of the victim on top of the tower.
“When he jumps, the 30-foot fall and subsequent jolt he encounters
are approximately the same shock as one gets in bailing out of a plane at
the instant the chute opens. However, due to the elastic character of the
long steel cable on which the pulley is attached, the jumper gets quite an exhilarating bounce effect not normally encountered in a regular parachute
jump. The cable slopes at such an angle that after the jumper hits the end of
the straps, he rides the rest of the way to the ground at a merry clip, being
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jerked around in much the same manner as would a rock suspended on a
long rubber band.
“Hardest part of the operation is to talk your feet into pushing you off
the ledge, even though you know (or are pretty sure) you'll stop 10 or 15 feet
short of the ground. It takes a lot of brow beating your natural instincts to
get them to let yourself jump. I don't think an actual parachute jump from
a plane would be as hard on the nerves, because at plane altitude you don't
have the same sense of depth and wouldn't have the fear or sensation of
falling you do when you're comparatively near the ground. Next time
you're in an office building take a gander out the 5th or 6th floor window
and think to yourself how it'd feel to step off the ledge, and you'll see what I
mean!”
The war in the Pacific was coming to a dramatic close. Earlier in 1945
the U.S. navy had finally effectively Neutralized Japan's fleet. The final coup
de grace was in April when our carrier-based torpedo planes (under the
command of my Carleton classmate Chandler Swanson) sunk the Japanese
battleship Yamato, the largest warship ever built up to that time. Massive
fleets of B-29's had fire-bombed many cities with awesome destruction of
property and lives, and I had received orders to participate in this project as
soon as my B-29 pilot rating would be confirmed. Allied forces had laid
plans for an invasion of Japan, which would have begun on the southern islands and conclude with an assault on Honshu (Tokyo's location) in March,
1946. Casualties on both sides would have been enormous. Then, on August
6 a lone B-29, the Enola Gay, dropped an atomic bomb on the city of Hiroshima, all but obliterating it. Another had similarly frightening results on
Nagasaki three days later. The two attacks killed well over 100,000 persons
and injured an estimated 110,000. The war was suddenly over. On August
14 Japan sent the Allies a message of surrender and on September 2nd a
formal surrender document was signed on the battleship Missouri in Tokyo
Bay by the Japanese Foreign Minister and accepted by the signatures of
General MacArthur and Admiral Nimitz. September 2nd was V-J Day.
Wild celebrations occurred throughout the U.S., and Shreveport was
no exception. Carol's The Time of My Life describes the action in Elmwood.
“I had been there just a short time when the great news came that the war
was over! I've never seen such spontaneous hilarity! People hollered and
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ran wild in every direction; someone started a bonfire in the middle of Main
Street in Elmwood. People threw in anything in sight, their hats, shirts, and
finally someone even threw in his trousers. We'd been in the war for four
long years, and we were all so glad it was over. The young men could return
home and start leading normal lives. Rationing would soon end. We'd had
ration stamps for gasoline, tires, sugar, meat, butter, and even canned goods.
****
My last flight on a B-29 was August 8. Thereafter training operations,
insofar as flying was concerned, were shut down, just a week before I was
due to qualify as pilot. But my disappointment was offset by the happy presumption that a discharge from the military should be imminent and permit
my return to civilian life and Carol. However, the weeks slowly rolled by
with lots of rumors but little factual data concerning discharges. In the
meantime, to avoid the “idle hands” syndrome amongst trainees, the training
staff required us to continue ground school courses, including many obviously unneeded ones.
At that time air crewmen had to log at least four hours of flying time a
month to qualify for flight pay (which, in my case, was about $40 extra per
month). As time wore on it occurred to us that our September pay checks
were going to be a bit short if we didn't get our flight time in. So on September 13 a fellow trainee and good friend Cecil Alldredge, dashed into our BOQ
after morning classes and excitedly reported that he had wangled authorization for us and a crew to make a 4-hour “navigation training” flight. The B29's were all “dry-docked” by then, but a war-weary B-17 had recently been
flown into Barksdale for some reason, and had been parked on the ramp for
a week or so. I was delighted, of course; $40 in those days was, well , $40.
We rounded up a crew, all of whom were equally eager and went boiling out
to the Flying Fortress. We checked fuel tanks did the routine exterior inspection, and climbed in.
Said Alldredge, “OK, buddy, I had to register as the pilot when I signed
this out. You be the copilot.” That was fine with me; I had never been in a B17 before. The pre-flight cockpit check calls for the copilot to read off a
checklist of inspections of a complex assortment of instruments and controls,
with the pilot and co-pilot verifying the proper setting of each. I began to noPage 154
tice Cecil was fumbling and hesitating as much as I did while searching for
certain switches or control levers.
“Cecil,” I asked, “how many hours do you have in a B-17?” He grinned
a bit sheepishly.
“Well – none actually.”
“ Lemme out!” was my prompt reply.
