FLY ME TO THE MOON

My military career came to a bad end. This story explains the pain of it all. 02/26/2016

FLY ME TO THE MOON

Today we take flying for granted, as we do many of our modern technological achievements and accomplishments. Before WW II, not many people experienced flight. During my brief stint in the army, I managed to fly a number of times.

I have previously described my first flight in 1946 aboard a Piper Cub owned by the sergeant in charge of my barrack while stationed at Langley Field, Virginia, and my second flight shortly thereafter aboard a bomber that carried me from Langley to Mitchell Field, Long Island and left me deaf for three days. Later that year, the army flew me on a DC-3 from Boeing Field in Seattle to Chanute Field, Great Falls, Montana and subsequently to Elmendorf A.F.B., Anchorage, Alaska, a day in which the sun refused to set. A few days later, another such flight returned me to Ladd Field, Fairbanks where I served the remainder of my military duty that ended in April 1947 at which time an army DC-3 flight returned me to Chanute Field in order to be separated  from the army.

During the three days it took for me to be processed out of service, I began to experience significant rump pain. A physician examined me, and though he must have seen the obvious, cleared me for discharge. Once I got to town, the thought of visiting Bob Costello , a former “crypto” with whom I had taken some classes at the U. of Alaska, quickly faded. He had written inviting me to enroll with him at the U. of California-Berkeley to resume our engineering studies together. Now, all I wanted to do was return home as quickly as possible.

   SSgt. Craig Gammage, the lead “crypto,” was severed at the same time. Together, we chose to fly from Great Falls to Chicago rather than by rail. From there, we planned to journey to our homes by train, him to Philadelphia and me to New York City.

Our flight from Great Falls took off under gray skies. A short time later, a blizzard forced the plane to land in Bismarck, North Dakota. The passengers, all members of the military, spent the night in a dreary small hotel, sharing beds. Snow continued to fall the next day, causing the airline to cancel all flights. Neither of us wanted to spend more time in the hotel waiting out the storm, so we bought rail tickets to Chicago. To pass the time until the train arrived at midnight, we went to a bowling alley in the center of town. My pain grew worse. I sat while Craig bowled a few lines.

Near midnight, we headed to the train station, hoping it would arrive on time. Along the way we encountered a sad sight, numerous Indians staggering around, very intoxicated. I had seen the same sights in Fairbanks.     

It felt good to board the train, but by morning, my condition worsened. Craig located a military doctor on the train. This physician examined me, and said, “Soldier, you need immediate surgery, a hemorrhoidectomy.” He wrote a directive authorizing me to receive emergency treatment at a Chicago military hospital and gave me pain medication.

   When we arrived in the Windy City, I decided to fly to New York rather than undergo surgery here. Craig said he would accompany me and lugged my heavy duffle bag to the airport. Using the physician’s note, we obtained priority seating. Despite a bumpy flight, the prospect of getting home that evening cheered me.  

   After landing at LaGuardia, we went to Penn Station where Craig boarded a train to Philadelphia. We never met again, one of my great regrets. A true friend, he shepherded me home when I really needed help.

   After we parted, the 8^th Avenue subway took me to the Times Square where I boarded a bus that traveled under the Lincoln Tunnel to Hoboken. On board were some friends returning from a movie, but they failed to hail me as a returning hero.

   I stepped off the bus near my parent’s apartment. Much to my consternation, they did not answer the vestibule doorbell. Where could they be at this time of night? In nothing short of agony, I limped down the block and rang the bell of my sister’s apartment. Thank goodness, she answered. My parents were there, visiting her. We all hugged and kissed. It had been a very tough journey.

   Dr. Moriarity, our family physician, examined me the next day. “You are still officially on the army payroll. Go to the Ft. Jay military hospital on Governor’s Island to have the surgery performed. It won’t cost you a dime.”

A few days later, an army doctor did the deed. While recovering, my new watch began to play games with me. It would only tick in my right ear. It dawned on me that my hearing had been permanently damaged by that noisy flight I had taken aboard that bomber the previous summer.

Years later, a V.A. hospital staffer suggested it might be possible for me to obtain a disability pension for my hearing loss. The thought made me smile. It would be difficult to claim that my hearing loss resulted from my having flown as a hitch-hiker aboard a military aircraft in order to go swimming with pals on the Jersey Shore. I wouldn’t “hear” of it.

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