We arrived back in the Bridgeport area after our wedding trip, but the stay was short. I was due back in Jacksonville, and Joyce (who was teaching) was due back from spring break. Arriving back at the NAS, I immediately assumed my duties as airborne ordinance man for crew 6. Although all gun turrets and armor plates were removed from the plane, Navy regulations required an ordinance specialist as part of the crew. I was assigned to the “after station”, and responsible for all pyrotechnics aboard, including flare pistols, warning flares and buoys and any small arms that may be on board. Most important however, was my duties as chief cook and bottle washer. In addition to a “skeleton” selection of utensils (frying pan, saucepan, etc.), we had a small stove with only two electric burners, and two “hot cups” that plugged into the stove. Yet with only those, I managed to produce steak, eggs and fried potatoes for breakfast (if I had them), and on occasion a few delicious meals. It was early summer in 1953 when I really began my flight duties. It was also the year when we produced a neat Christmas card, being worked on even then. The picture is quite illustrative DIII- 8.
The only change I would make to the picture would be to remove the bow and tail turrets. The tear-drop waist turrets remained installed. Our plane was identical except it had #6 instead of 3 on the nose. The little blob under the plane just beneath the star, was a radar nacelle. From there to the nose was considered the “flight deck”. That included pilot (Miller Bell), co-pilot, navigator (Nat Land), aerologist (meteorologist), plane captain (Roy “Stumpy” Stafford), radio operator (Arnold “no middle name” Farley), and a radar technician. From that point back to about the trailing edge of the wing was the “bomb bay”, and from there aft to the tail was the “after station”. That was my responsibility along with the photographer and any guests we might have aboard. From the bomb bay there were doors to the flight deck and “after station”. The bomb bay still contained its complement of bomb racks, and was traversed by a narrow cat-walk with bomb racks on both sides. Just behind the flight deck were two special racks that held two large auxiliary fuel tanks used for extended flights.
In the “after station”, just above the door was a waist-high platform extending over the wing where we could sit. Couldn’t store much there if any rough weather was expected. Everything, I mean everything had to be securable, or we would have serious missiles flying around. Other than a couple of benches along the sides under which much was stored, there was no seating. Oh, the two waist turrets had seats and belts, but they were difficult to enter, and there were enough stories around about the darn things popping out in real rough weather. So no one back aft had a seatbelt or shoulder harness. We basically had to just hold on for dear life. In line with the waist turrets was an overhead hatch which replaced one of the upper deck turrets. The pedestal was still there so it could be used as an exit route if necessary, or just as an observation post while taxiing. Below that, and slightly aft, there was a floor hatch that was our main point of entry and exit. The flight deck had a similar hatch replacing the forward upper deck turret. This hatch was often used by the plane captain to assist in ground navigation in unfamiliar airfields. Now I tell you all this so you have a wee understanding of the plane’s interior configuration and the basic conditions under which we operated.
In May when I rejoined the squadron, things were pretty routine since the hurricane season was a few months ahead. I went through two major training exercises that moved me closer to being classified as a “combat aircrewman”. The first was RADAR operation and interpretation. RADAR (Radio Detection and Ranging) was an emerging technology at the time, and although primitive, was a “sea change” in our ability to identify ground targets. Once we were brought up to speed in the technology, we actually flew missions and were tested on our results. St. Augustine was a city south of Jacksonville, and was located right on the coast. St Augustine Beach ran parallel to the coast and was separated from it by Matanzas Bay, a narrow strip of water otherwise known as the intercoastal waterway. Three bridges connected the mainland to the beach strip. The center and most dominant bridge was the famous Bridge of Lions (DIII-8).
The day my final test came, I reported aboard the aircraft and the pilot said “Ok, Baakah (he was from the Boston area) you ready for this”? “Yes sir I sure am, looking forward to it” (I was actually terrified I would mess up). He explained that we will take off from here in Jacksonville and then with my direction we would proceed down the coast to St. Augustine whereupon I would be expected to pick out the Bridge of Lions, the largest of the three bridges from the mainland to St. Augustine Beach. This would be done using radar only (no looking out of windows). Much to my surprise, I hit it the first time with little difficulty, and I think the pilot was a bit surprised himself. In this short course I learned a lot and really felt my time was being put to good use. I did equally well in signaling. Semaphore I already knew from my scouting days and I was quite proficient with a little brushing up of the rough edges. Morris Code, not so much, but I really put my mind to it and became a qualified operator. This final communications course came with its own examination, which was optional. If I took it and passed, that along with the radar rating would automatically establish me as a “combat aircrewman”. I turned it down. “Why?” you may ask. All short term (4 yrs.) enlisted personnel were required to serve in the active reserve for several years upon completion of active duty. If a national emergency occurred, all active reserve were subject to recall. Those with special qualifications were the first to get recalled. Combat air crewmen were right on top of that list. When I did my “4” I was planning to leave. I consulted with my skipper (Miller Bell). Turns out he was a reserve as well, and being a pilot, was one of the first to be recalled because of the Korean conflict. He understood completely and said it surely was not mandatory and would not affect how they utilized me in the future.
Shortly after the training, we were flying a routine training flight off the coast of Florida and we had a “guest” co-pilot, a Commander D’ LaTour. His physique fit perfectly with his name: slight of build, slick-back black hair, and a pencil mustache. He was not a happy man, and was a favorite of very few (if any). My speaker squawked “after station – flight deck-over” “yes sir, over”. “The relief tube up here is clogged and Commander D’ LaTour needs to come back and use yours –over” I told them to send him back. Clearly on flights of any length, folks would have to pee. A relief tube was provided on the flight deck and after station. It was simply a funnel attached to a small hose which exited through a hole in the fuselage, close to the floor. Apparently the tube on the flight deck got clogged or frozen. Now, when we flew over water we all had to wear life jackets in case we had to ditch. The jackets fit pretty well if a bit bulky. Small gas (CO2) cartridges were installed on either side of the vest, and were activated by a toggle that, when pulled, would break the seal on the cartridge and inflate the vest. Well the commander made it back aft OK, sour puss as usual, and looked all around hoping to find something out of place so he could put us on report. It never happened, he peed and headed back to the flight deck. About 15 minutes later in my head phones: “Barker! Where the hell is the commander?” “No idea sir, he left here at least 15 minutes ago” “Roger that – Stafford!” (He was referring to Stumpy) “Go find the Commander”. He opened the door to the bomb bay, and there about halfway down was D’LaTour completely inflated and stuck between the two sets of bomb racks, one on each side of the catwalk. Only one person could fit on the catwalk so I met Stumpy and we deflated the commander, and we could hardly contain ourselves. Trouble was he outranked all of us including the pilot, so laughter was subdued at best. It was made up for in future get-togethers, and retelling the story which got better as time went on.
Our crew was extremely close, more than the average, and that was a great benefit in terms of our performance. When we were off base, the officers often joined us at the local watering hole to quaff a few with us. One evening at the San Juan, Puerto Rico Naval Air Station, the crew were enjoying the enlisted man’s swimming pool. We were the only ones there, when we heard “pssst!” from the bushes surrounding the pool, and out stepped Miller Bell, and co-pilot (forgot his name). They wanted to join us because the officer’s pool was just dull. They had brought a cooler with beer and we sat and chatted and mostly laughed until the wee hours (I’m sure getting stuck in the bomb bay was included). Make no mistake, the barrier of respect was never breached. Like any employee-supervisory relationship, too much familiarity weakens the leadership capabilities. While we were never on a first name basis, there was nothing we wouldn’t do for each other. Even back in the Jacksonville area, we occasionally had cookouts where the whole crew and wives were invited.
