Texas – Part Two
Austin
After a comfortable three-day drive we arrived at my parents’ home in Houston. Just after I’d returned to Okinawa in October of 1965, they had rented a small two-bedroom home on the southeast side not far from the city’s center, in an area which was quite a step up from where they’d previously rented. Sandwiched south of Old Spanish Trail, north of Griggs Road, and west of the Gulf Freeway (I45S), the area was populated by mostly working-class white, black, and Hispanic families. Though not yet affected by the soon-to-come “white-flight” from what would later be known as “inner city homes”, the neighborhood was still clean and prosperous; even supporting a cutting-edge shopping mall named “Palm Center” just a few blocks east of their home. Anchored by a Montgomery Wards and a Foleys Department Store, it featured restaurants, sports shops, a couple of electronic stores, and even a moderately-sized furniture and appliance store.
A year or so after moving in, their landlord offered to sell them the house on a “rent-to-buy” basis—crediting their monthly rental payments in full to the asking price. Based on what the house was listed for, if they kept up their monthly rent payments they would own it outright in just under twelve years. This was the only viable way my parents could ever afford to buy a home, given their poor credit history and a lack of cash for any down payment, so they naturally and literally jumped on the deal.
Just a few years later, spurred by an explosion of land development and commercial expansion to the southwest and north of the city, the more affluent and mostly white families began to move out of the neighborhood at an alarming rate. Home values plummeted as the once tidy and meticulously kept up 1940s and 1950 era homes began to pile up as unsold properties and foreclosures, or were flipped and became unkempt cheap rentals. Not long after, the random and irregular pop-pop of 38 Special revolvers (dubbed by the news media as ‘Saturday night specials) and the occasional rat-a-tat-tat staccato of semi-automatic gunfire was quickly followed by the high-pitched sound of police and ambulance sirens. The southeast neighborhood’s humid night air was now pierced regularly by these unwelcome sounds and replaced the melodic echoes of kids joyfully playing in the streets and the nostalgic calls of their mothers calling them home for supper.
As the years marched on, Palm Center slowly but with increasing regularity, began to be plagued by petty break-ins, smash and grabs, assaults, rolling gun battles in the parking lot, and with a severely dwindling customer base, finally succumbed to the inevitable, as store after store closed its doors forever. The once prosperous mall became the neighborhood pariah and was eventually razed and turned into a parking lot.
A general consumer malaise brought on by the increasingly violent street crime, coupled with the lagging local economy began to choke off the smaller retail shops along Griggs Road; each closure almost at once replaced by iron-barred liquor stores, sleazy sex shops, small no-name convenience stores selling cigarettes and brown-bagged bottles of 40-ounce malt liquor, and dark, noisy, 24/7 walk-in bars.
The remaining white families, and Hispanics who could afford to, put their neatly-kept homes up for sale, and more often than not sold them at a loss—some to so-called ‘management firms’ who scooped up blocks of homes without even bothering to rehab the dwellings before renting or leasing them on a cash-only basis with no credit or background checks. Most of those homes became drug and whore houses, windows and doors barred and dead-bolted—their driveways frequented by garishly-decorated pimpmobiles blaring unintelligible rap music from their always open car windows.
Soon my parents, now bearing the dubious distinction of being the only non-black residents who lived within a ten-block radius, ceased going outdoors at any time of the day. My mother began to keep a daily sentry-like watch from one of her front windows, looking for possible intruders and waiting for my father to come home from work. After a while, they were forced to install a heavy steel chain across the entrance to their driveway to keep the more adventurous drug dealers and prostitutes from pulling in off the street and conducting their business in my parents’ front yard while still in their cars. Every day, when leaving or arriving, my parents would have to unhook the chain from one of the concrete-encased steel posts and re-attach it once the car was clear.
My dad, having always carried a loaded gun and several rifles and shotguns in his car, added several more guns and rifles to his arsenal and kept the additional weaponry perched just inside the front door—right under the “Jesus Guards This Home” placard. Still professing to have been saved in the blood of Jesus and baptized in the Holy Spirit, he regularly vowed to whoever would listen, that he would have no problem in ‘blowing the BeJesus out of the first nigger who dared put one black foot on his porch’.
