TAKE THE "A" TRAIN

This story may tire you out, as it describes an usual travel day I experienced while stationed at Langley Field, Virginia. Get on board! 02/26/2016

TAKE THE “A” TRAIN

My three-week furlough ended February 1946 with my arrival at Langley Field where many of my basic training pals had already taken up residence. I found myself a member of the Army of the United States, 78^th Army Air Forces, AACS Overseas Processing and Replacement Center.

A week later, a friend suggested, “Apply for a three-day pass. They grant them to everyone.” To my utter amazement, the army granted me one. I headed home on Friday evening, taking a bus to Richmond, a train to Penn Station, and a bus to my front doorstep. My folks were happy to see me, despite my midnight arrival. The same public transportation system had me back at camp by 8 a.m. Tuesday.

At this time in history, the military was discharging veterans based upon a numerical formula that took into account length of service and overseas duty. The higher your point total, the sooner you became eligible for severance. Many vets had accumulated over 80 points and were still hanging around, waiting to be released. I had only five points and no idea how long the army would require me to remain in uniform. It could be months or it could be years. No one knew.     

The army made me an offer I could not refuse. They would discharge me from the draftee army in exchange for an agreement to enlist in the Regular Army for one year. This inducement included a one-step promotion in rank and an immediate 30-day furlough. It was a done deal.

Therefore, my parents were surprised to see Private, First Class, Joseph J. Finnerty show up at their door a week later to spend another month with them rather than with the Army Air Force. My ongoing and extended presence befuddled them somewhat.

   At the conclusion of the furlough, the first order of business upon returning to Langley Field was to apply for a three-day pass. A Regular Army man knows the ropes. That Friday night, my mom opened the door.

“Hello mom. It’s me again.” She seemed more perplexed than pleased to see me there.

After returning to Langley Field, a friend who had received his shipping orders arranged for me to take his job, that of a billiards or poolroom orderly, a task requiring specialized skills. It became my responsibility to open this facility daily, at 5 p.m., and close it at 10 p.m. In a week’s time, my performance peaked and then plummeted. Upon returning from the PX one evening to close down the premises, it appeared someone had done the job for me. The lights were off and the doors already locked.

The next morning my Commanding Officer summoned me to face a variety of serious charges, including abandoning my post. The evening before, a sergeant saw a billiard ball come bouncing out of the poolroom door. He claimed two soldiers ran after it, "brandishing cue sticks." He chased everyone out and locked the poolroom in my absence.

As punishment, the C. O. took my name off the current shipping list, and sent me to the infamous “Detention Barracks” to undergo the rigors of what the air force deemed akin to “Infantry Basic Training” for a two-week period. It failed to measure up to that, even remotely. During those two weeks, I marched around the base with other miscreants carrying a rifle, and performing close order drills. We “inmates” took turns as platoon leader. I loved this experience. I learned how to give commands and execute the Queen Anne's Salute. That is a particularly spectacular stunt. Upon command, soldiers toss their rifles in the air; catch them after they spin a full rotation; kneel, while holding the weapon upright, with one arm across the chest. You must execute this maneuver in one coordinated motion. If done properly, the salute is eye-catching.

After completing these two weeks of infantry soldiering, I applied for and got a three-day pass. My arrival home did not completely surprise my parents. Well, perhaps it took them off guard just a bit.

Now back in the good graces of military authority, new shipping orders were posted by my C.O. However, illness prevented my departure. As soon as my health returned to normal, this kind man granted me yet another three-day pass. I used it to spend another weekend with my parents. My parents though I would spend the rest of my tour of duty traveling back and forth between Langley Field and Hoboken. Finally my name appeared on still another shipping roster, scheduled to leave early in June. This necessitated surrendering my gate pass, effectively restricting me to the base. Fate gave me an opportunity to flaunt this restriction.

During my protracted stay, my Barracks Orderly appointed me his Assistant. The job had one great benefit. We slept in a private room rather than in the open barracks. This sergeant pal was wealthy. He owned a Piper Cub airplane that he kept at a nearby airfield. How did he get to the plane? He rode there on his motorcycle which he kept on the base next to our barracks.   

 My friend planned to fly to Scranton on May 23 to visit a girlfriend. “Wanna join me as far as Philadelphia?” he asked. The offer was too tempting for me to resist, as I had never ridden on a motorcycle let alone flown before. The army would soon ship me from Langley Field, and never again would such a chance come my way.

“Yes, if I can get a pass to let me through the gate.” 

An hour later, I had one in my pocket. After explaining my need, an orderly room clerk placed a blank pass on the counter, and then turned his head away. With a quick scrawl, I forged the name of my C.O. on the document and raced back to the barracks with it in hand. Thus begin a madcap adventure.  

The sergeant wheeled his motorcycle to the door and I hopped aboard the back for my first such ride. The gate sentry did not detect my phony pass. A few minutes later, we arrived at a municipal airport. There, I climbed into his Piper Cub for my first airplane ride. It turned out to be a lulu. My pal did not perform any wild aerobatics, but he did zigzag, pitch and yaw a few times, just enough for me to appreciate level flight. In a few hours, he landed near Philadelphia. He said he would meet up with me on Sunday afternoon at 3 p.m. With that, he took off.  