“No, no, now wait,” he said, grabbing my hands as I was unbuckling my
seat harness. “This isn't too much different than the B-24's we've flown. It's
got a tail wheel instead of a nose wheel, of course, and some of the instruments and switches are in different locations. But – no problem. Besides,
think of that flight pay. And think of our crew's flight pay.”
With considerable misgiving I finally agreed to not jump ship. After
some effort we finally got all four engines firing, although a bit on the roughsounding side. I called the tower for clearance and we taxied out. The takeoff was no problem. Takeoffs seldom are. But at about 200 feet off the
ground and a half-mile on our way, with throttles still at full power, the no. 2
engine (port side inboard) began gagging and sputtering. Presently its oil
pressure gauge suddenly dropped to zero, so I proceeded to cut off the fuel
and feather the prop while Alldredge nervously adjusted controls to compensate for the port side drag. Four-engine planes can normally fly on three engines without much difficulty, but AAF regulations left us no alternative but
to return to the base. So we began a wide shallow turn into the landing pattern, to the tune of much crew intercom profanity at being bad-lucked out of
the flight pay we had counted on.
Then, halfway along the downwind leg of the flight pattern, and still
barely 200 feet above the scrub-pine terrain, I was appalled to see black
smoke and a few tongues of fire suddenly licking out of the no. 3 starboard
inboard engine. I promptly but nervously went through the engine-out procedure again, and called the tower to report the emergency,
“Cecil, you sonofabitch,” I said on the intercom as he wrestled the controls to keep the bucket of bolts airborne, “if you kill me I'll never forgive
you!” He managed a weak grin, over gritted teeth, and to his everlasting
credit made a pretty fair landing with the two remaining engines, which were
fortunately on opposite sides. The fire truck and “meat wagon,” alerted by
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the tower, happily raced down the runway behind us, glad for some action
after weeks of inactivity. We skidded to a stop, everyone jumped out, and the
fire truck easily extinguished the engine fire. That was the last time I flew in
a military plane while still in service. (Alldredge, incidentally, elected to stay
in the AAF, and a few years later was killed piloting a B-52.)
****
I was turned loose from Barksdale “on leave,” (again!), in early October, with my official discharge date to follow on October 16th, three years
and 3 months after my enlistment. The big adventure was finally over and I,
of course, immediately hurried to Wisconsin and had a fine reunion with our
parents and my VIP (Very Interestingly Pregnant) wife.
After some pondering on the matter, Carol and I decided to continue
my career with Carter Oil, rather than trying to become an airline pilot, especially considering that the airlines were bound to be flooded with applications from the horde of recently discharged pilots. However, about six
months later I halfway reconsidered. I applied for and received a multiengine commercial license (which I have since periodically renewed and is
still in force), but never have had occasion to use.
So I contacted the Tulsa office of Carter about resuming employment,
was gratified to learn they would be glad to have me back, and learned that
my next work location would be some rinky dink town in western Wyoming,
named Lander.
Carol and I milled around Downsville and Elmwood for nearly three
weeks, awaiting the arrival of our firstborn who would be named either Sharon, Sharyn, Sheryl, or maybe just Sherry. One day, in need of some activity
and in response to repeated requests by a couple of teenage boys in
Downsville, I drove with them to Durand and rented a Piper “Cruiser” to take
them for a joyride. We flew back to Downsville where I did a loop or two and
buzzed the boys' houses. Then, for some additional excitement for the boys I
dropped down to barely above the Red Cedar River which flows through
town, and flew under the bridge which provided vertical clearance about
equivalent to the height of a three story building. It was, I must confess, a
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fairly nerve tingling stunt that I think was well enjoyed by my passengers,
although one, unfortunately, did throw up afterwards.
Finally the magical day approached. We checked Carol into the Menomonie hospital November 6, and about 8 p.m.: IT'S A BOY! What a thrill!
For some reason we'd expected a girl and
didn't have a list of boys' names handy. So with no imagination we named
him after his dad, but with Michael as a different middle name so he wouldn't be known as “Jerry II” or “Junior.”
A short time later I went to Lander to resume work with Carter, and
Carol and Jerry Mike followed several weeks later.
A year and a half after J.M.'s debut, on a June 3rd, now in Rawlins,
Wyoming, we were overjoyed by the addition to our family roster of a bouncing baby girl whom we named Kathleen Luanne (the Sharon, Sheryl, etc. assortment of names having somehow slipped out of favor). We initially referred to her as “Kathy” but J.M. at a tender age pronounced it “Kappy,” and
it stuck; thereafter we, and most relatives, have used J.M.’s version.
I became thirty years old in Lander. This seems like an appropriate
milestone at which to conclude the Younger Years portrayed in this book,
since at that point I began the long and rewarding Era of Domestic Tranquillity which has since transpired. Also, this EDT is adequately documented in
Carol's fine autobiography, and any attempt to embellish it would be unnecessarily redundant.
SO … this concludes my recitation of the events of my youth, which,
(according to a consensus of opinion), has already rambled on too long. And
to anyone who has read this far, (even though you've skipped the duller pages or sections),
My congratulations and gratitude!
Jrk
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