It was February 1964, I was a young Army pilot recently out of flight school and assigned to Company A Fourth Aviation Battalion out of Fort Lewis Washington. Our sole mission in life was to administer aerial support to The Army’s war games, wherever they happened to be. This in preparation for our eventual deployment to some part of the world where we would be involved in yet another skirmish, but that’s a few other stories down the road. Then word came down we had been invited to take part in a joint, Army, Air Force Maneuver called Exercise Desert Strike, being held in the California Desert. Desert Strike, which history says, was the largest Desert Warfare Maneuver since General George Patton trained his tank forces in the same area in 1942. That in preparation for the invasion of, North Africa. Well we weren’t going to invade Africa, but we did invade the small California desert town of Needles, and in total, an area that covered some 13 million acres spread over California, Nevada, and Arizona. This invasion involved over one hundred thousand military personnel, ninety thousand Army, and ten thousand Air Force. Not to mention 780 aircraft, 7000 wheeled vehicles, and 1000 tanks. And cost the American taxpayer a mere 60 million 1964 U.S. Dollars. Why the desert? It would have made more sense playing the game in the coastal swamp areas of Florid and Louisiana for our eventual deployment to Vietnam, rather than in the middle of the treeless desert. However, who am I to say? We were well received by the local population who I am certain viewed the invading force as a boon to the economy they had not seen since the days of General George Patton. Our unit was stationed adjacent to the runway at the Needles Municipal Airport, where the Army Corps of Engineers carved up the desert sand and laid down perforated metal plates called, PSP, or Marsden Matting, as our runways and helipads. They also constructed a village of tents reminiscent of a scene from Mash. Rather than the 4077, we dubbed it Camp Rickenbacker, after the famous aviator Eddy Rickenbacker, although most of us were too young to remember who he was, but hey; it sounded good. Now as tents go these were the ultimate in comfort. They were big enough to hold up to ten men, they had wooden floors to keep the snakes and scorpions out, (it would have been nice if the snakes, and scorpions had read the manual) and had pot bellied stoves operated by gasoline for heat. And yes, the desert gets cold at night in February. We would wake up in the morning and find ice-sickles hanging from the lister bags. (Canvas water bags hanging from a tripod) While the shower stalls were under construction, (the same type that was seen in many episodes of the 4077) the Army arranged for us to shower at the local High School. And this is where my story begins. Ψ By our fourth day in the desert we were all well aware our need for showers. Even with the freezing temperatures at night, nonetheless by 11:00am, daytime temperatures had already reached the 90’s and would soon top 100 degrees. And running around in that heat, well let’s just say it made you sweat. We were part of the advanced party overseeing construction of our new desert home, and as yet had no command center in place; this made communications with the brass at Fort Lewis just a little slow to say the least. (This was before cell phones and fax machines) It was several days after the invasion of Needles, before we found a note in the latest mailbag from Fort Lewis telling of the arrangements they made for us to shower at the local High School. (Good thing we found it.) The plan was simple, pack as many guys as we could in the back of a ¾-ton pick-up truck and go take our showers. Now you have to remember, most of us especially the younger pilots hadn’t seen the inside of a High School in at least six years, and in the case of the older guys it was many more than that. So believe me when I tell you that we had our reservations. Did it take someone from the Pentagon to negotiate this deal? What did they get us into? First we invade their town, now their High School. Would there be enemy forces waiting to repel our advance? We had no idea what to expect, or how we would be accepted or viewed. However, as some famous President once said. “There is nothing to fear, but fear itself.” And as we soon discovered, he was right.