In early June, my crew was called on to fly a minimal hurricane off the North Carolina coast. At last report it was reporting top winds of 110 kn (based on nautical miles per hour – approximately 1.51 mph) in landlubber terms, the wind was reported at 166 mph. A hurricane is a super low pressure area with a counter-clockwise circulation (DIII-8). The circulating winds are very tight and form an “eye” somewhat near the center of the storm which represents the area of lowest barometric pressure. Depending on the storm’s intensity, the size of the eye will vary from 50 miles to 5 or less to the point of not being obvious. Typically, we would penetrate the SE quadrant and the circulation would carry us directly to the eye. In this particular storm “Dolly ” (in the early days, all storms were given female names), the eye was about 20 miles in diameter. Once in the eye you would never think you were in the grips of a hurricane. The Wind and sea were calm. All kinds of sea birds flying around. This was the area where most of our data was recorded and update reports made. It is also when I would prepare a meal for the crew.
When we were finished, we exited through the NW quadrant wall, which was the toughest part of the whole mission, but would in effect allow the hurricane to throw us out of its circulation just as it sucked us in. We were well into the wall when the flight deck called and asked us to check the floundering ship off our starboard (left) bow. Our photographer spotted him and started taking pictures and I was asked if we could contact him? “Will try, sir” I responded. Down below the ship was surrounded by an oil slick, obviously set out to calm the sea a bit. It looked like it was just wallowing down there. I picked up the “Aldis” signal light, specifically designed for marine use utilizing the Morris Code. So I blinked him the attention code and to my surprise got a response saying they would be in contact. They were able to get on our frequency and contacted the flight deck. First question they had was who were we and why were we nuts enough to be out in such weather? We explained briefly, and asked about his situation. Turns out they lost their rudder and were at the mercy of the storm. We determined the way they were situated the eye would actually envelop them, and they agreed and said they would await landfall when surface craft would be available to help, but for now they were doing OK. We were really glad we were up here (400’) and not down there at sea level. We heard no more about her, so presume she made it OK. I was glad I had taken the communications training.
Every two weeks. Payday came around. We picked up our checks in the hanger next to ours. On that day there were long lines alphabetically arranged waiting with us. There were also server groups of guys clustered next to the line. They were also awaiting pay day. To pass the time many sailors gambled for all kinds of things (coke distances for example). There were also long games of poker, pinochle, tossing coins, etc. Many times these games were played for payday stakes. It was really quite sad. Guy’s would get their checks, sign them and hand them over to the “sharks’ ‘ waiting beside them. One day the guy behind me and I got talking and reflected on that particular sad situation. We introduced ourselves and found we were about the same age and educational experience (hard to find). His name was Bob Beatty and he came from Gainesville FL where his Dad was the Dean of Men at the University of Florida. I mentioned I was from Connecticut, and went to Middlebury College. I was really interested in the possibility of a forestry career, but Middlebury had no forestry school. My interest came from my Geography professor, Roland Illick who received his doctorate in forest product production in New England. His father was the Dean of the forestry school at Syracuse University.
Bob Beatty invited me to Gainesville for a weekend. While there I met his dad and mom, of course and relayed my hopes to his dad. Well, shoot, he knew and was good friends with Clem Kaufman, Dean of the forestry school. The next morning I found myself in the office of Dean Kaufman and exploring the possibilities. He pointed out for me to qualify for Florida I would require a few more undergraduate courses to complete the prerequisite credits. He strongly suggested I go back to Middlebury and finish up, and if I had room for some electives I could (with an added summer semester) probably meet the requirements for entry to their forestry school the following year.
By now the month of June was coming to an end. Joyce already informed me that I was about to become a dad (oh boy!!). I told her it would be wonderful to have her down here, but be sure to invite one of your friends to ride down with you. It is a long way to drive under normal circumstances, never mind carrying a baby. She agreed and said she would be down in a week or so. I got to work finding a place for us to land, even if it were short term. In the community of Ortega, a bedroom community of Jacksonville, I found a nice little garage apartment right on the St. Johns River. It was in a really upscale neighborhood and owned by Mr. and Mrs. Richard Cowart. Well, I secured it for a few months and Joyce showed up shortly after. As agreed, she found a buddy to ride with her. I should say “passenger” rather than “buddy” since the gal she picked had no driver’s license or a clue how to drive a car. I couldn’t believe it. Joyce assured me she only needed someone to talk to. Well they made it, and that’s what counts, so after shaking my head a bit (an acquired affliction that has lasted some 65 years now), we spent a pleasant evening, and the next day put Joyce’s companion aboard the north-bound Orange Blossom Special for Philadelphia.
Now it was time we turned our attention back to Jacksonville, and just what do we do now? The apartment I found was located right on the St. Johns River. The house and garage, as seen through the trees in the picture below, also had a long pier extending out into the river with an attached boat house on the end. It was a great place to sit and relax and enjoy some of that great Florida sun, of which Joyce took full advantage. The apartment was on top of a multi car garage overlooking the river, and it featured an apartment-long porch with railing and appropriate furniture. We had no TV of course, but luckily a radio and a vehicle. The view from the porch was magnificent with the long pier and boathouse as the centerpiece. Many long summer nights we would sit out there listening to radio programs such as: “Yours Truly, Johnny Dollar” “Richard Diamond, Private Eye” (Mary Tyler Moore was the voice of the sexy receptionist), and the ramblings of Will Rogers Jr. All this of course as I provided the liquid accompaniment completing the scene (not much has changed over the following 65 years). If the boathouse and pier were not convenient, there was a nice gazebo built right on the shore of the river. Given all this, I guess we couldn’t have picked a better place to begin our journey together (DIII-8).
Mr. and Mrs. Cowart were the property owners and renters of the apartment. Mr. Cowart (who I never met) was owner of the prestigious Cowart Lumber Company in town. Upon arrival, the first thing we did was to meet and introduce ourselves to Mrs. Cowart, and of course to take possession of the keys. When Mrs. Cowart laid eyes on Joyce and comprehended her condition, she informed us that couples with children were not permitted. She did allow us to stay until the birth, but we best have alternative “digs” at that time. She was very nice about it, and I considered it fair enough since I didn’t clue her in at the outset. But we would be good for Christmas.
Those few months living by ourselves for the first time was a trip. I clearly remember shopping for our first dinner. We went into the Ortega “town center”, which included a Baptist Church and a small privately owned grocery store (no Publix, Kroger or Safeway) back then. Now while we both had some experience with cooking, neither of us had too much experience doing the shopping. In the meat section of that small store was a juicy steak looking cut called “brisket” (that wonderful raw material for corned beef). Of course then I knew nothing about brisket, and basically ignored it. Whatever it was would cook up beautifully, and it did. Boy did it look delicious, until we tried to take the first bite. Might as well have been taking a bite out of my hiking boot. We did take the remainder (practically the whole thing), put it in a pot with potatoes, carrots and onions, etc. and it did make a fine stew if cooked long enough – lesson learned.
Time went by quickly, especially for me. Hurricane season was well underway, and flying duty was first and foremost. During the season (June-November) we maintained a constant presence in San Juan, Puerto Rico. On a rotating schedule, each of the six plane crews pulled a two week stint at the Puerto Rico Naval Air station outside of San Juan.
During any 2 week time during hurricane season, it was rare to confront a hurricane. So what did we do for two weeks, except play cards? Well we spent most of our time carrying out area familiarization flights throughout the area. When a hurricane “spits” you out as previously explained, you are never quite sure where you will be, geographically. Being familiar with the surrounding islands (of which there are many in the Caribbean) is a great help in post hurricane orientation. Most of these familiarization flights were pretty long and boring. Of course I had made sure we had plenty of good food and prepared meals and snacks accordingly. Amazing what we could do with the two burner stove and two hot cups, but the crew loved it.
