Beginning – 1951-1955 – Navy Years
Once at Bainbridge, we along with the other recruits were disembarked inside the main gate, and formed into lines. What a strange bunch we all were. No two looked anything alike, dressed in all types of attire, with long, short, or no hair, suitcases and sacks it was really a disparate bunch. We responded when our names were called and placed in one of two groups. These two groups made up two companies which were a part of a battalion. My group was assigned Company 202 and the other (not surprisingly) 201. Each company was supervised by a Chief Petty officer, who served as Company Commander. Chief Hoyer was our guy and he was responsible for our training. The first thing that happened was we were herded into a Navy Supply store run by the Quartermaster of the base. Here we were given the clothes and supplies we needed for this and future navy activities. It all started out with the issuance of a “sea bag” (think of a large white duffel bag). Into this bag everything went. There was a long table behind which were supply people handing out individual items, like: “shorts, boxer, 7 each, shirts, T cotton, 7 each, jumper, dress, cotton, white, each, jumper, dress, blue, wool, 2 each, shirt, blue, Chambly, 2 each, trouser, blue, dungaree, 2 each, and so on. Part of the inventory included blankets, hats, and even a mattress cover (affectionately called “fart sacks”). This latter item served not only to protect the pathetic mattresses, but also became your last resting place if you became deceased for any reason, it was actually a body bag).
Getting all that stuff into the single sea bag was a chore, but we did it and then we staggered off to our assigned barracks. There Chief Hoyer had us all unload the sea bags next to our assigned bunks (all double). He checked each sea bag to make sure it was empty then instructed us to find the mattress cover and showed the proper way to install it. Then with great detail how the Navy expected us to make the bed. Bottom sheet all four corners square and of “hospital’ quality. This meant it had to meet the quarter test; dropping a quarter from 3 or so feet and it had to bounce up far enough to catch it without bending over to do it. It can be done, but practice is needed. To think we were there by the end of that first session, was out of the question for any of us, but of course some were worse than the others. The upper bunks had to be done first (we were not told this, I think on purpose). If the bottom finished first, then his bunk was subject to some stomping by the upper berth guy trying to get his bunk in shape. Needless to say this created some friction right out of the hat. Clearly some lessons had to be learned the hard way. The first and foremost was team mates (like each other or not) must work together if a joint satisfactory solution were to be met, (Maybe that’s a lesson the US Congress has yet to learn). The second lesion I only learned recently. Maybe I am slow too. A few years ago, in 2017 a book was written by a retired Navy Admiral who was the commandant of the Navy Seals. The title: “Make the Bed”. The point of the book (and apparently of the Navy) was to assign a task to be done first thing in the morning, every morning, nicely, precisely, and in good spirit and you will be set to go for the rest of the day, because at least you have done one thing right. Although that was never made clear to us, it is not a bad philosophy to follow through life (I still make the bed first thing every morning, and yes with square corners on non-contour sheets).
After the bed making, we were taught how to fold and/or roll our clothes to efficiently fit into the sea bag. That was to be our “foot locker” for three months, and it would be checked for cleanness and neatness periodically (unannounced). When we finished all that, the day was about over and the Chief announced that while he was the Company Commander, he had other responsibilities and could not be around all the time. Well, my name was first on his alphabetical list of Company personnel. I heard my name: “Barker!!” “Yes Sir:” I responded, wondering what it was I could have possibly done wrong already. He held up the roster, and announced with finality, that since I was first on the list, I was therefore assigned “Recruit Company Commander”. When he was not there, I was in charge until further notice.
The very next morning is when the reality of what we had just committed to, sunk into us in a real way. We all had an appointment with the barber shop. I was fortunate because Dick had warned me to make sure I get a haircut before I left home and to make it a short one. I did and as a result, the barber (a bit disappointed) sent me back to the barrack claiming I needed no cut. However the rest, especially the guys with long locks, really were clipped back to almost “skin-head” status, and some were actually in tears about it. Uniform short haircuts were a great equalizer. Because of circumstance, many recruits would have to learn conformity in a way they never had to before. Being assigned Recruit Company Commander (RCC) didn’t do me much good to start with. Such an unruly bunch (20 +/-) of ragamuffins surely didn’t exist anywhere else in the world. However, most were somewhat manageable (not hostile), but there were two from Brockton MA that were the exception.
