ROUTE 66

My tour of duty in Alaska provided me an opportunity to drive, without authorization, I must add. This story describes one ride that almost ended my life. 02/26/2016/

ROUTE 66

In August 1946, the army sent me to Ladd Field, Fairbanks as a member of the Army Airways Communications System or AACS. This detached unit included Cryptographic Technicians, Control Tower Operators, Ground Control Radar Technicians, Clerk Typists, and Radio and Teletype Operators. We wore the fanciest shoulder patches in the air force to signify our importance in military affairs.

 The code room, ocated below the control tower in the main hangar, had to operate on a 24/7 schedule. When our staff of cryptographic technicians dropped to five men, we were hard pressed to meet this requirement. We devised a plan which our C.O. accepted. Our highest ranking member, Cpl. Craig Gammage, worked from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., Mondays through Fridays. The other four of us worked an 8 hour shift followed by twenty four hours off-duty. As an example, if I worked the daytime shift on Monday from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. with Craig, my next work shift would be by myself on Tuesday, from 4 p.m. to midnight. A full day later, my next work shift would commence on midnight, Thursday.

During the winter of 1946, Ladd Field served as a proving ground for the planes as well as infantrymen. The army brought to this base at least one of every model aircraft in its inventory to test its operational capability under arctic conditions. A squadron of PF-51 Mustang fighter planes based at a satellite field ten miles away, flew above us every day. I guess they were there to protect us should the Russians decide to invade Alaska.

All winter long, I typed coded messages listing parts needed to keep these babies in the air. I could not understand why the army identified one bolt as classified, calling it “Secret,” while another seemingly identical bolt for the same airplane carried no classification. As a result, teletype operator would send off my coded message along with others in clear text for what seemed to me to be identical items.

I cannot tell you how often I typed the words: Peter Fox Five One followed by the plane’s ID number. As almost all the transmissions took place during the normal work week, there was little for cryptographic techies to do on weekends or during the weekday swing or graveyard shifts. My job soon became quite boring.

One night, while working the graveyard shift, I heard an automotive engine idling endlessly. To avoid freezing in the arctic conditions, they were never turned off. The sound came from a seven-passenger double-clutch Dodge reconnaissance vehicle parked below my office, assigned for use by AACS personnel. Temptation and curiosity got the better of me. I locked the office door, announced my intention to use the toilet, and instead, went outside and climbed in behind the wheel around 2 a.m.

I could have picked an easier vehicle in which to teach myself how to drive than one with a double-clutch. After a trial and error period, inching around the parking lot, I summoned the courage to venture onto the frozen snow-packed road leading toward the entrance gate a few miles away. There were no other vehicles in sight. With each passing minute, my confidence grew as I drove along at perhaps 20 mph. Hey, this is fun. I can do it.

Much to my surprise two soldiers appeared out of thin air, walking on the other side of the road. What the hell are they doing here at this time of night? They flagged me down. I turned around and picked them up, heading back toward their barracks and my office. They were nearly frozen and happy as could be to get a ride. They had just returned from town.

After driving a short distance, a very bright light appeared off to my right. What could that be? It’s wiggling around. It came closer and closer. Then, a horn sounded. My heart almost came out of my body. The headlight of a locomotive heading down the tracks bored right at us. Who knew? The road had no rail crossing warning lights or traffic signals, at least none that we saw. By the narrowest of margins, we crossed in front of the engine without being rammed.

My two passengers were in a state of apoplexy. They hadn’t identified the train which had given us no warning. They could not wait to get out of what had almost become their coffin. I returned the Dodge to its assigned parking space and sneaked back into my office without detection. My nerves were frayed. You idiot! Do you know how lucky you are? You could have been killed. You might have gone to jail for leaving your post without permission, driving without authorization. Oh, I gave myself a good scolding.

You would think that, having survived this reckless act, my bravado would lessen. It did not. I continued to take the Dodge out for early morning joy rides, with two restrictions: I stayed away from that railroad track and never picked up any hitchhikers. It would be hard for me to explain in court why the stiffs seated near me had died from fright, not the arctic weather.

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