One day, “Stumpy ” Stafford, the plane captain (and first class petty officer) informed us to muster at the plane in 30 minutes, we have a flight planned. That flight was to circumnavigate the island of Puerto Rico and the island of Vieques off the southeast coast of Puerto Rico. Now there was a trip. Unlike most flights, this one was anything but boring. For starters, the circumnavigation was to be carried out flying at an altitude of between 20 and 40 feet. In the “after station” (my domain) we had the best view through the two tear-drop turrets. Looking out you would think we are right on top of the water. In fact, the radar operator said over the intercom, that the prop wash effect on the surface water was clearly detectable on his radar screen – scary. But boring? Never. As we left the San Juan area traveling east, the number of buildings and houses diminished drastically. Soon the only structures seen from offshore (where we were) were thatched huts, and if you can believe it, naked (except for skimpy loincloths) young “ladies” ran up and down the beaches wildly flashing signs of invitation. Dang eyes almost popped out of our sockets. Over the intercom, I heard: “pilot from flight deck – go ahead flight deck” and Stumpy Stafford said: “Mr. Bell, isn’t there some way we could gently ditch within proximity of that beach over there?” To which the pilot responded: “Just because you graciously allowed us to use your pool the other night doesn’t mean I am about to put you anywhere near what you are seeing down there, but after station, I sure hope you have a strong cup of coffee back there ”. Yes sir, sure do, I am on my way forward now”. As I reached the flight deck, all hands were laughing and having a good time, and I was sure welcome.
The show didn’t last long though. We passed by the eastern end of the island and proceeded southeastward and swung around the island of Vieques and turned west to head back, with Vieques on our starboard (right) side. Our photographer (forgot his name), was standing looking out the starboard tear-drop turret when he noticed a puff of smoke on land. He paid little attention until he saw several more (more than two), and he mentioned it to me. As I moved toward him, I happened to look out the port turret and I saw a flash of light, and then another. It didn’t take a genius to realize a naval gun was lobbing shells on shore and apparently right over us. I notified the flight deck of my observation, and it wasn’t lost on them. In fact it was only a few minutes later that we received a severe warning and reprimand that we were traversing an active firing range. Turns out that a Navy destroyer was practicing land target gunnery when we rudely interrupted the exercise. We (the pilot) was told if he had read the daily briefing issued by the local command we would have been aware of that activity. These paper briefings released every morning were usually voluminous, trivial, and rarely related to anything we would be doing. Like most official releases like this, a “sleeper” notice of importance would be embedded unnoticed somewhere in the middle of the release. That was the case here, but hardly an excuse not to have caught it. The thing that saved us was the very low altitude at which we were conducting our tour.
One of the main reasons for these familiarization flights was to become familiar with the islands in the region; their shape and available facilities in case of emergency. A partial list of the islands involved if not visited includes: Cuba, Nassau, Bermuda, Haiti, Curacao, Aruba, St. Thomas, St. Croix, Martinique, and St. Lucia. While some of these islands stood alone (Cuba and Haiti), most had an international flavor including the U.S., United Kingdom, France, and the Netherlands. One of the most picturesque and interesting was Curacao, and its capital city of Willemstad. The island, right off the South American Coast (Venezuela), along with its sister island Aruba, is under control of the Netherlands. Architecturally, the city is famous for its pontoon bridge. Willemstad was a beautiful and spotless town. Not at all your typical Caribbean island. They were rich from the lucrative oil refining operations supporting the crude oil production from nearby Venezuela. The stores were bristling with a plethora of Dutch made products priced ridiculously low, including 10 speed bicycles selling for as little as $30. It really didn’t matter how inexpensive anything was, I still had no money to buy almost anything. Curacao was clean in both the physical and personal sense. As you may have gathered already, the world’s oldest (maybe second oldest) profession was prospering quite well throughout the Caribbean islands regardless of ownership. Most of it was pretty sordid by anyone’s standards. But not on this island (or Aruba either). All women of that persuasion were registered, licensed and medically checked at least twice a year. Prostitutes did not wander the streets of Willemstad. Instead they were relegated to an area fondly called the “Happy Camp” off by itself. It was actually governed by its own residents, and all professional transactions were conducted within the confines of the “Happy Camp”. Now we were in town for just a few hours, so we could only briefly look and shop around.
As might be expected, a couple of guys decided they had to check out the “Happy Camp”, not really for business (no time), but just out of curiosity. We warned them about time constraints, but they went anyway. The rest of us, after checking out downtown Willemstad, settled in at the airport lounge to quaff a few beers before takeoff. Sure enough, in burst Miller Bell with arms full of items he had bought in town and announced it was time to go. When we informed him that two of the crew (including the radioman) were not here, he demanded to know where they were. When we told him, he took about 30 seconds to just look at us, then turned on his heel and said “let’s go now!” We ran out to the plane which was already warming up with all four props turning. As we taxied toward the runway, the skipper informed the tower we were going to a take-off and touch down, which the tower approved. So we took off and sharply banked around so we were heading right for the “Happy Camp” at almost roof-top level, with all engines adjusted to create the greatest racket. When we made our pass, we pulled up sharply and banked so I could see straight down and sure enough, two guys were sprinting down the main drag right toward the airfield. “Flight deck, after station, over –aft, over – Sir I think they are on their way, over – roger, out”. We circled around and landed, and by the time we reached the terminal, the guys were huffing and puffing their way toward the plane. Those guys were really pooped out, sheepish, and scared to death of what might happen to them. Mr. Land (the co-pilot was very persnickety about following regulations) and they had reason to worry, until the pilot said “Welcome aboard, men, and Mr. Land, this never happened, right? Uh…what just never happened sir? Glad you understand the situation, Mr. Land, let’s keep it that way.” One more night in San Juan and we are on our way home, with a short stop at St Thomas in the American Virgin Islands. Have no idea why we would stop unless it was to on-load some more rum (DIII-9).
We already had rum in every conceivable nook and cranny including the radome (housing the radar antennae). Upon leaving St. Thomas we were close to limits on weight. Of course we would be taking off in the opposite direction as shown (DIII-9), so when the runway ended, so did all options (except a very bad one). Boy we revved up as we would in a carrier take-off with the whole plane shaking and when the breaks were released, that big old plane just hurtled down the runway and we all were pushing our palms up and as we got to the end, we could feel a slight lift, then a horrible sinking feeling as we headed over water, but thankfully up we went heading home.
But not so fast. The flight involved several hours over water until we came under the control of Miami Overseas Radio. Upon contact (they were expecting us) they would acknowledge and vector us up the coast to Daytona Beach and then Jacksonville. After the estimated number of hours had elapsed (and then some) the pilot asked the navigator how we were doing, whereupon the navigator (a new junior officer) claimed we were doing just fine. Shortly thereafter, over the radio we heard “aircraft in-bound, this is New Orleans Overseas, please identify yourself”. The pilot responded, “New Orleans, this is Navy six zero-triple zero (60,000), “kinda” overshot Miami, sorry for the inconvenience”. New Orleans: “Navy triple zero, roger. Have a safe trip home.” Needless to say, the skipper was a bit embarrassed, and he was quickly on the radio: “Hey Farley (Arnold (no-middle name) our First class radio operator) come forward and take us home, will you please?” Farley’s reply, “yes sir, on my way”, and so were we. We and our precious cargo of rum made it home safely and we were all glad to be on solid ground after such an extended flight.