Domansky and Scully were good buddies. Domansky was benign enough and didn’t present a problem, but Scully was something else. Think of the “Fonz” in “Happy Days” (in build and attitude). Always wanted to argue and settle things with a fight behind the barracks. The guys were terrified of him and would do anything he told them. On a lot of things it didn’t matter much except it didn’t help morale, and our company was about the worst performers in the Battalion. Chief Hoyer was less than pleased. I had to do something to restore some respect or I was dead meat, so I rescinded orders Scully was handing out and told the guys to get back to doing their assigned chores. Infuriated, Scully would get in my face and challenge me to do battle behind the barracks. After several of these episodes, I said, OK, let’s go. The rest of the company were doing other things and didn’t hear the exchange, so it was just Scully and me out back. ‘OK Scully”, I said, “here we are, what do you want to do?” “Beat the crap out of you, what do you think?” he said. I was not a little guy, 190 lbs. and ex-fullback at the college level (but one lousy boxer, but he didn’t know that).
I asked him if he really thought he could whip me, and he said he probably could. I agreed he might, but he would end up a bit worse for wear also and what would we have proved? In frustration he burst out that he was sick of being with such a bunch of sad sack losers and was determined to change things. I pointed out that we actually agreed on something (he smiled and gave a little laugh), I further pointed out I was assigned and in no way lobbied for the job of RCC, and could use some positive help. Together we just might be able to grow this bunch to #1. Why don’t you and I do that instead of beating the daylights out of each other back here for no good reason? In addition, it would make Hoyer look good and he’s a good guy isn’t he?” He thought for a minute and said; “you would do that?” “Sure” I said, “why wouldn’t I? I have no real beef with you, and as far as I know, you with me. I think, along with Domansky, we would make a good team. ”Damn, I read you all wrong,” Scully said. “I’m in, let’s get started”. That exchange was the whole turning point of my recruiting experience. The lesson here was a far less painful outcome in the majority of conflict cases that can be achieved with a little smooth talk and a sense of humor (get the other person to laugh or at least smile).
There is not a whole lot to talk about Boot camp. I was basically an orientation to the US Navy, its traditions, protocols and jargon. After making the pad (bed) every morning, we headed out to the “grinder” (parade grounds) around which all the barracks and other buildings were arranged. We learned to “Faw-wood harch! To the right, harch! To the left, harch! To the rear, harch! Double-time, harch!” All this was done to a cadence of “hup, 2-3-4, or just “hup-hup” every time the left foot hit the ground. The cadence was called by the chief walking along-side the troops, or in our case me, if the chief wasn’t there. As we called the cadence we had to keep the guys in line and in step. To do this at the beginning while adhering to the various marching commands, would have been comical, if we didn’t get into so much trouble. We (Company 202) were the worst, and our little leadership team had our work cut out for us. All this was being done in preparation for our final pass in review coming up at the end of the 3 months.
Off the parade grounds, we had classes oriented around all phases of Navy life. Heavy emphasis was placed on the types of ships used in ours and other Navy’s around the world, i.e. battleships, cruisers, destroyers, aircraft carriers, submarines, etc. Also we learned the profiles of the more common merchant ships (tankers, freighters, etc.). Silhouettes varied not only between ship class, but by country, and we better know what we are looking at while at sea, or in the air. We also learned the jargon, i.e. ship, not boat, gasoline engine, not motor, electric motor, not engine, deck, not floor, passage, not hall, ladder not stairs, overhead, not ceiling, head/can, not bathroom and trousers not pants (pants are for ladies). A few things have changed since, but we will dispense of any perceived “political correctness” in this retrospective. Life is what it is at the time it is. The few women in the Navy at that time were officially called “Waves” (Women’s Auxiliary Volunteer Emergency Service), a part of the U.S. Navy Reserve.
Another important lesson we learned was to take care of our uniforms. We learned how to wash, dry, fold and pack to yield wrinkle-free duds for morning inspection. We also learned how to sew and repair small tears and rips. If a button came off any part of your uniform, you better know how to sew a new one in the correct place and position, and it better look brand new. No wives or Moms were allowed on base. Each morning on the “grinder” we would have Company inspection. All hands in full uniform, white hats, neckerchiefs and polished shoes. So washing clothes was a major occupier of what little free time we had. The wash room represented its own unique battle zone, especially in the beginning. No washing machines, all hand washed. As most women know, pure soap and water applied to white cotton material soon yields results less than pure white, but rather a white with a yellowish cast to it. So bleach (Clorox or some other harsh detergent) was required. Unfortunately, contrary to the mind-set of the typical young “stud” of the time, with bleach, more doesn’t equal better. But they soon learned and usually the hard way.