(that’s probably why he was elected president) By the end of the first night we had made a few new friends, had a gym to work out in, and a place to play basketball. Even if it did end up with the high school students making us look like a bunch of beginners. As they say all good things must come to an end, the night was all too soon over and it was time for us to go back to our desert dwellings, and once again be soldiers and pilots playing war games. But that would give us ample time to plan tomorrow night’s strategy against the Needles High School Basketball Team. We said our goodbyes, picked up our belongings, and headed for the truck, the sight of which reminded us that we were still in the Army. Bill Howell was the first to arrive at the truck, and as he opened the canvas flap to allow access to its bed we were shocked to find there were now more of us than we originally started out with. Were these new recruits? No, much to our surprise several of the High School senior girls decided to take up residence in the back of the truck and were refusing to vacate until we had shown them Camp Rickenbacker. I remember hearing Bill Howell say. “Oh glory” I wasn’t sure at first what he meant by that, but then Bill did have a way with words. The more we insisted they remove themselves the more they refused. It was decision time. Should we destroy the goodwill we had spent all evening trying to establish? Or on the other hand as emissaries of the United States Army, stay in good graces with the locals, and extend to them the courtesy of a personal tour of Camp Rickenbacker. I’m not sure if it was Bill Howell’s “Oh Glory” or what, but the latter won out. “Ooh Glory.” By the end of that evening we had made several more new friends, and I had met the girl of my dreams. She would be my soul mate, the mother of my children and grandchildren; we would grow old together, and comfort one another through all of life’s little trials. Morgan as I will call her for benefit of the story was a Mojave Indian and lived on the reservation where I ultimately ended up spending all of my free time, and was accepted into her family as one of them. (No, she didn’t live in a teepee. I did, remember?) Her father had even given me an Indian name that I discovered many years later, loosely translated to, “that young flying fool.” One of the attributes of Army Aircraft is their ability to land on almost any unimproved surface, In other words, if it looks okay, land on it. Therefore the dirt roads running through the reservation became my own personal landing field. I spent as much time with my L-19 Bird Dog at the reservation giving Morgan’s family and friends free rides and an occasional flying lesson, as I spent playing war games. At one point we were short handed and I needed a bombardier, call it an epiphany or whatever you want, but I flew out to the reservation and picked up Morgan’s dad. With a few minutes of instructions I had him dropping little one-pound flower sacks out of the open side door of the Bird Dog. I don’t know if it was my flying, or his dropping, but the flour sacks were right on target. They hit their designated marks as I flew over the enemy convoy, then the tents in their compound. All the while flying no more than fifty feet over their heads. That’s more than likely where he came up with the Flying Fool. Time was growing short, my unit would be leaving Needles on June 1, Morgan would be graduating from High School in the middle of the month and I wouldn’t be there to see it, so we had to make the best of what time we had left. I had no idea what would happen to our relationship after I went back to Fort Lewis. It was too far to go on a weekend pass, although perhaps I could take some leave time. But for now we just had to take advantage of what time we had left. Then came a surprise, they were sending me to, Blythe California, where I would be living on an Air Conditioned Red Cross train, while representing the U.S. Army in their weeklong Harvest Festival. How would I survive without Morgan for a week? “I wouldn’t.” I thought. The answer was simple. Get her a uniform, put on an extra pair of my lieutenants bars, and make her a nurse, then put her in the L-19 and go to Blythe, and it worked like a charm. We even entered a contest and were crowned King and Queen of the festival, at which point we received all the amenities due a royal couple. However, as I said earlier, “all good things must come to an end.” In addition, by the time the week in Blythe was over, my stay in California was almost over. The following week flew by (no pun intended) and it was time for me to leave for Fort Lewis. Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I had ever done in my young life, and I know it was no easier on Morgan, or her family for that matter. I still to this day think I saw a tear in her father’s eye. Which years later he would deny. (Hint hint) It wasn’t long after I got back to Washington, that I received orders for Vietnam. It happened so fast I had no way of contacting Morgan; they had no phone so all I could do was write and explain the situation, and pray she wouldn’t forget me. I knew in my heart that I could never forget her; the whole situation was tearing me apart. While in Flight School, I qualified to fly the Grumman OV-1 Mohawk, which was the Army’s only fixed wing combat aircraft; and as a result this had me all over Vietnam, which made staying in touch with home on a regular basis almost