Just as a follow-on note. It wasn’t until 1974 when Charles Berlitz’s book The Bermuda Triangle was published, that I even knew there was a Bermuda Triangle. It existed and included an area roughly bounded by points in Bermuda, Florida and Puerto Rico. This is, of course, the precise area of our normal activity. There are all kinds of theories, ideas, and fantasies on why so many ships and aircraft mysteriously disappeared within this “devil’s triangle”. After our experience, it is clear that the peninsula of Florida is a pretty small target, and if missed could find folks over a vast expanse of water, with little fuel, and with weather that could be pretty wild at certain times of the year. Just glad I didn’t know about it then. Oh, I would highly recommend the book, it is quite fascinating.
While I was gone, Joyce was actively looking for an apartment to replace the one we had to vacate because of her expectancy. When I got home, she happily announced she had found such an apartment and we could move in any time. It was on Selma St., a nice upstairs apartment that would fit our immediate needs (it was already late fall, and the time was getting close). Selma St. was located in the Edgewood part of town. It was located only one block from US highway 17 (Roosevelt Blvd.), which was the main drag down to NAS Jacksonville and points south (Orlando).
There was only one downside to the location that did not truly register with me during the confusion of moving in, which we did all in one day. The apartment was right next to a fire house. The very first night we were in there, about 2:00 AM we were completely startled by a deafening clanging of a bell, sounds of large diesel engines being started and the ear shattering scream of sirens as the fire trucks roared out to a fire someplace. When our hearts finally slowed down we realized we were on our mattress flat on the floor. “What the heck just happened?” I stammered. “Oh, I forgot to tell you about the possible late night fire alarms they told me about when I rented the apartment”, Joyce explained. And what the heck were we doing on the floor, you may want to ask. Well, you know how it is when you just move into a place. We were pretty well pooped by the time we were finished, and put things together hastily to last until morning when we can more constructively address the details. One of those details were the slats on our bed. We thought surely they would hold us in the morning. Well the clanging bell scared the bejeezus out of me at least, and I probably jumped up a bit and came down hard, and that did it. It wasn’t completely flat either, I was on the floor and Joyce was in the air. Oh, man what a start (DIII-10).
It really wasn’t a bad apartment, with plenty of room. We realized however, we needed to continue to look, since like Ortega, baby residents were to be discouraged. We remained in the Selma St. digs throughout the fall and winters of ’53 and ’54. Nothing of great import happened during that time, but a couple of instances come to mind that I will share. One dealt with the basic goodness of people in general (over and above the sleaze bags touted by the news media on a daily basis). Joyce and I went to the movies in downtown Jacksonville one evening, and when we got home she noticed her wallet was missing. Now that is no joke at any time, but she had some $300 dollars in it to cover some current expenses, and represented a significant amount of money especially in those days when money was not readily available. We drove back to where it likely was dropped, and looked all over the place, but no wallet. A couple of days later, after we had written it off and had resigned ourselves to a few dinners of “Dinty Moore’s’ ‘ stews (those popular canned culinary delights favored by many of us in the lower echelons of the financial ladder). As we pulled into our driveway around noon one day a police car pulled in behind us. “Uh, uh” I thought, what did I just do? As we got out of the car, the policeman was already out and opening the back door from which an elderly black man emerged. The cop turned to us and inquired “Mrs. Joyce Barker?” Of course Joyce replied and the black guy stepped up and handed her wallet to her. The officer explained that Mr. X (don’t know last name) found it in the gutter downtown and turned it into the local precinct, where this officer was just closing out his shift. He looked at the name and address and suggested to Mr. X they both go see if they could find the owner. Well they did and every single dollar was in place. Joyce was almost beside herself, and I was in disbelief at this show of honesty, and to top it off when we offered a reasonable reward (maybe $50) for its return, Mr. X almost looked offended. He refused saying a person need not, nor should not be rewarded for doing what is right. The cop, smiling, said “that’s Mr. X alright. He is a sound member of our downtown community” Boy did that make a lasting impression on us. Not only the action of Mr. X but the willingness of the officer to take from his personal time to come find us. Not only that, “Dinty Moore” stew quickly became a distant memory.
The other memorable event was a bit more embarrassing. One night, or rather early morning, the darndest banging and shouting at our front door roused me out of bed in a hurry. Outside a couple of our neighbor firemen were standing. They quickly informed me that our squadron had called the station and asked for their help, in that I was supposed to be on a flight in less than a half hour. I think I told Farley where we lived and it was next to Fire Station #5. With Joyce driving, we flew down Roosevelt Blvd. which was relatively empty at that time of day. The Main Gate had been alerted and we were let right in and Joyce drove right down to the tarmac. A quick kiss and goodbye and I turned to see our plane sitting there with all four propellers spinning. Stumpy Stafford was waiting outside the entry hatch, and he simply said “afternoon, Barker. Glad you agreed to accompany us this morning”. I jumped aboard, took a quick look around and saw my partner crewmate, the photographer with a wide grin on his face. To his credit, he had done all the pre-flight preparation already, so I could call up to the flight deck and report “Barker aboard, after station ready to roll, sir”. Initially, other than “Roger”, there was silence. As we taxied out to the end of the runway, the pilot (Bell) called back and informed me that being late for duty was frowned upon in the Navy. However his memory tended to dim with the infusion of good food, and did I read? I responded I surely did, and could he share with me our initial destination. He replied we will be stopping in Bermuda for about an hour or so, before we visit several other islands in the region. Hanging up, I turned to my fellow crewmate and punched my fist. Couldn’t be better news.
Turns out the guy in charge of the mess hall kitchen at the Bermuda station was a first class petty officer I met several times before. Although he out ranked me, we had a common interest: he was a New Englander. Most of the news from home was pretty stale by the time he got it, so every time I showed up, he couldn’t wait to find out what was new at home. Not only that, but we really hit it off the first time we met. Being the man in charge of the food was not a bad friend to have when you had to stash up on groceries, Turns out they had just received a new shipment which included a batch of individual beef loin steaks (Filet mignon), oblong, and about 1.5” thick. He gave me enough so every one of the crew had a steak. To that, he added a bag of small red potatoes and some corn and lima beans (already cooked). Threw it all in a bag with some dry ice, and I was set. When we became airborne again, the pilot announced that the next leg of the mission would take a couple of hours and it might be a good time to grab a bite to eat. Time for my show. In our old percolator coffee pot, I boiled the potatoes until mostly done. They were really small, so I simply split them once, buttered them well and put them in a frying pan with some sautéed onions until all were browned up, and then put them into a hot cup to keep warm and crisp. Corn and lima beans went together in the second hot cup to be warmed up and seasoned. The percolator was rinsed out and coffee started. Finally, the steaks were put individually in a very hot pan and cooked to the crew’s individual taste (rare, medium rare and (ug!) well done. That part was usually met with a big ha, ha, ha, for no matter what you said you would get the same as everyone else (generally a gray center). Not in my kitchen, dang it.
Of course the order of serving was by rank, where I spent special attention. Pilot, co-pilot, navigator, and aerologist first and then the rest of the crew. Everything turned out great. The flight itself was smooth and beautiful over the Caribbean, and the food was hot and cooked to everyone’s satisfaction. Actually the pilot called back and said “Barker, that was quite a meal and you are more than exonerated.” The rest of the crew was equally complementary. Of course it is always nice when your efforts are appreciated (I thanked the guy from Bermuda for supplying the raw materials.) The down side is the word got out and I was “invited” to join other crews in long flights that involved a meal. (A side note here, the word “invite” is not part of Navy vocabulary, or at least it is spelled differently like “ordered”).