When I chided him about his seemingly unchristian-like opinion of black people (and for that matter, any other minority) he replied tersely, “Yes, I know they’re also God’s children, but if they’re looking to go meet Jesus a little early I’ll be happy to send them on their way.”
When Kaz and I drove in that late January of 1968, the neighborhood had not yet completely deteriorated, and it was still safe to sit outside in the evening and chat and drink iced tea in the shade of the aluminum carport. Having never seen her in the flesh, my parents were both instantly taken by Kaz–her beauty and intelligence on full display during our short visit. What particularly intrigued my mother was that with Kaz’s jet black hair, olive complexion, and large almond-shaped dark brown eyes, she thought she could easily pass for being, at least in part, Hispanic. Several times during our stay my mom privately commented to me how “Mexican” Kaz looked, and how she just couldn’t believe that she was a “Jap”.
Because we needed to travel back to Austin to look for housing prior to my checking into the base, we only stayed in Houston for about three days—and for a change, this particular stay was enjoyable. We weren’t forced to go to church; indeed my folks didn’t mention it once, and my mother pretty much stayed on her best behavior. When we drove off, our goodbyes were heartfelt and sincere. As we got back on the road heading west to Austin, Kaz wondered aloud why I had previously strongly cautioned her to ignore whatever negative comments my mother may make.
“She was very nice. I like her, and I like your father too.” She said. “You’re so lucky to have such loving and caring parents.”
Uh-huh.
***
We got to Austin later that day and found a decent motel close to the base where we paid for a week’s stay. We had a nice dinner and settled in to scour the want-ads in the local paper to map out a plan in our search for housing. I needed to check into the base the following day and planned to use what was called “housing leave” to search for suitable living accommodations.
The next day, after checking in at the base, I was given up to ten days to locate housing and was referred to a bulletin board in one of the administrative building’s hallways where many apartments and homes—both rentals and for purchase—were posted. I was in the process of writing down a couple of addresses and phone numbers when a sergeant walked up and introduced himself.
“Just checking in?” he asked.
“Yes, just got in from Okinawa.”
“What outfit you going to?”
“The 727th Tactical Control Squadron.”
“Ah…you’ll be working out of one of the large buildings adjacent to Runway 36. Nice view of the airplanes landing and taking off, but it’s really noisy. Who’s your boss? You know yet?”
“Umm…I think it’s Master Sergeant Kent.”
“Oh yeah, nice guy…you’ll like him. You know, if you’re looking for a nice place to live there’s a brand-new apartment complex not too far from here that just came open. It’s called ‘The Reinli Arms’, and it offers a discount for military families. A couple of my friends checked them out and came away pretty impressed. It’s not too far from the base and there’s a new shopping mall just across the street.”
He gave me the address of the complex, which coincidentally was located on Reinli Street, and the manager’s number. I thanked him and promised I’d check it out.
The next day Kaz and I decided to make The Reinli Arms our first stop, and luckily it ended up being our last. It was much nicer than we expected, so we rented a brand-new two-bedroom apartment on the ground floor. And because each building in the complex was built around a large Olympic-size swimming pool, we had poolside access just outside our front door.
Since we had decided to leave our furniture in my Okinawan hooch, (at least nothing that I cared enough about to have shipped) the following day we made a trip to a furniture store which happened to be in that shopping mall across the street from the complex. A week later the furniture was delivered and I reported to my squadron to begin my duties for the last eleven months of my Air Force career.
***
After checking into my squadron, which was indeed in one of three very large buildings very near to one of the base’s runways, I was introduced to my commanding officer and my immediate supervisor. MSgt. Kent was a quiet and mild-mannered soul, who had been born and raised in Seattle, Washington.
After the introductions, he asked me to sit in his little office and offered me some coffee. He asked if I smoked and I told him I didn’t.
“You don’t mind if I light up, do you?” he asked, politely.
“Of course not. Please do.”
After taking a couple of deep drags off his unfiltered Camel, he began by asking me if I was all settled in and in permanent housing. I told him about our new apartment and having seen them before he agreed that they were very nice. We chatted casually for a few more minutes and then he suggested that we go out and meet the rest of the guys in our group, and in particular, the crew that I would be supervising.
