Cadet: A Memoir

Cadet

Published by Robert C. Foster III at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Robert C. Foster III

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Contents

FROM THE DEAN’S OFFICE TO THE RECRUITING OFFICE

ACRES OF AIRPLANES... BUT FIRST

WE CAME HERE FOR WINGS-NOT GROUND SCHOOL AND PHYSICAL TRAINING

PUT ME IN COACH. I DON'T SMOKE

INTO THE WILD BLUE

SO WE'VE SOLOED; WHAT ELSE DO WE NEED TO KNOW?

WE PUT THE 'BASE' IN BASIC TRAINING

DICK TRACY AND THE WIDE OPEN GATES OF PARADISE

NIGHT FLIGHT AND WE'RE OUT OF HE RE

CHECK RIDE

A NEW BASE WITH SOME NEW TROUBLE

A BULL FIGHT SENOR ?

A REALLY SHORT RIDE

INVERTED SPINS

NIGHT FLIGHT

MAYFLOWER

WHEN THE MAN SAYS BAIL OUT...

KEEP YOUR HEAD ON A SWIVEL

EAT, DRINK AND GET KNOWN

PARTNER’S CHOICE GOES OFF LIMITS

GIVE ME A P. GIVE ME AN O. GIVE ME AN R PUT 'EM ALL TOGETHER AND THEY SPELL PORNOGRAPHY!

A REAL PEPPER UPPER

JOIN THE NAVY AND SEE IT ALL

IT'S NOT THE FALCON OR THE CROSS, IT'S MALTA, BABY

HOURS OF BOREDOM PUNCTUATED WITH MOMENTS OF SHEER TERROR

SEE NAPLES AND DIE

EPILOGUE

DEDICATION

To all Naval Aviators living and dead who conquered

the best that Pensacola and her instructors threw at us, I

sincerely dedicate this book. We deserved those wings,

didn't we?

Cover photo by Mark Houpt

From the Dean's Office to The Recruiting Office

A trip to the dean's office was normal for me, but this one was laced with more than a bit of fear. I had already been thrown out of Bowdoin College two times for academic deficiency and social violations but this visit looked considerably more serious. Having been the forth generation Foster in a row to grace these halls, I figured that I could probably talk my way past this one, but it would have to be a major performance.

I gave the dean's secretary my usual wave as we knew each other so well after my three shambling semesters, knocked on his door and waited for his invitation. After his very dean-like Come in, I tried my usual snake-slide into the bad boys chair beside his desk.

No, Robert, Come sit in my chair he said. That's when I noticed the four year books opened on his desk. Each was a bit mustier than the other. He suggested that I start reading the oldest one, the one where my great grandfather graduated at the top of his class. It got worse as my grandfather did it cum laude. Now I'm a pretty quick study, so it wasn't necessary to prolong the agony. I was a goner and both the dean and I knew it. There was a pause, I'm sure because of the four generations. And then... he said

Why don't you go somewhere and do something that you can be proud of for at least a couple of years and then maybe we can talk about reentering Bowdoin later.

Two weeks later, after a series of monumental going away parties thrown by the brothers in my fraternity house, I am in a train dressed like a guy who is going to be mailing all his clothes home in a couple of hours, pulling out of Grand Central with orders to report to the Bainbridge Naval Training Command in Port Deposit, Maryland. I see another train pulling into Grand Central on an adjoining track and with one of those tricks that only God can pull, there is one of my fraternity mates complete with camel's hair coat, Bowdoin scarf and rep tie sitting in the bar car. He's obviously headed into the city for a debutante cotillion and me, I'm not.

Any of youse mens who've ever been to collich or is applying for officers candidate schools take two steps forward, shouts the meanest looking sailor I've ever seen.

I swear this is the way he spoke. There is a pregnant pause to outdo all pauses and two of us out of a group of ninety six march forward exactly two paces.

An eerie silence falls over the entire group and remains there until Boatswains Mate First Class Bruck announces that we two will be in a special group with testing to start tomorrow morning. I was taking the test for Aviation Cadet at Pensacola Naval Air Station. I had heard that it was very tough, especially for someone who was as math deficient as I. This major hurdle stood between me and the trip to Pensacola and the chance to earn my wings. It was what the armed forces innocently called the College Equivalency Exam.