By noon on a typical Saturday, the clothes lines were virtually loaded with spanking clean whites and blues including boxer shorts and T shirts. This unfortunately coincided with a surprise visit to our commander by a Washington higher-up. He arrived by helicopter and it landed right in the middle of the grinder. Well now, it had been a dry summer and with all the marching, the land surface of the parade grounds was finely ground dust. The cloud the helicopter generated was almost indescribable, you could hardly see each other. When it all settled, the clothes lines were still loaded, but now with a uniformly gray cast to it. Guess what happened on Sunday, our one day of sort of “rest?” Back to the laundry scrub boards.
About once a month (not always predictable) we would have a major inspection by the commander of the base and staff. The commander would walk down each row and inspect each individual, and often ask the sailor a question, such as “can you tell me who the secretary of the navy is?” This very question was asked to a kid next to me and the kid blurted out “Cordell Hull?” The commander just closed his eyes and shook his head. The guy just identified the Sec. of State (1933-1944). Since Hull served in that position longer than anyone else up to that time, the name probably stuck in the kids mind. By the way, naval history was also emphasized in our “book learning”. Since his dumb response reflected on the whole company, you can rest assured when it was over, of all the things this guy might not know, the Secretary of the Navy wasn’t one of them.
As in all organizations, there is a small percent that feel the rules just don’t apply to them. We had one guy that was a piece of work. He had the appearance of “Pig Pen ” of the Peanuts cartoon strip. He never showered, which became obvious if you happened to be in close proximity, and he never washed any clothes. In fact he went completely through all the white garments in his sea bag, turned the bag over and started again. Even our chief made a comment. One day I came into the barracks to a ruckus and carried on in the shower room. When I looked in, Scully and Domansky and some others had this kid stripped and washed down with a “kiyi” brush (those stiff, brown bristle brushes used for serious clean-up). He was beet red. His entire sea bag was dumped on the floor of the shower, and when Scully saw me, he said we were just cleaning up around the edges, and this sailor is about to wash, dry and fold his entire sea bag to our satisfaction by tomorrow. I looked at the kid, who was (to his credit) toughing it out, and I asked if he was alright. He said he was and that he got the message. And he did. He ever again caused a cleanliness issue and became one of the best of our companies’ recruits. While not for all (but for some) the preemptive action approach is just the ticket to set them straight. Even Chief Hoyer was in disbelief.
In the whole 3 months of basic training, my greatest disappointment was when Joyce sent me a note announcing she and a couple of buddies were making the trip down from the Philadelphia area to see me the following Sunday, visitors day. But she didn’t make it. In the fall of 1951 Joyce was enjoying her junior year at Beaver College just outside of Philadelphia. The drive to Bainbridge MD should not be a big deal. Of course we didn’t have the Interstate Highway system then and the traffic in this part of the country could be (and still is) really stiff. There was a huge parking area out near the main gate where weekend visits were generally made. I waited out there all day, taking a brief break for lunch, and returned and waited until late afternoon, when the Marine guard informed me the gates were closed for the day, and while he felt my pain, the game was over for the day. Turns out there was a good reason they couldn’t make it, but had no idea how to get in touch with me. But I recovered and was happy I only had a few more weeks left.
We had our final review and I am happy to report, Company 202 won the best company award. I thought Chief Hoyer was going to faint. Shortly after that we met with base personnel people to determine where we would be deployed from Bainbridge. We had few choices, Navy general service, which was aboard ship some place, where more specialized choices and opportunities would be offered, or Naval Aviation, with parallel specialized choices and opportunities would be presented. I picked Naval Aviation, which was accepted and my orders were cut to report to AP (airborne preparatory) school at the Jacksonville Naval Air Station, Jacksonville FL in two weeks (my first leave since joining). Boy was I ever ready for a break. Not much to say for such a short time, except I spent a lot of time visiting family and friends (DIII-1). This was late October, early November and Joyce was still at college, where she was just ending her junior year, but able to break away for a weekend. It was then we decided to announce our engagement. She already had her senior picture taken and by now I had a bit of a formal navy picture of me (DII-12). The time went by like a whirlwind and next thing I knew, I was on the “Orange Blossom Special”, a direct train from New York to Jacksonville FL, with very few stops on the way. Remember, airline transportation, while available was not the norm and flights were erratic, only to a few destinations, and expensive. So the train it was. Once in Jacksonville, I transferred (with a few others) to a western spur that went southwest along US 17 and the St. Johns River to a small rail stop on Rt. 17 at the Jacksonville Naval Air Station as I saw it across Roosevelt Blvd. (U.S. 17) standing on the platform with my very full sea bag (DIII-1).