It was approaching the end of the year so it was nice to get back home, but first we wanted to visit St. Augustine, an idyllic location we associated with this part of Florida, and thought it would be special now just before Christmas. St. Augustine, featuring the old Ponce De Leon Hotel (now part of Flagler College) and of course the Bridge of Lions, was just a little over 20 miles from Jacksonville. Another feature of interest in St. Augustine was the Castillo de San Marcos, the oldest masonry fort in the continental United States. It was located in the northern part of the city on the shore of Matanzas Bay, and construction was started in 1672, 107 years after the city’s founding. This shows how old St. Augustine really is. The city center itself has maintained the old world look complete with cobblestone streets and intriguing shops opening up to narrow sidewalks. St. Augustine was only about 30 miles from Jacksonville, and was a fun place to visit. Most of you reading this already know the area well, but a few “then and now” may bring back some memories. But now it was time to start thinking about our first Christmas together seriously and the “Charlie Brown” tree we purchased for the occasion (DIII-10).
Christmas together and the “Charlie Brown” tree just had to wait a while. Joyce’s mom had two sisters and one half-sister, all of whom we occasionally interacted from early in our relationship. The two sisters, Gladys and Mae, married the brothers Clinton and Harry Haight. Clinton and Gladys owned and managed an apple orchard in Croton, NY, just across the line from CT. Unfortunately Clinton died before I met him, but did meet Gladys who continued to run the orchard with her son. Not only did we visit her at the orchard, but later in Florida, Virginia and South Carolina. As far as I know, her son still does.
Harry and Mae lived in CT when I first met them. We hit it off right away. Harry was a master gunsmith, sanctioned by both Remington and Winchester Arms. He had a standing business with the local and State Police departments as well as many members of the NRA (National Rifle Association). Harry’s mom retired to Florida, just north of Orlando, in the community of Big Bear Lake. Harry and Mae relocated down there to be with her, where he had no trouble carrying on his business. Joyce and I visited with them once before we were married and I just remember the great picture I took of her with a monkey sitting on her head. Of course, at this point I can’t find it or it would be included here. While I was in Jacksonville and Joyce was still in Fairfield teaching, I spent several weekends with the Haight’s. They were wonderful and gracious hosts, and I hated tearing away to come back to NAS. I remember the bus ride. Seemed to take forever, and staying awake was a challenge. The sleepiness actually lasted until I got into the barracks and my head hit the pillow, and simultaneously my eyes would pop wide open. (Sounds familiar?)
A third half-sister, Trina (affectionately called “Sis”) married Victor Williams (Vic), a Vermont Railroad retiree. And was he ever a vintage Vermonter? That was back when there were more cows than people in the state and before the “hippy” migration of the ‘50’s and ‘60s changed life there and many other wonderful places forever. To say that the couple was colorful would be an understatement. In fact the word eccentric comes to mind. For example, Sis was a real talker. Sometimes at the door upon leaving, she was just getting warmed up, driving Vic (the driver) nuts. One evening upon leaving, Vic went out to the car as Sis (standing on the threshold) went on and on as usual. When she finished (in what sometimes was referred to as the “visit-visit”), she turned to go to the car and it wasn’t there. Vic got fed up and drove home (some 25 miles to Milford). Of course the Edward’s put her up for the night, but it was symbolic of their relationship and they wouldn’t have had it otherwise. Sis and Vic were avid antique collectors, and were fiercely protective of their individual purchases. Each item was properly initiated and set in a specific place in their house. Just entering their living room was a trip unto itself. But I can’t knock it since many of our fine pieces of furniture were purchased from their collection. Although there were some small items they gave us or we purchased, our main acquisition was a bedroom suite we still use today. It included a headboard, footboard, and two sideboards. Along with the bed was a vanity with a full length mirror, a side table and small bed-side cabinet. As far as the bed goes, only the headboard is in use. Back in the period when this remarkable bed was made, a queen-sized or king-sized bed were things of the future. We were able to modify the base of the headboard to accommodate a queen-sized bed, but serious work would have to be done with footboard and sideboards. A person with some woodworking expertise could do it readily. The remarkable thing about this whole bed set was when Vic bought it, each piece was painted bright yellow. It turned out that there were at least four more layers of paint beneath that. He painstakingly stripped the paint. The result could only be described as “Wow!” They were made of clear white pine lumber with no loose knots, and only a few tight red knots. These were truly valuable pieces of furniture (DIII-10).
All this about the sisters, will serve as an introduction to our first Christmas together. For that, we traveled together (in our car) to join Joyce’s mom and dad at Haight’s place near Orlando. Sis and Vic, in spite of arguing at each and every intersection on which direction to turn, managed to complete the trip without serious incident. The following few photos lend a slight flavor to the surroundings down there (DIII-11).
At this point in Joyce’s pregnancy, the Orlando break was just what the “Dr. ordered”. A couple of months to go and she felt good and was completely mobile and got around easily. It was nice and warm and we sort of hated getting back to Jacksonville, where the weather is more like South Georgia than South Florida. We were still in our Selma St. apartment, and had our meager Christmas tree and decorations still up, and as pathetic as they were, they lit up the place and it really felt like home.
With the New Year, 1954 came, and my birthday was the first event on the calendar. It was a subdued 24th, and February was on us before we knew it as was the predicted time of our baby’s arrival (Feb. 7th). Right out of the hat, my brother Dick announced his wife Sela had given birth to a daughter (also Sela) on February 5. Shoot, that wasn’t supposed to happen. We were due first, after all. His only comment in his Telegram announcement (Don’t have these anymore) he sent was that it took elephants 18 months to gestate (ha, ha). A day later on the 6th, came a time we will never forget. Our first born announced she was ready to arrive thank you, and you better hurry. Never made the trip from Selma St. to the Naval Air Station in such record time. I should stress here that active military medical facilities do in no way resemble the current Veterans Administration’s facilities, thank heaven. Although the Naval Hospital was a “state of art” facility, they spent little time coddling the patients. The suspense was dissipated when Joyce came forth with a little girl (no way of accurate sex prediction back then) at 2:30AM (of course) on the morning of Feb. 7, 1954.
The day after our new daughter (Karen Edwards Barker) was born, the nurses had Mom up and making her own bed and she was released the next day. By this time we had moved from Selma St. to Walsh St., a quiet neighborhood right on the edge of Boone Park 9one of Jacksonville’s finest. Never did get a picture exiting the hospital. In fact, we were so busy moving to new digs on Walsh St. pictures were rare. One of those times was when Mom managed to catch Dad changing her diaper at about 2 months old.
In early August, 1954 we with our new precious cargo made it to Bridgeport CT not only to show her off (parents couldn’t wait), but to have her baptized in “our church”, since congregational churches were few and far between in the South in those days (still are actually). It was a great trip and a few days well spent before we had to return. Since hurricane season was well underway, I was lucky to get leave for this event (DIII-12). Back in Jacksonville, we settled into our new digs, and began to appreciate our new neighborhood. With a young’un, Boone Park was a God-send, The Park was huge, multi-functional and well used by us, and Spooky (a small beagle pup) we picked up after following an ad in the local newspaper. The house facing Walsh St was a nice house inhabited by an elderly (not too) widow Doonie Huffman and her hefty sister Ruby who worked at the New York Laundry. Both women were down to earth southern gals who would give you the shirt off their back if you needed it. We would regularly go over to their house on Tuesday nights to watch “Our Miss Brooks”, a popular sit-com of the era. Remember TV’s were a rare item back then, and we sure as heck could not afford one. Both of the women enjoyed lifting a quaff of beer now and then, which was great as far as we were concerned. The guy next door was one of these gossiping people who I have always contended were the source of information for the local barber shop. He maintained he could keep track of the beer they drank by just listening to the toilet’s flush.