impossible. Consequently I lost touch with everyone. Then what seemed to be inevitable for so many pilots. When I least expected it, I was shot down, and spent the next year of my life in a military hospital. Four and a half months of which I was in a coma, the remaining months in rehabilitation healing from the injuries both physical and mental. The remainder of the time was spent learning how to walk again. Which took all most as long as it did the first time we learn to walk after birth. The difference being the first time I stood, I took off on a run, not so this time. When I was finally released from the hospital I discovered none of my personnel effects had found their way back home from Vietnam, that included Morgan’s address which by this time I couldn’t remember. I guess that’s understandable, with the events of the preceding year I was lucky I could remember my own name and address. As time passed memories faded and I ended up in another relationship that was at best rocky from the start. Looking back, I think at least part of it was my fault. When things got out of hand and more than I could deal with I found myself mentally comparing my wife to Morgan, and Morgan always won out. But then, who can compare to our first love? Another twenty years passed by which time my marriage had ended and I was retiring from the Army. My military career was ending at Fort Lewis; right where it had began all those years earlier. It had come full circle. Or had it? I had one more thing to do before I could get on with the rest of my life. I knew in my mind and in my heart that the effort would be fruitless; nonetheless I made the decision to at the very least, make an attempt to find Morgan. If for no other reason to see where life had taken her, and if successful make some sort of a feeble attempt at explaining my disappearance. Retirement day arrived; I packed a few things in the surplus Mohawk I had purchased and spent the past five years restoring and headed south. It was late in the afternoon when I arrived at the Needles Municipal Airport , and after answering a thousand questions about the Mohawk, and reminiscing well into the evening, the invasion of 1964; I decided to enlist the help of the local pilots in my quest for Morgan. Surely someone could steer me in the right direction. That someone turned out to be a young Mojave Indian pilot who had listened intently to the conversation, as well as asking many questions of his own. What’s more, he had hair as red as mine had been at one time, and he bore the same first name. “Funny coincidence” I thought. “You must be the young flying fool, my mother and grandfather have told me so much about.” Then extending his hand, and with tears in his eyes he said. “I have waited all my life for the opportunity to say this. Hi dad; and how was your day?” As I shared his tears so many thoughts raced through my mind in such a short time I couldn’t keep track of them. The first of which, I had a son. What had his life had been like? As I queried his life, what seemed like a thousand questions followed from the both of us? Among other things, I discovered John had joined the Army after finishing college. He was now home on leave after just completing basic training, and would be leaving for Flight School at Fort Rucker Alabama, in two weeks. “It was destined,” he explained. (A few more tears.) Then the answer to the question that had brought me back to the desert. Morgan was well, and single; she for whatever reason had never married. “Can I see her I asked?” With a smile I wish you could have seen he answered. “I think we could arrange that dad.” Two phone calls and as many hours later, a face appeared that time had preserved just as I remembered it. The next few hours were as tearful as the previous, to say the least. Morgan explained that after not hearing from me for so long they had feared the worst, but never gave up hope that this day would arrive. Several months passed when I received orders from my soon to be Lieutenant son now in Flight School, that I should never leave their lives again. We hadn’t told John yet; but we had come to the same conclusion. And were married on my birthday in December of that year. As I write this we are closing in on our twentieth anniversary, Morgan is still teaching High School history. (She says she will never retire) I still operate a flight school at the airport, and John will be retiring from the Army in a few years, at which time he will take over the family business. We never had additional children, but were blessed with three beautiful, Grandchildren. The oldest, John the third is well on his way to becoming an accomplished pilot and plans to follow in his father, and grandfathers footsteps, as the third generation of young flying fools. The best part of not being perfect, is simply the joy that it brings to others. J. Francis.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