The base bordered on the St. Johns River (one of the few major U.S. Rivers to flow north) about halfway between Jacksonville and Orange Park. I dragged my sea bag across the highway and up to the main gate manned by US Marines. I should emphasize at this point, that while in the Marine Corps. And the US Navy were all under the jurisdiction of the U.S Navy Department, there was not much love shared between them. We just co-exist. The guard on duty was nice enough, though, and he passed on my orders to a Private on duty in a waiting room. My orders were checked and I was checked in and told to wait there for a bus that would take me to our A&P barracks. During the rest of the day, several other young “airmen ” checked into the barracks and that consisted of our class for the next 3 or so months. During this period we learned all about naval aviation, sea and land-based, and the various jobs and duties that were involved. The jobs varied a lot and included engine mechanic, radio and communications operator (we had to become proficient in Morris Code-electronic, and Semaphore-flag communications), RADAR technician, photography, ordinance (guns and armament), electrician, personnel (paper pushers), quartermaster (equipment and supplies), rigger (parachutes and related materials) and others that don’t come readily to mind.
Upon completing our basic aviation training, we were promoted to airman second class (two stripes). We also had a choice of specialty school we would like, given there was room for us (filling a vacancy). At this point in time there were only two choices, San Diego CA, or back here in FL. That to me was a no brainer, and Jacksonville was it, of course. While there were several specialties offered, the one I chose was Ordinance. The symbol for this (and was to be affixed to my sleeve) was a round bomb with a flaming fuse. In this school (as the symbol would suggest) anything that would shoot or blow up we discussed and explored. We learned to field strip and maintain everything from the web-belt mounted Colt .45 pistol to the Browning automatic rifle and 20 mil. cannon as used on many naval aircraft. We also learned about torpedoes, sea and land mines, and how to disarm them (just as soon not try, thank you very much), and all kinds of pyrotechnics (flares, lights and other luminaries), and plastic explosives.
When ordinance training was complete, we were offered a variety of billets in various locations around the country. Selections were made in order of our grades. I was second in the class, and there was a neat Utility squadron vacancy in Quonset Point RI, and that would be close to home. I was going to make a deal with the guy who was first in the class. I thought I had it made since he was born and raised in Jacksonville, and there were a couple of vacancies here at NAS. When I approached him on the subject, his answer was a heart-felt “heck no!!” The last thing he wanted to do was to stay in Jacksonville, and couldn’t wait to get as far away as possible. I wasn’t about to change his mind and on reflection, can’t blame him very much.
I really didn’t want to join the fleet (aboard a carrier or something like that) but fortunately there were several choices available here at the NAS. There were patrol and general service squadron’s looking for ordinance replacements, but one stood out as the most interesting and that was VJ-2, a weather squadron that was based in Jacksonville. Remember, when it came to picking a school, my first choice was meteorology, but that school was way out in California. While I didn’t really know what mission VJ-2 had, it sure sounded promising, so I signed up. Why in the world you might ask, would a weather squadron need an ordinance man since the planes didn’t carry guns or bombs. Well they really didn’t, but Navy regulations stipulated that regular personal making up a flight crew included an ordinance stripe. They had a use for us, never fear and I will reveal that shortly. However before I set foot in the first plane, I had to help fulfill squadron responsibilities to the base at large, by assisting assigned base personnel in many of their housekeeping chores (mopping decks, cleaning the heads, grounds maintenance, etc.). The barracks I stayed during my early training was a large general barracks for the enlisted personnel assigned to the navy base itself. It was a large 3 story structure with plenty of “heads” to clean. I did my share. A typical head-cleaning crew included two “gobs” (sailors), a couple of petty officers, and a commissioned officer (Ensign, or Lieutenant Junior Grade (Lt.jg). Guess who did the work? Even the military, or perhaps especially the military operates inefficiently under a burdensome hierarchical bureaucracy.