Our real interest though, was in the big backyard that had a small two story house and a good sized garage apartment (we had use of the garage). A great couple lived in the garage apartment. He was a Navy Lt. and pilot in one of the Patrol Squadrons at NAS. Gene and Doris Hahn became good friends while we were there, in spite of the difference in rank. The only complaint Gene ever had was the time I was ironing my uniform (every crease had to be perfect for inspection) with the shades up so I and the laundry were in full view. He rushed over and wanted to know if I wanted to kill him or what. “If Doris was to see you doing this, I would be finished” he insisted. In the future, part of my ironing routine was to make sure the shades’ were down. The backyard also had a concrete fish pond that became overpopulated with very noisy frogs. Spooky would spend hours just sitting and looking for an opportunity to prove her worth to us. The most efficient frog control however was Ruby. One night about 10:00 PM we heard: Bam, “@##%$ frogs”, bam, bam “@@%**& frogs”. We opened the door and there was Ruby standing on the edge of the pond bashing and admonishing the frogs with a shovel and “verbiage”. She had Joyce and me rolling on the floor. She was good, though. Things were quiet for quite a while afterwards (DIII-12).
Joyce and I decided early that there was no reason a single baby should really upset our basic life cycle. Oh how fast decisions change in the early years. Nonetheless, we continued our outdoor picnics, and would go to a restaurant when we wanted to since we had a neat little portable crib that would fit right under the table. Surprisingly enough, Karen was very cooperative and never complained. People hardly knew we had come in with a little one. But I will be the first to admit it was more of a chore keeping to our routine than it was modifying it. One big attraction not far away was Jacksonville Beach and the several satellite beaches associated with it. We spent many afternoons romping in the Atlantic Ocean (not the little ole Gulf of Mexico) (DIII-13).
Unfortunately, August was still in the middle of hurricane season, and I had to report for duty right after we returned from CT. As I arrived, I was greeted at the entrance to the hanger area by a friend who said “Welcome back, but you won’t believe what’s going on in there”. “Can’t wait” I responded and upon entering the main hangar area the first thing I saw was a large banner displaying the NBC logo. Standing in the middle of the hanger were no less than Walter Cronkite and a staff of photographers that were determined to get the lowdown on these so-called hurricane hunters. Our crew #6 must have been “low man out” because we drew the dubious honor to fly these guys off Mayport and give them an idea what flying in a hurricane was all about. I could almost see the gleam in the pilot’s eye as he said “glad to do it, load ‘em up fellas’ ‘. Loading them up was fitting them all with life vests and assigning them positions in the plane. Not all the visitors made the flight, and I noticed Cronkite wasn’t one of them. His top staff person was and with two others were placed on the flight deck. Our photographer and I ushered the 2 remaining participants into the after station, and we took off. Without doubt, it was the roughest 1 ⁄ 2 hour in which I ever flew. I mean, up, down, slew left, slew right, 90 degree pitches to port and starboard. I have never seen an old P4Y clunker of a plane execute such strenuous maneuvers. Even though I was beginning to feel a bit queasy, our guests took on a definite shade of green around the “gills” and pleaded to quit, “we get the idea. The bunch up on the flight deck were not doing any better, but the pilot was going to give them a good dose of rough flying. Finally he relented to save his crew the task of a messy and smelly clean-up. He finally relented and returned to base and while I couldn’t admit it, I was as glad as anyone else. Well, we got a brief column with a picture in the local newspaper, but we never ever saw that or another news crew again.
Although we never flew in a storm with the level of turbulence the above simulation provided, about a month later, we came close. Hurricane Carol (they were given female names back then) was stirring up in the Caribbean and we needed to go take a look. It turned out that Carol did not want to be penetrated and she became so violent that we were the only plane to enter it. We went in low (about 400’) and we were really being buffeted around and the plane captain (Stumpy Stafford) would call off our altitude and the aerologist would call off wind speeds and barometric pressures. So there was constant chatter as we would hear our altitudes called: “400, 450, 300, 250…” by that time we were all pushing our hands upward, and when he called out “150” we really became a little nervous. Not only that, but wind speeds were being called in excess of 200 knots (1Kt = 1.7mph), and barometric pressure, being called in millibars, was off the conversion chart to inches of mercury. Remember, the photographer and I had no seat belts, we were just holding on for dear life, when all of a sudden we dropped like a rock (you have all been in an elevator that dropped quickly and your stomach went with the elevator and you didn’t) and the entire after station was in a white mist and you could actually taste salt. Just as quickly, it felt like some huge hand grabbed our butt and heaved us upwards. What a mess! “Photo” was sitting in the walkway grasping a leg of the side bench, I was holding on for dear life, down on one knee and the entire stove top, burners wires and all were draped over my shoulder and hanging down my back. There was a momentary silence from the flight deck, then “Stumpy’s’ voice: “Man the Momsen Lung” (“Momsen Lung”: a primitive underwater breathing apparatus used by submarines during WWII). The radar he was using had two graphics in the image. The top graphic was our plane’s altitude above the waves. These were the numbers we had been hearing during the flight. Underneath that graphic was one that indicated the plane’s average height above the waves. When we made that precipitous drop, the top and bottom graphic lines crossed. At 200kts, there are no really definable waves, the wind pretty much flattened them out replacing them with a thick frothy foam, sort of like looking in a washing machine during the rinse cycle. Of course within that wave zone were plenty of areas of solid water as well. We were extremely lucky to have dropped into a froth area and not solid water. If we had, I wouldn’t be writing this.
Finally, the pilot called for a station report on any damage or other problem. I was soaked in hydraulic oil, as was “Photo”. Everything stowed under the side benches was strewn throughout the area including the big wooden wheel chocks we thought were so safely stored away. Turns out we had a partially used can of hydraulic oil I had forgotten about, but it was “well” plugged by a sturdy rag. Not so sturdy, I guess. The oddest thing was a can of Carnation evaporated milk. I had brewed up a pot of coffee before penetration and had used the milk on one cup of coffee only. There were three ice pick-sized holes in the top: two on one side to pour and a hole on the opposite side for air. That can was rolling around on the deck and when I picked it up, not a single drop of milk was left in it. Now folks that took some shaking.
We made it out of “Carol” with no further bad incident, and reported to base we would recommend no one else enter this storm. We made it back to San Juan and almost everyone on disembarking the aircraft fell or came close to falling when their feet met terra firma. It is a weird feeling when stepping on solid ground after being in turbulence for such a long time. It was late afternoon when we finally landed and we were ordered to barracks for a well-deserved break and to report for duty early in the morning to clean up the mess and assess any serious damage that may have occurred. Upon arrival the following morning we did a momentary double take. Where was our plane? Parked in its place was a totally white plane that looked like it could belong to the Coast Guard, but no, Stumpy and some other mechanics were on site, and what we were looking at was our deep ocean blue “clunker” shrouded in dried out salt. Oh man, that really blew our mind when we realized how far into that salt froth we went and explained why we actually tasted the salt. Worse than that, however, was word from the engine “mechs’ ‘ that we had three cracked exhaust stacks (in different engines), any one of which could have caused a devastating fire. Apparently the rain was so intense that a fire never had a chance to get started. In fact, the wind was so strong that the bomb bay doors had wrinkles in them. A couple of days stay would be required so some materials could be flown in to repair the engines with the cracked stacks. That was probably OK since our first task was to remove all the salt and render the plane back to its deep ocean blue “squeaky” clean condition. When we got back to Jacksonville, we had a few days to recover, and reflect on why we were earning combat flight pay, a nice cut above the regular rates. Our reflection was short lived and it was back to routine, uh, sort of. Joyce proudly announced we were going to have a brother or sister for Karen in the spring of next year (1955). My tour of duty would be over in July of that year, so all this was on the mind.