After meeting my crew and being introduced around to the other crew chiefs we returned to his office to discuss what my specific duties were going to be. As it turned out, all this squadron did on a regular basis was train on setting up and dismantling huge tents which would be used to house radars, radio equipment, electrical generators and various types of crypto decoding apparatus. All this equipment, as had been explained to me by that sergeant on Okinawa, would, in the event of war, be parachuted onto a forward position in a battleground environment, and our crews would be responsible for their recovery, set-up, and operation.
Because we were in the middle of Texas, and not some far-flung battleground, all this equipment was housed in the big buildings we occupied; when in training mode, they were trucked out to a desolate training area north and east of Austin to be set up, run, then dismantled and trucked back to the large metal buildings.
It was mind-numbing, tedious, and boring work—and thankfully the training trips were only scheduled about once a month. Of course, I had to learn to drive what was called a “six-by”—one of about a dozen large trucks assigned to our squadron. On training days, we hauled out all the equipment and loaded them onto the trucks. Then we drove about ninety minutes to a training site in the country north of Austin, unloaded the trucks and set up the equipment. We were timed and graded on the length of time it took us to unload and set up the equipment, and how long it took us to get everything up and running. Once everything was running satisfactorily and we could communicate successfully with our home base back at Bergstrom, we had to tear everything back down and reload it back on the trucks. Then, the long drive back to the base.
Those days normally stretched out to well over fourteen hours, and by the time we got back to the base everyone was completely exhausted. Worse, since I was now a non-commissioned officer, I was expected to maintain the morale and well-being of my crew, in addition to knowing exactly how each phase of the equipment set-up was supposed to evolve. Since I hated the work as much, or maybe even more than the lowest ranking member of my crew, it was extremely difficult for me to maintain a professional demeanor throughout the entire process.
When we were not training out in the field, our normal nine-hour days were spent performing ridiculously inane duties in and around the buildings. But mostly we were on break.
This is how a typical duty day was divided up:
- Roll call at 7 AM
- Break for 45 minutes
- Roll call, then inspection of uniforms and personal appearance
- Break for 45 minutes
- Roll call, then have the crews split up and “police-up the area” around the buildings (pick up trash, cigarette butts, etc. This would usually last anywhere from 30 to 40 minutes
- Break for 45 minutes
- Roll call, then go to lunch for two hours
- Roll call, then study and refresh crews on equipment set-up procedures
- Break for 45 minutes
- Roll call, then break-down, clean, and inspect personal weapons (carbine rifles and pistols)
- Break for 45 minutes
- Roll call and dismiss for the day
For the first month, or so, I thought this schedule was pretty neat until I figured out that I was putting more miles on my car from the multiple trips I was taking to and from the base snack bar and coffee shop daily than I was from actually driving to and from work. We lived about six miles from the base, making for a twelve-mile round trip, and it was about a three-mile round trip from our building to the snack bar. Multiply our breaks by the total number of miles we were putting to and from the snack bar, and it came to over fifteen miles a day. Further, after the breaks and lunches we took, I found I was spending about three dollars a day for junk food and coffee.
No one wanted to remain in the huge steel buildings during our breaks—they were hot and stuffy and smelled of grease and fuel from the dozen or so six-by trucks, parked inside. Although there was a makeshift break room with a large coffee pot inside, it was small and furnished with old ripped vinyl chairs and sofas. The small TV mounted high on the wall barely had any reception on a good day; every time an aircraft took off or landed—which was frequently, the picture twisted and turned to snow, and the sound went out. So not having much of a choice, we all escaped to the base snack bar when our breaks came around.
After a couple of months, Kaz and I decided that I was spending too much time and money at the snack bar, so she suggested packing me a lunch, with plenty of snacks to consume during my many breaks. I explained that I hated hanging around the buildings, especially when everyone was gone, so she suggested that I take a book to read during the breaks. I told her that that wouldn’t work either because for some reason our squadron had a rule that stated reading, other than Air Force training manuals, was never allowed during duty time. So I finally said I’d think of something—maybe even walk around outside for exercise when it wasn’t raining.
One day during one of our morning breaks, I went outside to the back of the main building and sat down in the grass facing the north-south runway. It seemed to be a particularly busy air traffic day, the base’s squadron of F4 Phantoms were conducting numerous touch-and-go landings, with a few other aircraft types, either landing or taking off, spaced intermittently between the high-performance fighter jets.