My major base chore was 3 months of “mess cooking”, which was in my case peeling, eyeing and sizing potatoes, and assisting the unloading and storage of produce delivered each day. I had two other recruits with which to work, both Marines. They were yet to be indoctrinated and were pretty good guys, and we got along just fine. The potato peelers were big round drums with a rough spinning inside lining that would whip off the skins in short order. The idea then was to unload the potatoes, and with a paring knife scoop out the eyes, and then for extra-large spuds, cut them down to size so the whole mess would cook up smoothly (more or less). Now, it didn’t take long for us to figure out that by leaving them in the peeler long enough, the eyes disappeared and the sizing became hardly an issue. Of course most of the potatoes came out the size of walnuts, and it didn’t take the head chef long to straighten us out, and with some emphasis.
The most difficult chore was the unloading and storing new produce in the walk-in refrigerators. The idea of course, was to take the older produce and place it on top of the new arrivals. Not everyone was that diligent. Being new, I was bound to follow the rules. One day a load of crated eggs were delivered and I saw a few crates still in the “fridge”. Well I moved the top two, and the bottom one looked a little worse for wear. The top was askew, and upon looking in the crate I noticed a full crate of eggs each one totally black! No smell whatsoever, just black. I grabbed the top and looked on the label and the delivery date was (I think October) 1933! I am not making this up. The days date was the fall of 1952. While even the chief chef was amazed, I am somewhat surprised he didn’t try to use them. A couple of days earlier, when one of my marine buddies approached the chef with a real rotten and aromatic egg this master cook held it up high and declared to my horrified marine friend: “son, there is no such thing as a rotten egg in the navy (except for perhaps a few selected personnel)”. The mess hall was adjacent to the main barracks (one of the few things that seemed to make sense). When I was assigned to a squadron, my billet changed to a smaller two story “I” shaped building a half mile or so from the main barracks and the flight line along the St. Johns River. This created a bit of a hike every night after we had completed the pre-breakfast food preparation. One night I was walking down an alley adjacent to the mess hall where a whole line of metal garbage cans were stored. About halfway down the line, an earth shaking clatter and squalling scared the living daylights out of me. Realize that a navy base is dead silent at 11:30PM. Well, turns out that a damn cat had gotten into one of the garbage cans, and I scared it to the point it wanted out of the can, but couldn’t quite make it. After my heart started again, I managed to scoop the scroungy feline out, and it ran howling out of sight.
By the time I reached our new barracks, my heart finally made it back into my chest. But it was nice to be in someplace I could call home. The barracks had two stories. The center part of the “I” and the two ends all had central passages with double bunks lining both sides. The middle of the center section was reserved for the “heads” and showers. The outer grounds were landscaped (somewhat) and the base provided minimum maintenance, which suited us OK. Next to our barracks was the Marine barracks occupied by the base Marine guard detachment. The basic difference in the two service cultures could not be more diverse. Marine culture was a no nonsense, by-the-book mentality and above all “spit and polish” (you could comb your hair in the gloss radiating from their shoes). Needless to say, the grounds around their barracks made ours look pathetic, a fact not lost or kept quiet by them. A sailor could not get off the base without a thorough inspection by the Marine guard to see if you were fit for “civilian” interaction (mostly buying a beer and a burger).
As might be expected, the lawn around the Marine barracks was pristine without a weed in sight and well edged beds throughout. All this was maintained by a vast hose-driven sprinkler system (no automatic systems back then). One night, a bunch of guys (me not included) chose one of the longer hose segments with a sprinkler head lazily rotating. They crimped the hose well back and sneaked to the window at the end of the first floor corridor. With no AC these windows were often left open with a fan underneath to spread a little cool air throughout the structure. Well the sprinkler head fit nicely on the floor and the guys just kept feeding the hose through the window until the sprinkler stopped. Pulling it back an inch or two, they dropped the hose and beat it out of the area as fast as they could. A while later, in our upper window (that had a fire escape) two shore patrol guys called us all to attention. They needed the element of surprise so no guilty party would be forewarned. All of us were accounted for. Then the SP’s with smiles on their faces described the inside of that barracks when the sprinkler resumed its lazy rotation in the middle of that barracks. Never did find out who was responsible for it, but the “Jar Heads” (Marine’s) didn’t soon forget it (it became even harder to get out of the gate).