Life went on at the base as usual. Hurricane season was over in Sept. but we still did a lot of flying for no other reason than to use up our fuel allotment. In June, the total fuel used by the squadron in the first six months was used in making up the next year’s budget. So no one really wanted to contemplate running out of fuel money in the middle of the season. I am saying all this as a lead into a story I would like to characterize as a “beware of what you wish for” story. It was late December or early January when we were informed to pack a bag (already had one packed in my locker), we had a mission to Argentia Nova Scotia (that maritime Province of Canada). The U.S. Navy had a small auxiliary base in this Canadian seaport. The base was abandoned in 1994 about the time Newfoundland and Labrador were combined into the 10th Atlantic Province of Canada. I don’t know why we had to go, especially in the dead of winter, but it wouldn’t have mattered much if I did. On the way up, we stopped for fuel in Brunswick, Maine (another naval station). Just as a note, all these facilities including Gander, Newfoundland were on the North American side of the “Great Circle Route ” to Europe for both aircraft and ships. The satellite bases were used in emergencies arising involving medical and mechanical issues not unusual in such extended distances.
We got there early in the afternoon and were going to be there for about an hour, so we decided to catch a late lunch at the mess hall. We walked in, grabbed a tray and got in the food line, where the guys behind the line slopped stuff on the trays as they passed. As I got about halfway down the line and my mouth dropped open. Waiting to dish me my portion of whatever it was, my buddy from ordnance school who selected Quonset Point RI over Jacksonville in spite of my pleas to swap. Oh no, he was from Jacksonville and couldn’t wait to leave town. Not only that but he would be within 75 miles of New York City. Who could pass that up? I asked him how in the world he ended up in this frozen part of the world. Well, first of all he was amazed to see me. Usually all he sees are trays, and the tray holders are but blurs). Since the lunch crowd had subsided, he was able to take a few minutes to sit with me and fill in the details. First of all, he said he really could believe it when within 5 days reporting for duty at Quonset, his entire squadron was repositioned to Brunswick, ME. He never got close to NY. I asked him what in the heck was a “Utility Squadron?” A long sigh followed. Basically they pick up small stuff other squadrons don’t, but the main thing was pulling tow targets for ground and shipboard anti- aircraft practice. As ordinance man he was responsible for the targets, their storage and deployment on runways to be snatched by swooping tow planes.
When he asked what we did in a weather squadron (he had visions of us working with the National Weather Bureau in some capacity). Of course we did, but not how he thought. I told him that hurricanes were our middle name, but minimized the dangers and emphasized the Caribbean islands, the inexpensive but good rum, the “happy camps’ ‘, etc. and his mouth was almost watering. I can’t believe I missed out on that opportunity, he moaned as he went back to his serving station. Although the expression had not been coined yet, this is a good example of “beware of what you wish for”. Better to dream and plan the path to success (happiness, etc.) and learn and adjust as you progress. Most likely that early wish will have disappeared altogether,
Well, it was on to Argentia where we were to spend the night. It was dead winter and yes, it was plenty cold. Our plane for the trip was one of our new acquisitions, a Lockheed P2V Neptune twin engine patrol plane (DIII-1). Unlike the Privateer, the Neptune had no bomb bays and had high mounted wings. The route from flight deck to after station was over the wing root. That meant a step or two up, over and down two. There was enough room on top of the wing root to support a port and starboard workstation. This is where the radio and radar stations were located. In the catwalk between the two stations, there was an overhead access door that led to the bottom of the fuel tanks where a valve was located to drain the dregs of the tank if necessary. Also, note on the plane a long tail extension. This was the plane’s “MAD” gear, technically called Magnetic Air Detection. This (also the responsibility of the radar technician) gave us the ability to see underwater. Back then, this was new stuff. Also note the wing-tip tanks. These carried extra fuel for extended flights. They were made to be quickly jettisoned if exceptionally rough or inclement weather was encountered (i.e. hurricane).
We arrived OK in the late afternoon to a slate gray and cold sky. A”Nor’easter” was predicted for later that evening. We were all pooped, and were looking for a decent dinner and a warm “sack”. About 0200 (2AM) the flight captain burst through the door and yelled “Jacksonville !!!”, waking the entire barracks up, “your plane is trying to fly, get down there and tie it down. Putting on what coats and sweaters we could rustle up, we went out into the most formidable weather I have ever faced. Sub-zero and howling winds buffeted the plane and indeed we watched as the front of the plane lifted a few feet into the air. Under the wings, all planes have metal “eyes’ ‘ affixed to which a cable reel could be attached. Inlaid within the tarmac, were installed “pad-eyes’ ‘ These were holes in the tarmac with round steel bars across the top and embedded on either side by the tarmac. The hole allowed one to reach under the steel bar and attach the hook on the end on the cable. The cable reel could then be tightened to the desired tension. There were two pad-eyes for each wing and two for the tail. Part of my job was to make sure we had sufficient and functioning cable reels stored on board. Normally two guys with a stepping stool would make quick work out of tying us down (though we seldom ever had to do it, and why we didn’t think to do it this time). No such luck this time. Preceding the nor’easter was rain (snow/sleet), the results of which all pad-eyes were filled with frozen water commonly known as ice, and hard ice it was. We had to go to each pad-eye with a hammer and screwdriver and clear enough ice to attach the hooks to the pad-eye. There were 6 pad-eyes and we had to prioritize them based upon wind direction. It took a couple of hours, but we did it, and made it into where we could warm-up. By the time we had finished, reveille had already sounded, after defrosting a few minutes, we were off to breakfast, and the plane for early take off for warm Jacksonville. By the time we hit the tarmac the worst of the storm was over and the wind had subsided. We entered the plane through the flight deck and as I proceeded over the wing root, I smelled a strong gasoline odor. Let me just say this, of all the odors I generally ignored, gasoline was not one of them. I immediately informed the plane captain who was as concerned as I was. He took out an ever present screwdriver and opened the small access hatch over our heads and we both got doused by #1 Aviation fuel. There was a steady drip coming from the tank’s valve. Turns out the gasket split because of the cold, and had to be replaced. Now remember, I mentioned we stopped in Brunswick ME and refueled there so we wouldn’t have to freeze Argentia. The gasket had to be replaced, so we were faced with a two-step process; de-gas the plane of almost 2,800 gallons, and then, refuel 2,800 gal to get us home. An empty gas truck came alongside and we took a hose from it and inserted it from the wing top to the bottom of the gas tank, and then the truck proceeded to suck the contents out of the tanks. Unfortunately, someone (guess who) had to remain on the wing to tend the siphoning hose. To be fair, the crew (except officers of course), all participated by spelling each other every half hour or so (the temp. hadn’t risen much). It was a slow process, but we did it and had the new gasket affixed by noon. Then to refuel (about an hour) and hold our breath that the gasket would hold. It did, and we headed to the barn (Jax.) after spending without question the most miserable cold few days of my life, including those of the ski patrol.