I was mystified when I began to see a few very small single-engine airplanes also begin to fly around the airport’s traffic pattern. Compared to the combat jets and the other military aircraft, these little propeller planes seemed to be completely out of place—seemingly zipping onto and off of the huge runways—in between the larger and faster planes.
They didn’t seem to have any military markings aside from their tail numbers, so I naturally assumed they were some type of civilian aircraft. But what were they doing here? This was a military base—home to combat interceptors and some B-52 bombers. Austin Mueller Airport was Austin’s civilian airport, and it was only located about twenty miles to the northeast. So I wondered what these little civilian-looking airplanes were doing flying in and around a busy and very large military airport.
“You mean those little white Cherokee 140’s?” Sergeant Kent responded after I’d asked him about the little planes when he’d returned from his break.
“Yeah, I guess that’s what they are,” I said. “They’re tiny compared to the F-4s and C-135s flying in the pattern.”
“That they are. Sure, they belong to the Aero Club that we have here at Bergstrom.”
“Aero Club?”
“Yep. I think they’ve got three or four of those Cherokees—a couple of two-seaters and maybe one or two larger four-seaters.”
“What do they do? The Aero Club, I mean.”
“Well, they teach people how to fly, mostly.”
“Does it cost money to join?”
“I’m sure it does, but I have no idea how much. You interested?”
“Well…I’m not sure. I guess it would depend on how expensive it is to join and how much they charge for lessons.”
“There’s only one way to find out. Why don’t you call them? I got their number around here somewhere…” He pulled open the main drawer to his large metal desk and started rummaging around. “A couple of years ago one of the guys here at the squadron joined up, and before I knew it he’d earned his pilot’s license. He got discharged and I think he went on to get his commercial and instructor’s license. Last I heard he’d gotten a job teaching out of Mueller Field (Austin’s civilian airport). I think he was trying to build up his hours to apply to the airlines for a job. Ah…here it is.”
“Really? You can do all that at this Aero Club?” I asked as he handed me an index card with some names and phone numbers.
“Well, I guess you can do just about anything you put your mind to if have the right amount of money.
“Yes, true. OK, thanks. I’ll call them a little later on.” I glanced at the card and slipped it into my fatigue shirt’s front pocket. With that, I decided that on my next break, after I called the Aero Club, I would spend my time watching the planes do touch-and-goes.
When I called them a few minutes later, I spoke to a captain who explained to me that it would be better if I just came down to their office where one of the flight instructors would be happy to explain all the details surrounding their membership fees and flying lesson programs. I gave him my name and told him I’d probably drop by later on during my lunch break.
During my next break, I went back out and sat down to watch the planes in the flight pattern. The military jets had all but disappeared and now just two little white low-winged propeller-driven planes were buzzing around the pattern. I studied their landings a little closer and noticed that, whereupon the military jets were steady on their approaches and sure footed on their landings, these little planes were unsteady as they approached the runway, and when they touched down they seemed extremely tentative—sometimes bouncing two or three times before finally settling on the runway. Then they would power back up, at times leaping haphazardly back into the air with wings wagging back and forth, seemingly on the verge of stalling out.
I decided that these must be students in training.
Frankie Makes a Career Decision
While I wasn’t very satisfied with my new job at Bergstrom, I was extremely pleased with the life that Kaz and I were now living. She was an absolute joy to be around—always perky and full of energy, funny (sometimes without meaning to be), and very loving. Every day while on the way home from work, I would look forward to walking into our apartment, knowing that it would always be immaculate and that she would genuinely be happy to have me home.
While she was very good at preparing traditional Japanese dishes, she was also trying very hard to be a good American wife by learning to how to cook American cuisine—but, not without a few miscues.
One day I came home to find her bustling around the kitchen, cleaning off the counters, while something smelling very delicious was frying on the stove.
“I’m cooking a Southern meal for you today,” she stated flatly. “You go change out of uniform and when you come out dinner will be ready.”
“What are you’re cooking?”
“Never mind! You go clean up and I will serve you when you come out.”
She seemed a little nervous, so I thought maybe I should just do what she said. After a quick shower, I changed into some jeans and a T-shirt and went back out to the dining room. To my complete surprise, at the center of the table was a large bowl filled to the brim with several gorgeous-looking pieces of golden-brown breaded Southern fried chicken. Another bowl was topped with creamy smooth mashed potatoes—brimming with freshly melted butter—and a smaller bowl was filled with peas mixed with baby onions. To top off the meal, a basket of what appeared to be homemade biscuits sat next to the chicken—light wisps of steam drifting up, their aroma combining with those of the fried chicken.