What could be so hard about that? I thought. It's made up by a bunch of government types who probably haven't even been to college. No problem whatsoever. But why would it be in five sections with four hours for each sections, thought I?

Two and a half days later I came out of what was the hardest series of exams I have ever taken in my entire life and I was convinced that I had flunked every one of them. They were diabolical. Many of the answers were multiple choice but they were all the same with perhaps a comma or a dash being the difference of one to another. I passed. But there was still another eight weeks of boot camp to go.

A month later I had learned How to scam the system. The call had gone out for Leadershiplike bearing with a strong voice. Turns out it was for the cutlass-bearing up front guy when we were in full parade mode, the guy who, with a mighty flourish of his sword cried Eyes right when we passed the reviewing stand. That eyes right saved me hours of drilling and potato peeling as I was in another part of the base practicing ER. For a reason known only to the Navy Manual, the practice period for this job was almost interminable which was just fine with me. It kept me away from drilling, potatoes and Bruck.

I got to wave my saber around at the graduation parade in front of many happy parents and a few bits of brass. Bruck marched with us and after the festivities he handed out our orders along with what we knew would be a ten day leave. Everybody got one. Ninety five out of ninety six guys got orders and a ten day leave. I got orders to Company X, no leave and an explanation from my friend Bruck that my records had been lost.

It took me one day to figure out that Company X was made up of the Navy's true unfortunates. All of the drunks, perverts, mental cases, minor league criminal offenders and other unfortunates were sent to this holding company until they could be court martialed, disciplined or discharged from the Navy. To say that it was a motley crew would be a vast understatement for this group. When I asked why I was there I was told that some guy named Bruck in one of the training companies had misplaced my records and I would remain in Company X until they were found. I spent exactly two days with this group of malcontents and at 1500 hours I made my decision to deal with the brass.

One hour later in my cleanest and most freshly pressed uniform I'm seated in front of a young lieutenant in the main building at the training command telling him my side of the story.

Yes, he agrees I should not have been sent to Company X. Yes he said I have qualified for flight training at Pensacola where I will become a Naval Cadet. Yes I am already on his roster as assigned for that month.

With this information I looked into his baby blue eyes and in as diplomatic language as an Airman Apprentice can use with a lieutenant, announce that if he doesn't get me out of Company X right now and off on leave I'll louse up his assigned list and quit the program before I even get started. He allows that he can accomplish this tomorrow. I announce that I'm ready to pack it in right now rather than to return to that bunch of perverts, drunks and cretans. I offer to take him up to the barracks and introduce him to them if he'd like.

That afternoon I'm winging my way home to Boston and the sweetest thing on two feet who will loom large in this cadet's life.

ACRES OF AIRPLANES... BUT

FIRST

Willow Grove Naval Air Station is 16 miles north of Philadelphia but it might has well have been on the moon as far as this Airman Apprentice was concerned. A group of us cadets-to-be had been sent here because (in Navy parlance) the pipeline was constricted. Loosely translated that meant that there were a ton of pilots returning home after the Korean Conflict and there was no way of knowing how many of them would wish to remain in the navy and complete their service requirement for twenty or thirty years of service. After that was figured out, then they would invite the new prospective pilots down to Pensacola. In the meantime, it was learn to love NAS Willow Grove and Tiger and Genesee Beer, both local products, each one a bit worse than the other.

All prospective cadets fall out of the barracks and make up a single line in front of me. It wasn't said rudely or in a menacing manner, but on this hot July Monday morning there was something about this lieutenant's demeanor that put some of us on guard. It sure did me.

Now you gentlemen all want to become officers and naval aviators, right? We, of course all shouted YES SIR at the top of our lungs.

So, you'd probably want to create as much good will among the officers and pilots on this base as possible at this time. Right? YES SIR again TOL.

And you 'd agree that this location is pretty damn hot in the summertime. Right YES SIR

So you guys are going to help public works dig a swimming pool at the officer's club during the remainder of the summer or until your orders come through for Pensacola. Yes Sir" Not top of lungs.

Oh, does anybody know how to type? My hand shot up in a move that would have amazed the Boston Brave's great lefty pitcher Warren Spahn.