Once back in Jacksonville, it was time to look around and assess where we stood as a young family (nothing deep, believe me). The fact that Joyce was expecting was no longer a secret. There was no question that the backyard of 3670 Walsh St. was going through a two staged transition. The first of course was Karen, her first walking steps and dressing up for her first Easter Sunday. The second was Bruce. We didn’t know it was going to be a Bruce or not until he was born. When we found out he was a boy, I was delighted because I had a favorite name in mind. Being a history major, I had run into many swashbuckling “heroes” over time. One that stood out was a Scotsman named Robert the “Bruce”, who in the 14th century ran circles around the British army and was able to lift Scotland to the status of Nationhood and became their king. I always enjoyed reading about his exploits, and the name “Bruce” became a favorite. Mom didn’t know all this of course, but when the Hahn’s named their newly born boy, “Bruce” she loved the name. That was nice since there was no real discussion about what our first boy’s name would be, Bruce Leeds Barker. (Leeds is my mom’s maiden name). Another amazing and nice thing was he was born on our anniversary. That guaranteed I wouldn’t ever forget that important calendar date.
With the birth of Bruce on April 25, at the US Navy Hospital (cost @ $27. about) the game changed materially. While the facility was top notch, they didn’t let one dawdle around long and mom was back home in a couple of days. In fact, the day after the birth they had her up making the bed. It wasn’t long after they arrived home that I heard a glass-shattering scream come out of little ‘ole Bruce. With Karen, when changing time came around, it was simply a matter of grabbing the diaper and sweeping it up, forward and out bringing all with it (mostly). Same routine would not hold for Bruce or any boy since the sweep forward would include more than waste material. Poor kid, I wince every time I tell the story. But we all lived and hopefully learned. But he was a happy kid, and a joy to have around (DIII-14).
I add here in the interest of full disclosure, that up to the time we moved into the Walsh St. digs, both Joyce and I were moderate to heavy smokers. It was the thing back then and we must have started around 16 or so. No filters or “Kool’s” type either. Chesterfields were my first choice (my mom’s favorite), or in a pinch, Pall-Mall (Toby Thompson’s mom’s favorite). Neither mom knew it, of course (ha, ha). I mean we were so cool. I remember at Toby’s house, carefully opening the end of a carton (12 packs of cigarettes) and then carefully opening the bottom of each pack and snaking out two cigarettes from the center of the pack and then carefully folding and gluing the packs wrapping back in place, closing up the carton end and gluing it shut. Since then, after seeing how a real mom operates, I have serious doubts our moms were ignorant of anything we did.
While in the Navy, and when we were in the Caribbean, we not only stocked up on rum, but cigarettes too. Man, a carton of any brand was a mere fraction of what they cost in the States. But even that didn’t augment our needs, so most of our “smokes” were purchased at our local Friendly Store. It wasn’t a cheap, or clean habit. When Karen was born, we avoided smoking in close proximity to her (changing, romping, or playing in the yard). More often than not we were finding ourselves lighting up, talking about one or two puffs and putting the cigarette down in an ashtray. By the time we revisited it, a pile of ashes was all that was left. This routine was exacerbated sharply after Bruce showed up on the scene. The outcome of all this was we both enjoyed a full cigarette about twice a day, after dinner and the kids were down for the night (or at least a portion thereof). One night we looked at each other and concluded that this smoking habit is eating us up, money wise, and it was becoming apparent it wasn’t a health plus either. So we simply up and quit (at least for the moment).
It was the spring of 1955, and I was due to end my tour of duty mid-July. Not much longer. Around home we spent most of our time acclimating to the doubling of family size. Karen was standing and wanting to walk, and Bruce was content to be inert (but vocal) and enjoy things like ice cream cones we bought down the street on Park Ave. (the main drag into downtown Jax.) at the “Friendly Store”. Not only ice cream cones, but copious amounts of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer left the store headed for 3670 Walsh St. Our welcome there was somewhat chilled when Karen “lost her lunch” while leaning over the magazine rack, but we won’t dwell on that (DIII-14).
My duties as an active part of a flight crew was to end sometime early July to allow for a smooth transition for my ordinance tech. replacement. Around mid-June, I got a call from the squadron duty officer one Saturday morning that we had a 0600 mission tomorrow (Sunday morning) and to be there promptly. Of course I did, and when I arrived the crew was gathering around the nose of the plane (our PB4Y “clunker”). The pilot called us all to attention and announced we have been tasked to find and “sink” the USS Intrepid, a WWII commissioned aircraft carrier. This was to be a mock attack, of course to test the carrier’s readiness with its own assets to defend such an attack. I believe it was from the USS Intrepid where those planes that blew me off the runway were stationed. That made the prospect most intriguing to say the least. Several other patrol squadrons were involved as well. All we knew was the ship was somewhere in the Atlantic southeast of the Mayport Naval Station. I think we had the general coordinates, her direction of travel and approximate speed. This gave us all a reasonable area to search. It was a foggy morning when we took off. Once over water, we dropped in altitude to under 400’ (which we did routinely) and while we couldn’t see very far, we soon picked up chatter from the ships fighter planes already launched looking for these “laughable” squadrons looking for them. The patrol squadrons were joke enough, but a weather squadron? You have to be kidding. After all, the carrier was just back from the Korean theater and they knew a thing or two. You could catch this in their chatter. Just hearing them (I don’t think we were supposed to use their frequency, but hey) gave a pretty good indication of her location. As we got closer, we lowered altitude to around 200’ to the point of picking up prop wash on the ocean surface, At least we were used to this kind of thing. The pilot called back and requested a pot of coffee if we had one made. We did of course and he asked me to bring him and the copilot a cup please. When I got to the flight deck, I put down the pot on a hot plate, filled two cups and brought them forward to the pilots. Miller Bell told me to stick around, this might be fun. Looking out the windshield, all I could see was the gray fog, like we were flying in a coma. It was a little unnerving. All of a sudden, the fog seemed to lift and right in front of us was U.S.S Intrepid. We were so low we could see right through the hanger deck (just below the flight deck). Except where the carrier’s island was, the area between the two decks was open so you could see to the other side of the ship (DIII-14).
At that moment, the ship looked huge. The pilot thrust all four throttles as far forward as they would go, pulling the yolk into his lap (or close to it). Up and over the flight deck we went with the island just to our port (left) pretty close to the wingtip if you ask me, and as we soared away, our pilot radioed on the Intrepid’s frequency: “USS Intrepid, please note you have just been tagged”. Never heard the response to that remark. As we climbed out, fighter planes were all around us like so many bumble bees. We were tersely advised we had been shot down and were no longer part of the exercise, whereupon our pilot responded: “Roger that. From our life boats we will watch you try to land at your home base”. Dead silence. What a great way to end my Navy flying career. Not only was it fun, but I personally had the warm feeling of retribution.
The next couple of weeks I knocked around the hangar doing odd jobs and responding to several senior officers about reenlisting, to all I responded I appreciated their confidence but I had other plans. Finally, in early July I had the official interview by the commander of personnel, Lt. Pausner, who for a half hour explained all the great benefits the Navy offered, and I asked him to listen to me for a minute. I explained my interest in forestry, the meeting I had with the Dean of forestry at Florida, and I was following his advice to finish up at Middlebury and maybe add a few helpful electives, and perhaps a summer class or two. That should qualify me for applying for a Master’s Degree in Forestry (MF). He thought that over for a few minutes and said that sounded like a great plan of action, and to be honest he was a bit envious. Turns out he was a short time reserve officer himself, drawn in by the Korean War. He was mulling the same questions.
Except for a few weekend side trips to Sea Island and Silver Springs, I mustered out of the Navy in mid-July. Soon after that, we packed up, said our goodbyes to Doony, Ruby and the Hahn’s. We headed out one last time for Connecticut.