“Wow! This looks and smells wonderful!” I reached over and gave her a kiss.
“Well, I was going to make biscuits (she pronounced the word as, ‘bis-quits’) from the beginning (from scratch), but recipe too hard. So I just bought at the store…frozen.”
“That’s fine. You did a great job.”
“I hope you like. I don’t think I know what I’m doing. But if it not good, I also have apple pie in the oven.”
“It sure looks like you did just fine.” And with that, I sat down and reached for a big juicy breast.
“Oh…I forgot. I also make tea…uh…American style tea. I think lady at store call it sweet tea. I tasted it but don’t like it. It has sugar and too sweet!”
I chuckled because I knew that Okinawans took their tea unflavored, and I’d often heard them complain that Americans like to put too many things in their tea.
“Yes, Kaz. That’s why they call it ‘sweet tea’.” I said, smiling.
“Well, I don’t understand. But I hope you like.”
I piled a nice serving of mashed potatoes and peas on my plate and reached for a piping hot biscuit. Kaz seemed very intent on watching my reaction and I was eager to please. I grabbed the breast with both hands and took a large bite. It was a bit tough and a little stringy.
I backed off, taking a chunk of the breast into my mouth, and looked at what remained. The flesh just under the nicely fried breading was almost raw. As I began to chew the meat I tasted what I thought was blood, and I spit the whole bit out.
“Good God Kaz! This chicken is still raw!”
“Raw? No, it not raw! Look, see how brown it is.”
“Kaz! Look at the meat!” And with that, I took my knife and cut through the breast revealing a nice pink tint to the flesh which was still a little runny, with a touch of bloody underlay where it met the bone. “Look, see? It’s raw! How long did you cook this for?”
“I don’t remember, but the recipe said to cook until ‘golden brown’. It’s golden brown, isn’t it?”
Well, I couldn’t argue with that. It was definitely golden brown…on the outside…but cool and raw on the inside. It was immediately apparent to me that she’d heated up the oil to a high temperature and when she placed the breaded chicken into the pan the intensely hot oil almost immediately browned the exterior of the chicken.
I started to say something else, but before I could get the words out Kaz bolted from the table—a wet choking sound escaping from her throat. I looked up to see her eyes instantly fill with tears, but before I could even move she’d run full speed out of the dining room and into the bedroom—slamming and locking the door.
I sat there for a few minutes feeling like a real heel. Finally, I got up and walked over to the locked bedroom door.
“Kaz…open the door.” I could hear muffled sobs coming from the darkened room. “Kaz, it’s OK. We can re-heat the oil and fry the chicken until it’s done. It’s no problem.”
No answer.
“Kaz, listen to me. You did a great job with the potatoes and the peas. And even the biscuits are good. You just made a little mistake with the chicken…but we can fix that. Come on, open the door and talk to me.”
“Go away…you hate me!” She said—the words coming in short gasps between soft sobs.
“No, I don’t hate you. How can I hate you? You tried your best.”
After a while, I gave up and went back to the table deciding to let her have her moment. I heated up the oil again to a lower temperature than she probably had and slid the chicken back in. I let it cook for about twenty minutes. When I finally got it out it the crust was noticeably darker and hard, but all the pieces were cooked through. Well as I remember, the wings were a little bit annihilated, pretty crispy all the way through, but for the most part, everything was edible.
I went back and sweet-talked Kaz out of the bedroom telling her everything was fine. She was bitterly disappointed because she wanted so much for her first fried chicken dinner to be a success, but I had to admire her for her courage in tackling such a large, and fairly complicated meal. The evening turned out not to be a total loss, so after we had some pie we cleaned the kitchen and I asked to her sit down with me as I had something serious to discuss.
We talked about our plans for the rest of the year; in short, we had none—so I told her about the aero club at the base. She was a bit apprehensive about my being interested in flying but I told her I would get all the details and we’d discuss it thoroughly before reaching any decision.
***
The next day I waited until my two-hour lunch came up—having spent my morning breaks watching the little planes taking off and landing—and driving my little sports car followed the directions I had received to the aero club.