The Flying Fool
It was February 1964, I was a young Army pilot recently out of flight school and assigned to Company A Fourth Aviation Battalion out of Fort Lewis Washington. Our sole mission in life was to administer aerial support to The Army’s war games, wherever they happened to be. This in preparation for our eventual deployment to some part of the world where we would be involved in yet another skirmish, but that’s a few other stories down the road. Then word came down we had been invited to take part in a joint, Army, Air Force Maneuver called Exercise Desert Strike, being held in the California Desert. Desert Strike, which history says, was the largest Desert Warfare Maneuver since General George Patton trained his tank forces in the same area in 1942. That in preparation for the invasion of, North Africa. Well we weren’t going to invade Africa, but we did invade the small California desert town of Needles, and in total, an area that covered some 13 million acres spread over California, Nevada, and Arizona. This invasion involved over one hundred thousand military personnel, ninety thousand Army, and ten thousand Air Force. Not to mention 780 aircraft, 7000 wheeled vehicles, and 1000 tanks. And cost the American taxpayer a mere 60 million 1964 U.S. Dollars. Why the desert? It would have made more sense playing the game in the coastal swamp areas of Florid and Louisiana for our eventual deployment to Vietnam, rather than in the middle of the treeless desert. However, who am I to say? We were well received by the local population who I am certain viewed the invading force as a boon to the economy they had not seen since the days of General George Patton. Our unit was stationed adjacent to the runway at the Needles Municipal Airport, where the Army Corps of Engineers carved up the desert sand and laid down perforated metal plates called, PSP, or Marsden Matting, as our runways and helipads. They also constructed a village of tents reminiscent of a scene from Mash. Rather than the 4077, we dubbed it Camp Rickenbacker, after the famous aviator Eddy Rickenbacker, although most of us were too young to remember who he was, but hey; it sounded good. Now as tents go these were the ultimate in comfort. They were big enough to hold up to ten men, they had wooden floors to keep the snakes and scorpions out, (it would have been nice if the snakes, and scorpions had read the manual) and had pot bellied stoves operated by gasoline for heat. And yes, the desert gets cold at night in February. We would wake up in the morning and find ice-sickles hanging from the lister bags. (Canvas water bags hanging from a tripod) While the shower stalls were under construction, (the same type that was seen in many episodes of the 4077) the Army arranged for us to shower at the local High School. And this is where my story begins. Ψ By our fourth day in the desert we were all well aware our need for showers. Even with the freezing temperatures at night, nonetheless by 11:00am, daytime temperatures had already reached the 90’s and would soon top 100 degrees. And running around in that heat, well let’s just say it made you sweat. We were part of the advanced party overseeing construction of our new desert home, and as yet had no command center in place; this made communications with the brass at Fort Lewis just a little slow to say the least. (This was before cell phones and fax machines) It was several days after the invasion of Needles, before we found a note in the latest mailbag from Fort Lewis telling of the arrangements they made for us to shower at the local High School. (Good thing we found it.) The plan was simple, pack as many guys as we could in the back of a ¾-ton pick-up truck and go take our showers. Now you have to remember, most of us especially the younger pilots hadn’t seen the inside of a High School in at least six years, and in the case of the older guys it was many more than that. So believe me when I tell you that we had our reservations. Did it take someone from the Pentagon to negotiate this deal? What did they get us into? First we invade their town, now their High School. Would there be enemy forces waiting to repel our advance? We had no idea what to expect, or how we would be accepted or viewed. However, as some famous President once said. “There is nothing to fear, but fear itself.” And as we soon discovered, he was right.