Later that evening I joined Glyn at the ground festivities, which included a fireworks display. I was in civilian clothes, and it was enjoyable wandering through the crowd listening to the enthusiastic remarks about the jet in the airshow. The audience seemed to have enjoyed it almost as much as I. From Glyn's reaction, a combination of awe and fear, I thought I would have either a prospective fiancée or an ex-girlfriend. Of course I hoped for the former.
The following is the view from the ground as she perceived it.
The people were in a celebratory mood, as on all July Fourth holidays in this small northwest Florida town, but somehow the mood seemed heightened on this particular day in 1947. Since the end of World War II, Americans seemed more conscious of their proud heritage, and there was a heightened sense of patriotism. The events began early, as happy families arrived at the park dressed in bright summer colors. By midafternoon the colorful high-school marching band, impressive military parade, and concert were over. Adults and children alike had been stuffing themselves all day on hot dogs, homemade pies, watermelons, and refreshing snow cones. Feeling somewhat lethargic, hundreds ambled the few blocks to the pier overlooking the bay for what was to be the highlight of the day — an aerial demonstration by the planes from nearby Tyndall Army Air Field. In recent years the local population had become familiar with men in uniform and conventional airplanes, but today was to be anything but conventional. Most of the citizens had never heard the roar of a jet, much less seen one, but by late afternoon they would have a spectacular introduction to the jet age. Relaxed friends and strangers made casual conversation as they stood on the pier facing the expanse of the beautiful bay. The azure sky filled with wispy white clouds formed a perfect backdrop as the airshow began. The show opened with a formation flyby of A-26 Invaders and P-51 Mustangs. This was followed by a series of loops and rolls by three Mustangs. The crowd responded enthusiastically as the show seemingly ended with another group flyby. As the people slowly began to disperse, an unfamiliar rumble was heard in the distance from over the bay, causing them to wonder if a typical Florida afternoon thunderstorm was to end this perfect day. All eyes were drawn to a fleck in the sky that within an instant was transformed into what appeared to be a streak of lightning thundering down main street. Microseconds later a beautiful, sleek silver bullet was zooming up over the bay at an incredible speed. The sight and deafening noise momentarily left the audience in a state of shock, mixed with terror in some cases. That fear was short-lived, as this exquisite piece of machinery performed rolls, loops, and intricate maneuvers that left even the birds envious and me wondering if Lope was really at the controls. As suddenly as it had appeared, it turned east and disappeared, leaving the exhilarated audience completely stunned. This was a Fourth of July they wouldn't soon forget.
The next day I took Glyn and three of her brothers out to Tyndall to have a closer look at the P-80. Before leaving for Eglin I made a low, high-speed pass over the runway at the tower's request, rocking my wings as I headed west. I like to think that the airshow and P-80 inspection were influential in her twelve-year-old brother Doug's decision to become a fighter pilot, even though that decision would lead to the harrowing incident off the coast of Vietnam described in Chapter 5.
Barney called from the University of Florida in Gainesville in early September to tell me that the Packard dealer had a new 1948 convertible available. It was the first postwar Packard model, and it cost the then astronomical sum of $3,500, more than half a year's pay. I had saved quite a bit of money during and after the war, so I told Barney I would take it sight unseen. I was tired of constantly borrowing cars from my friends, and there seemed to be little prospect of getting one elsewhere in the near future.
Rode flew me to Gainesville in an A-26 on a Friday evening, and I picked up the car the next morning. It was bright blue with red trim and a white top and had the first push-button windows I had ever heard of, much less seen. Barney and I drove it around for a while trying to ignore the worshipful looks of dozens of coeds. It had passed the checkout. I headed out for Eglin, arriving at Auger Inn after dark.
The next morning I introduced my sensational new acquisition to my fellow Auger Innmates. After each had driven it and run the windows up and down to their heart's content (this was to be a constant problem) I drove to the base to show it to Glyn. She was as impressed as the coeds had been: I didn't just have a car, I had a sporty new convertible. Seeing her in the car with the top down — the blue car setting off her blond hair and deep tan — I began to worry that it might encourage competition and that perhaps I should have bought a black sedan.
Glyn was not completely checked out on driving and did not have a license, so during the next few weeks she practiced driving in a deserted area near beautiful Destin Beach, then took and passed the driver's test.
Later that month we learned that the squadron would soon receive two P-80Bs for testing. The P-80B was equipped with a desperately needed ejection seat, which would enable the pilot to get out of the aircraft safely, even at high speed. Accordingly all the pilots were flown to Wright Field in a C-47 to learn how to use this vital piece of safety equipment. After a few hours of classroom indoctrination on the operation of the seat and the proper body position for ejection, we were taken into a large hangar that had a track running up one wall. On this track an ejection seat was mounted. Each pilot in turn climbed into the seat, assumed the proper position, and squeezed the seat trigger. With a loud, echoing explosion, the nervous occupant was propelled rapidly up the track to a height of fifteen to twenty feet, depending on the pilot's weight and the vagaries of the explosive charge. After the first shot we all put a dollar in a pot with the sum going to the one who came closest to estimating how high the seat would go on his turn. On one of the shots the sergeant loaded a dummy cartridge. When the pilot squeezed the trigger nothing happened, but he was petrified for fear that the seat would fire while he was climbing out. He was left sweating for about thirty seconds before being told that it was a dummy round. He dismounted with a combination of anger and relief.
When I flew in a two-seat F-16 in 1988, I couldn't help but contrast the briefing I received with the P-80B training. For the F-16 flight I underwent more than two hours of detailed instruction on the use of the tilted ejection seat and the related emergency equipment.
12
Head-on Passes
September was my last month in the Army Air Forces and my first in the U.S. Air Force. On September 18, 1947, a long-held dream came true, and the USAAF became the USAF. For the first time in our history the Air Force was a separate service, no longer part of the Army. There was no immediate effect on the personnel except that our serial numbers were changed, Army air fields became Air Force bases, soldiers became airmen, the 611th Proof Test Group became the 3200th Proof Test Group, and we held our heads a little higher. It took several years to phase in the new blue uniforms, and they did not become mandatory for all personnel until 1950. In 1948 and 1949 it was sometimes difficult to tell we were all in the same service, since there was such a mixture of uniforms, especially in the optional period during the change from summer to winter uniforms and vice versa.
September is the hurricane season in Florida, and over the years at Eglin, one of our missions was to evacuate the aircraft when hurricanes threatened. In mid-September a hurricane entered the Gulf and headed toward the Eglin area. On the afternoon of the seventeenth, the last day of the AAF, we were ordered to move all flyable aircraft to Maxwell Field, Alabama, about 130 miles north of Eglin. I flew the P-38, and Don Rodewald flew the P-82 night fighter. Since both aircraft had special radar equipment, they were put into a hangar at Maxwell while the rest of the aircraft were parked on the ramp.