Getting back to my first day (the above happened while I was stationed there, but not at the very beginning), I was excited to report to the flight line where our squadron hangar was located. Illustration DIII -1 shows an aerial image of NAS Jacksonville (Jax). Our shared flight line is prominent in the foreground, bordering on the St. Johns River as it flows north to enter the ocean near Mayport FL where a major aircraft carrier basin was located. The carrier’s complement of aircraft utilized NAS Jax while the carrier was being serviced and maintained. Note, the north-south runway looks double. The left one is actually a taxiway. This will come into play a little later. Our hanger was located approximately where the arrow is pointing. The long white taxiway was about 250’ wide allowing planes to be parked at rivers edge or taxied back and forth as well as allowing various service vehicles access to the parked planes.
Our squadron was designated as VJ2, one of two weather squadrons in the Navy. The second was (I believe) based in San Diego. Soon after I joined, it was changed to VW4. The main aircraft of choice at the time was the Consolidated PB4Y-2 Privateer, a reconfigured version of the classic B-24 Liberator of WWII (DIII-1). Points of note include a bow turret, two upper deck turrets, two waist turrets (only one visible), and a tail turret (just the gun showing). When I arrived at the hangar that first day, I was told to hurry if I wanted to make muster. It was regulation that every time a watch (shift) changed, a personnel check was to be made (muster). Since we only ran one shift per day, the morning muster was the only one we had and it was mandatory, unless you had a good excuse. This muster was normally conducted by Chief Petty Officer “Pappy” Harris. An older sailor, Chief Harris must have served 20 or more years. He was responsible for all hanger and non-flying activities of the squadron. Only a couple of us were new members, and we had to meet with him afterwards for our work assignments. I was the only ordinance man, and was assigned the 3 new Privateers delivered to us a few days before. All three looked exactly like the picture (on the ground of course). The turrets and heavy armor plates had to be removed before we could deploy into any bad weather. Only the side “tear-drop” turrets could remain. Our job was to remove the turrets and armor plates and properly store them in a warehouse out by the main gate. The turrets were easy enough, we had a crane to help. The armor plate was another story. The armor was designed to protect the gunner from enemy fire, or shrapnel of any kind. Luckily the plates were segmented into individual pieces about 3’x4’ in size. Were they ever heavy and no way to attach them to the crane. The plates had to be moved by hand. What we had were 3×4 slabs of reinforced tempered steel, 1” thick. We had to carry them down and out the bomb bays where we finally were able to get help loading them on a truck. Toughest back-breaking (finger numbing) job I ever had.
Another job we had was guard duty around the hanger. We did it on a rotating basis. What a drag. Four hours of walking around zombie-like trying to stay awake. One thing I did was to survey Coke bottles. What in the world am I talking about? Coca-Cola bottling plants were (and are) widely distributed throughout the United States and its territories. The location of the plant was always embossed on the bottom of each bottle. The one exception to this were those cases delivered to the fleet directly, east or west coast. Guys liked to bet or two on distance. They would purchase a Coke (.10 back then) and before even opening them, would check the bottom to see which bottling plant was the greater distance from our current location. Most of the time they were not even interested in drinking the Coke, just its bottling distance. Whole empty bottle racks placed next to the vending machine would be more than half full with filled, unopened bottles. Ship-board bottles, having no markings on the bottom of the bottle, would trump all others in distance. It was like getting a “Lucky Stick” from the Good Humor Man (you got a free Good Humor). So it killed time just seeing where all the places that bottled Cokes were (the epitome of excitement). Once in a while, I would talk to the sentry the next hanger down (west) from us, and he would mention interesting things were happening with the guy the next hanger down, which was also a patrol squadron, but their planes were PBY Catalina flying boats. These old time patrol crafts could almost be considered as amphibians since side mounted wheel’s (under the wing) could be deployed and the plane could actually power itself up the ramp to the tarmac, where they would be parked, with the keel all but a few feet above ground (DIII-1).