(that’s probably why he was elected president) By the end of the first night we had made a few new friends, had a gym to work out in, and a place to play basketball. Even if it did end up with the high school students making us look like a bunch of beginners. As they say all good things must come to an end, the night was all too soon over and it was time for us to go back to our desert dwellings, and once again be soldiers and pilots playing war games. But that would give us ample time to plan tomorrow night’s strategy against the Needles High School Basketball Team. We said our goodbyes, picked up our belongings, and headed for the truck, the sight of which reminded us that we were still in the Army. Bill Howell was the first to arrive at the truck, and as he opened the canvas flap to allow access to its bed we were shocked to find there were now more of us than we originally started out with. Were these new recruits? No, much to our surprise several of the High School senior girls decided to take up residence in the back of the truck and were refusing to vacate until we had shown them Camp Rickenbacker. I remember hearing Bill Howell say. “Oh glory” I wasn’t sure at first what he meant by that, but then Bill did have a way with words. The more we insisted they remove themselves the more they refused. It was decision time. Should we destroy the goodwill we had spent all evening trying to establish? Or on the other hand as emissaries of the United States Army, stay in good graces with the locals, and extend to them the courtesy of a personal tour of Camp Rickenbacker. I’m not sure if it was Bill Howell’s “Oh Glory” or what, but the latter won out. “Ooh Glory.” By the end of that evening we had made several more new friends, and I had met the girl of my dreams. She would be my soul mate, the mother of my children and grandchildren; we would grow old together, and comfort one another through all of life’s little trials. Morgan as I will call her for benefit of the story was a Mojave Indian and lived on the reservation where I ultimately ended up spending all of my free time, and was accepted into her family as one of them. (No, she didn’t live in a teepee. I did, remember?) Her father had even given me an Indian name that I discovered many years later, loosely translated to, “that young flying fool.” One of the attributes of Army Aircraft is their ability to land on almost any unimproved surface, In other words, if it looks okay, land on it. Therefore the dirt roads running through the reservation became my own personal landing field. I spent as much time with my L-19 Bird Dog at the reservation giving Morgan’s family and friends free rides and an occasional flying lesson, as I spent playing war games. At one point we were short handed and I needed a bombardier, call it an epiphany or whatever you want, but I flew out to the reservation and picked up Morgan’s dad. With a few minutes of instructions I had him dropping little one-pound flower sacks out of the open side door of the Bird Dog. I don’t know if it was my flying, or his dropping, but the flour sacks were right on target. They hit their designated marks as I flew over the enemy convoy, then the tents in their compound. All the while flying no more than fifty feet over their heads. That’s more than likely where he came up with the Flying Fool. Time was growing short, my unit would be leaving Needles on June 1, Morgan would be graduating from High School in the middle of the month and I wouldn’t be there to see it, so we had to make the best of what time we had left. I had no idea what would happen to our relationship after I went back to Fort Lewis. It was too far to go on a weekend pass, although perhaps I could take some leave time. But for now we just had to take advantage of what time we had left. Then came a surprise, they were sending me to, Blythe California, where I would be living on an Air Conditioned Red Cross train, while representing the U.S. Army in their weeklong Harvest Festival. How would I survive without Morgan for a week? “I wouldn’t.” I thought. The answer was simple. Get her a uniform, put on an extra pair of my lieutenants bars, and make her a nurse, then put her in the L-19 and go to Blythe, and it worked like a charm. We even entered a contest and were crowned King and Queen of the festival, at which point we received all the amenities due a royal couple. However, as I said earlier, “all good things must come to an end.” In addition, by the time the week in Blythe was over, my stay in California was almost over. The following week flew by (no pun intended) and it was time for me to leave for Fort Lewis. Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I had ever done in my young life, and I know it was no easier on Morgan, or her family for that matter. I still to this day think I saw a tear in her father’s eye. Which years later he would deny. (Hint hint) It wasn’t long after I got back to Washington, that I received orders for Vietnam. It happened so fast I had no way of contacting Morgan; they had no phone so all I could do was write and explain the situation, and pray she wouldn’t forget me. I knew in my heart that I could never forget her; the whole situation was tearing me apart. While in Flight School, I qualified to fly the Grumman OV-1 Mohawk, which was the Army’s only fixed wing combat aircraft; and as a result this had me all over Vietnam, which made staying in touch with home on a regular basis almost