Out on the highway, a motorist picked me up and drove me to the middle of Philadelphia. A subway took me to a point near the New Jersey Turnpike. From there, a truck carried me to Newark. A Hudson Tube subway got me to Journal Square in Jersey City, and from there all that remained was to take the trolley and a jitney bus to reach home about midnight. My parents found it difficult to believe I had come home yet again.

The nation’s entire rail system had shut down on Friday, May 23 due to a nationwide strike. It ended on Saturday when President Truman threatened to use the army to operate them. This changed my return travel plan. Now I could ride a train to Philadelphia rather than hitchhiking.

I got off at the wrong station, 30 Broad Street, in the heart of the city. While walking toward the street exit, a Military Policeman stopped me and asked to see my pass. He noticed it stipulated a 50-mile travel limitation from Langley Field.

“You are out of bounds” he said. What are you doing here?”

“My barracks orderly flew me here on Friday night in his Piper Cub while on his way to visit his girlfriend in Scranton. I hitched home to visit my parents in Hoboken as I am scheduled to ship out this week. Now, I’m on my way to that small airfield outside of town where he will pick me up and return to Langley.” 

This MP had service stripes down his arm indicating he may have served in the Continental Army. I can still hear his laughter as he roared at this improbable explanation. He locked me in a small cell briefly before releasing me with a pass authorizing me to return to base within 24 hours. He took my forged gate pass and mailed it to my C. O.  

It took me until three that afternoon to make my way to the airport. It had started raining and was turning into a dismal day. My friend and his plane never arrived. Apparently, he returned to Langley earlier, fearing the bad weather that was now settling in the area.

What to do? Return to Philadelphia and take the train to Richmond?  And what if that MP should see me? No, it’s better to hitchhike down the Eastern Shore of Maryland, then ride the ferry across Chesapeake Bay to Newport News and board a bus back to Langley.

I began hoofing it, in the drizzle. A family of three picked me up. The driver’s wife sat in the front and their teenaged daughter in the back seat next to me. On a better day, I would have proposed marriage to her, she was so darned cute. Instead, I sat glumly as he drove at 35 miles an hour, neither more nor less. About six o'clock they stopped for dinner, and invited me to join them.

“Thanks, but the last ferry sails at midnight, and I must make it there by then.”

Three young men then picked me up. I soon discovered they were drunk. They raced down the highway, covering about 20 miles in 15 minutes before they stopped to let me off. That joyride scared me. I got out on a lonely highway and stood in the rain for what seemed an eternity. No other cars appeared in sight for the next hour. With my spirits at low tide, the same family who had invited me to dine earlier came along. They stopped and gave me another ride, again traveling at the same 35 mph pace for another long stretch. They dropped me off, still many miles from the ferry terminal. By this time, I had no hope of catching that midnight boat.

As the night wore on, a truck driver picked me up and brought me to the terminal. It was now dawn, just in time to board the first ferry to Newport News. A bus got me to Langley’s gate at 8 a.m., exactly 24 hours after I had departed Hoboken.

It had been quite a journey. I had employed nine means of transportation: Motorcycle, plane, bus, truck, car, subway, trolley, train, and ferryboat. The trip included a brief stay in the MP’s pokey, a ride with a beautiful girl, and a drunk. I relished the experience.

A few days later, my name rang out over the loudspeaker, summoning me to the Orderly Room. The C.O. held my forged pass in his hand and said, “Soldier, you exceeded the 50-mile limit of this pass. You will report immediately to the Detention Barracks for two weeks of Infantry Basic Training.”

My feet carried me there with joy. I had expected to be jailed. Instead, I had won a trifecta bet. First, this officer forgot that I had turned in my everyday gate pass awaiting shipping orders. Second, he did not recognize his forged name on the fake pass. Third, he forgot I had already spent two weeks in the Detention Barracks for my poolroom episode. Repeat offenders were normally court marshaled, not given more training.    

In order to allow me to undergo two more weeks of training, the army removed my name from the latest shipping list. The second stint of pretending to be in the infantry vastly improved my skills as a platoon leader. Barking out drill commands while in charge of the other troops made me feel like a real soldier.

After completing this punishment, I returned to the bosom of my own barracks. With the aplomb of a Regular Army man, I applied for and received a three-day pass. This time, I limited the extent of my journey to Washington, D. C., having developed an aversion to Philadelphia.

My barracks orderly friend obtained his discharge soon afterwards. His brother arrived, and the two of them prepared to fly his Piper Cub to their home in Spokane, Washington. Before he left, he played a wonderful joke on the C.O. “I’d like to take some home movies of you leading the troops in the parade grounds which I’ll send to you.”  The pompous officer jumped at the bait. On Saturday morning, he personally drilled the troops for about fifteen minutes, all the while being photographed by my buddy. There was no film in his camera.

I managed to visit my folks in late June. This time, I traveled by air, hitching a ride aboard a B-25 Billy Mitchell bomber headed for Mitchell Field in Long Island. The engines made ear-shattering noise, leaving me deaf for three days before returning to normal. Later, I discovered my left ear had suffered some permanent hearing loss.

Soon after July 4th, my stay at Langley came to an end. The army shipped me and nine other soldiers aboard a civilian Pullman train to Boeing Field, Washington. The “brass” saw fit to put me in charge of this massive troop movement, as my PFC rating outranked all those other lowly Privates.

My infantry training paid off on this train ride. Three times a day, I commanded my squad to “fall in and follow me” to the dining car. They always obeyed, at least when they were sober.

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