The lieutenant in charge of the personnel office was a jolly fellow. Perhaps a bit too jolly as he arrived each morning with a monumental hangover. His affliction was not unknown to me as I too enjoyed more than a cocktail or two. As a result of the lieutenant's condition, he ordered that the air conditioning be kept at 100% constantly. Walking across from the barracks in the early morning in July was barely tenable but the blast of cold air when entering the office was enough to knock you up against the wall. It was joyous to be so over cooled but troubling at the same time because my contemporaries were sweating their asses off out in the ever deepening hole with shovels creating what would someday become the officer's swimming pool.

I felt for them, especially when circumstances brought them into the office where they were mostly good sports about our two-tiered positions. I was dressed in an ultra clean white uniform as I was the up front guy who met the public and the guys from the pool detail would not be recognized by their mothers they looked so nasty and ill-kempt.

Even though it was only by using the two fingers typing system, it was still a semi skill that kept me air conditioned until the call came out from the Naval Air Station in Pensacola, Florida that they were ready for new Aviation Cadets. Finally our dreams were realized and it had all been worth it according to my pool building friends. We were bundled up and packed into an aging DC-6 and flown down to Florida by a group of Weekend Warriors. Their skill level was less than perfect and the landing at Pensacola was, in the words of one of them, a semi-controlled crash. Nevertheless, with our tail feathers already on fire, we were here, at the Cradle of Naval Aviation.

WE CAME HERE FOR WINGS-NOT GROUND

SCHOOL AND PHYSICAL TRAINING

Good Morning Gentlemen said the most spit and polished US Marine I had ever seen in person.

He'd stepped right off of a recruiting poster and he was to be our instructor, confessor and drill instructor for the next sixteen weeks. He was the antithesis of Bruck. You could tell that he wanted his boys to succeed even though he marched us and drilled us to within an inch of our lives. He showed us how to dress in our new khaki uniforms. My enlisted mens whites were packed in a sea bag, hopefully never to be worn again. That occasion could only arise if I were unlucky enough to wash out of flight training and I swore to all of the gods that this was not going to happen to this young aviator to be.

He was there to inspect our quarters on a daily basis and to march us to classes, five a day, and then to march us again to PT, physical training, which was to prove to be the most demanding that any of us had ever been through. First though, came the storied and much feared Dilbert Dunker

Being the Navy, and seeing that most of our flying would be over vast stretches of water, our training always included the ocean element. The swimming pool at Pensacola was enormous. Part of the reason for its size was to accommodate The Dunker. He rose two stories out of the deep end of the pool and rode on twin tracks. . On close inspection you could see that he was a partial cockpit which was horizontal to the water with wheels which rode on the tracks almost to the bottom of the pool. Our company of sixty men was lined up, thirty men on each side of the pool to view the demonstration. A young enlisted man in splendid physical condition climbed up the two story tower and was strapped into the cockpit. He wore a helmet and a standard seat pack type parachute which we later found out was filled with an unusual substance. At the appointed moment there was a bang and the Dunker roared down the tracks with our man Dilbert inside. It hit the water with a tremendous crash and a giant spray of water and then, much to our amazement and horror, turned upside down and sank almost to the bottom of the pool. It was then that I noticed a scuba diver in the pool who lined up close to the commotion and stared intently at the inverted cockpit. The Dilbert was casually removing his seat and shoulder harness and making sure they were not tangled around him. Then he reached up to the top of the wind shield which, of course, was upside down, and with a mighty thrust towards the bottom of the pool extricated himself from the cockpit. The whole sequence couldn't have taken more than 45 seconds and sixty cadets gave this demonstrator a round of applause.

The time period for PT was drawing near its close, so we assumed that we had seen a demonstration and the actual, horrifying personal event lay sometime in the future certainly after our swimming test and evaluation. How soon it would take place though, was a question that sent shivers through me, but I couldn't imagine what it did to the boys who didn't swim well or at all. Anyway, that was for another day.

Cadet Adams, J. T. came the call from the chief swimmer on top of the Dunker. Fifty nine cadets started to quake while one, J. T. Adams went into a coma. It couldn't be happening. They were going to Dilbertize us today!

The whole event was a study in human behavior at the extreme. Only two guys refused to go and they packed their gear