impossible. Consequently I lost touch with everyone. Then what seemed to be inevitable for so many pilots. When I least expected it, I was shot down, and spent the next year of my life in a military hospital. Four and a half months of which I was in a coma, the remaining months in rehabilitation healing from the injuries both physical and mental. The remainder of the time was spent learning how to walk again. Which took all most as long as it did the first time we learn to walk after birth. The difference being the first time I stood, I took off on a run, not so this time. When I was finally released from the hospital I discovered none of my personnel effects had found their way back home from Vietnam, that included Morgan’s address which by this time I couldn’t remember. I guess that’s understandable, with the events of the preceding year I was lucky I could remember my own name and address. As time passed memories faded and I ended up in another relationship that was at best rocky from the start. Looking back, I think at least part of it was my fault. When things got out of hand and more than I could deal with I found myself mentally comparing my wife to Morgan, and Morgan always won out. But then, who can compare to our first love? Another twenty years passed by which time my marriage had ended and I was retiring from the Army. My military career was ending at Fort Lewis; right where it had began all those years earlier. It had come full circle. Or had it? I had one more thing to do before I could get on with the rest of my life. I knew in my mind and in my heart that the effort would be fruitless; nonetheless I made the decision to at the very least, make an attempt to find Morgan. If for no other reason to see where life had taken her, and if successful make some sort of a feeble attempt at explaining my disappearance. Retirement day arrived; I packed a few things in the surplus Mohawk I had purchased and spent the past five years restoring and headed south. It was late in the afternoon when I arrived at the Needles Municipal Airport , and after answering a thousand questions about the Mohawk, and reminiscing well into the evening, the invasion of 1964; I decided to enlist the help of the local pilots in my quest for Morgan. Surely someone could steer me in the right direction. That someone turned out to be a young Mojave Indian pilot who had listened intently to the conversation, as well as asking many questions of his own. What’s more, he had hair as red as mine had been at one time, and he bore the same first name. “Funny coincidence” I thought. “You must be the young flying fool, my mother and grandfather have told me so much about.” Then extending his hand, and with tears in his eyes he said. “I have waited all my life for the opportunity to say this. Hi dad; and how was your day?” As I shared his tears so many thoughts raced through my mind in such a short time I couldn’t keep track of them. The first of which, I had a son. What had his life had been like? As I queried his life, what seemed like a thousand questions followed from the both of us? Among other things, I discovered John had joined the Army after finishing college. He was now home on leave after just completing basic training, and would be leaving for Flight School at Fort Rucker Alabama, in two weeks. “It was destined,” he explained. (A few more tears.) Then the answer to the question that had brought me back to the desert. Morgan was well, and single; she for whatever reason had never married. “Can I see her I asked?” With a smile I wish you could have seen he answered. “I think we could arrange that dad.” Two phone calls and as many hours later, a face appeared that time had preserved just as I remembered it. The next few hours were as tearful as the previous, to say the least. Morgan explained that after not hearing from me for so long they had feared the worst, but never gave up hope that this day would arrive. Several months passed when I received orders from my soon to be Lieutenant son now in Flight School, that I should never leave their lives again. We hadn’t told John yet; but we had come to the same conclusion. And were married on my birthday in December of that year. As I write this we are closing in on our twentieth anniversary, Morgan is still teaching High School history. (She says she will never retire) I still operate a flight school at the airport, and John will be retiring from the Army in a few years, at which time he will take over the family business. We never had additional children, but were blessed with three beautiful, Grandchildren. The oldest, John the third is well on his way to becoming an accomplished pilot and plans to follow in his father, and grandfathers footsteps, as the third generation of young flying fools. The best part of not being perfect, is simply the joy that it brings to others. J. Francis.
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