All three of us had the same lament about the boredom of sentry duty, and what we could do to stay awake at 0200 (I had my Coke Bottles). One day I was asking my buddy from the next hanger how his other guy was doing, any excitement or anything? His response was “strange and exciting”, if you consider going to the gallows exciting. Turns out, boredom and fatigue caught up with him. One night he figured no one was around and since the interior to the closest Catalina was so accessible (bays open to air out the interior) he just crawled in for a brief little nap. About 0400 the plane’s crew showed up for scheduled patrol duty in the Caribbean. Our sentry woke up as the plane was en route. Upon his discovery, the pilot was less than happy and decided folks needed a serious reminder of consequences for dereliction of duty. He did not turn around to bring the kid back, but rather left him in Panama, radioed back to his squadron and suggested if they wanted him, they best come and pick him up since his crew had a schedule to meet. I guess they picked him up, we never heard. The pilot’s decision in my opinion was a good one. Peacetime has the downside of lulling us into a false sense of security. People must be held accountable (non-military included).
Not all my little vignettes are in chronological order, but rather as I think of them. This is OK since I can seldom remember the exact dates anyway. While we are talking about NAS Jacksonville in general, two other episodes, one scary and the other fatal, need to be mentioned. First the scary one. One morning after muster, Roy (Stumpy) Stafford (a first class petty officer) and a plane captain (in charge of all enlisted crew of a specific plane) called me aside, and told me they were short an ordinance man and would I be interested in joining their crew. Of course I accepted and he introduced me to the other guys. The officers (pilot, co-pilot, navigator, and aerologist) later. Stumpy slapped me on the back and said there was one more little base obligation that had to be met, and since I was the new guy, I was by default elected. That job was a week serving as runway watch. I refer the reader to the aerial photo of the base (DIII-1). On the N/S runway with the parallel taxiway, you will note a concrete slab on the near end of the runway. Behind are two more-or-less square grass patches, then the river. The runway watch sat on a flatbed trailer (like an old hay wagon). On the back end of the trailer (closest to the river), was erected a wood frame the width of the trailer and about 12’ high. Upon this was a mesh where signs could be mounted. The only sign the trailer had was one that said W H E E L S. This was to remind landing pilots to put their wheels down if they haven’t yet. I was armed with a “Vere’s” pistol (a flair gun) to shoot off if they didn’t seem to respond. Pretty boring for the most part, though I saw lots of interesting things, such as planes swooping down to snag tow targets off a runway. As mentioned earlier, planes from various aircraft carriers used our facilities while the carrier was being serviced. One afternoon, I looked up toward the runway and saw a line of 6 or 8 fighter planes proceeding down the taxiway. Most planes would get to the end of the taxiway and turn left onto the concrete apron in front to the runway to await take-off instructions. The guys taxing down to the end of the runway were carrier pilots, and apparently were approved for a rolling take off. I know damn well they saw the trailer there and with mouths watering fast rolled to the end of the runway where they kicked in full throttle in a simulated carrier takeoff (short runway). Well the collective prop wash hit my meshed sign panel that acted like a sail, and after about six of those planes made rapid take off, the trailer had also taken off heading for the rocks and the St. Johns River. Fortunately I “abandoned ship” before we hit the rocks and the trailer ended up in the drink. The tower saw all this of course and sent a truck down to scrape me up. Other than a few cuts and bruises, I was fine, but the base wasn’t amused, nor was my skipper, Commander Walkinshaw. I have a feeling that the pilot’s laughter was short lived. (I must admit, if I had been one of them I would have been tempted too). That was sort of scary.
The fatal episode happened a few months before I joined the squadron. In the picture showing our major hurricane hunting plane, the PB4Y-2 Privateer (DIII-1), you will note a white vertical line on the fuselage, just in front of the propellers. The verbiage reads simply “CAUTION”. Another step back and you are into the propeller (prop), and no one has ever won an argument with a rotating prop. The crew exited just behind the trailing edge of the wing, and would walk out to the end of the wing before turning. A lot was being made of this because a month or so before, a plane was returning from a two week stay in Puerto Rico and it pulled in and turned 90 degrees to park. A highly enthusiastic wife, happy to see her husband home, broke from the waiting crowd and rushed to the plane running right into a rotating prop, It was messy, and so sad. There is always danger around airplanes, both prop and jet, and one must remain alert. Tough lesson to learn. As a side note, the Lockheed P2V Neptune and the Lockheed Constellation (DIII-1) were additions added to the squadron after 1953. I had limited experience with them but will discuss later as appropriate. Now it is time to lighten up a bit.