It was in a building right off the main tarmac leading to the two north/south runways. It didn’t look anything like I’d imagined: pilots with weather-beaten faces in distressed leather jackets and combat boots, standing around a coffee pot smoking cigarettes and talking pilot talk. Instead, it looked pretty much like any office would look.
A waist-high wooden counter with a colorful logo featuring a small yellow airplane affixed to the front separated the main entrance area from three or four unoccupied desks. On the counter, there were several clipboards with wooden pencils hanging off them attached with twine.
A middle-aged man was at the end of the counter talking on the telephone, and as I entered through the squeaky door he motioned me to wait until he finished his conversation. I took a chair near a window and looked out onto the tarmac. There were two small airplanes parked there, but they really didn’t look that small when seen from this distance.
“Hey there…” The man said, after hanging up the phone. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, I came in to inquire about your aero club?”
“What is it you’re wanting to know?” He asked, waving me over to a small table near the rear exit door.
“Oh, I don’t know. Just some general information I guess.”
“Well, Sergeant DeLeón…that right?” He asked, pushing his glasses down his nose and peering over them to look at the name tag on my shirt.
“Yes sir, that’s right.”
“You wanna learn to fly, or just curious about our little outfit here?”
“Oh…I don’t know about flying. I guess I was just curious. I mean…I guess I’d like some information about flying too.”
He made a giant effort to pull himself out of the chair. “Uh! OK, let me get you some information. Got a pamphlet right over here. Tells you just about everything you’d ever want to know about our little club here.”
“OK, thanks.”
“Oh, and I’m Joe Stafford! Colonel Stafford when I’m in uniform, but just Joe when I’m hanging around here.” He extended a hairy blond and tattooed arm and shook my hand enthusiastically. “Lemme get you that pamphlet.”
He returned with a small booklet in his hand and sat noisily down. “Shit, need to get me some exercise. Been spending too much time in the cockpit. Here ya go! I’ll let you look that over. Let me know if you have any questions.”
I leafed through the little booklet. It was general in nature: giving the history of the club, the types of aircraft that was in its inventory, and things of that sort. I was not satisfied.
“What I’d really like to know is what it would cost to take flying lessons,” I asked, as I got up from the table and walked over to the counter. The colonel was looking intently at a sheet of teletype paper.
“OK, so you’d like to maybe take some lessons?”
“That depends on how expensive it is, I guess.”
“Got a five-dollar bill?”
“Five dollars?”
“Sure. I’ve got an instructor just taxiing in, and I’m sure he’d love to take you up and give you a familiarization flight. What ‘d ya think?”
“Uh…I’m on my lunch break right now.”
“OK, how much time do you have? We can take you up and back down in about 30 minutes. A couple of times around the pattern should do it.”
“Oh, I thought it would take a lot more time.”
“Nope, thirty minutes…or an hour, if you’ve got that—and it’ll cost you five bucks. After that, if you don’t like it you can just walk away. If you do like it, though…we can talk about getting you into a flight training program. How about it?”
For no reason, I suddenly had to pee. “Well, if you’re sure it’s only gonna be five dollars, I guess I could go up.”
“OK! Lemme go out and talk to Marshall and see if he’s up to taking you up. Be right back.”
He went out the door that led out onto the tarmac. I walked over to the window and saw an Air Force officer in a rumpled gray flying suit talking to someone I assumed was his student. He had a clipboard and kept pointing to the airplane and the sky. The student was shaking his head in agreement and had his arms crossed over his chest.
Colonel Stafford crossed over behind the officer whom I assumed was “Marshall” and said something to him while he pointed toward the window I was standing behind. Feeling like I was spying a little I turned and sat back down at the table.
A few minutes later, all three men walked into the office. I stood up anticipating an introduction.
“So OK, just remember that once you increase the angle of attack and reduce power you should be looking for that burble to begin. Once that starts, you need to stay ahead of the airplane and begin thinking of your recovery technique, OK?” Marshall told the student, who I noticed was sweating profusely.
“Yeah sure. I’ll be sure to do that next time,” the student said, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. Marshall and the student walked over to the counter and began to fill out some forms. Finally, Marshall flipped through a small notebook and made a few entries.
“OK, I’ll see you in a couple of days.” Marshall told the student as he shook his hand and ushered him toward the door.
In anticipation of his returning back and talking to me, I got up and waited nervously. I glanced at my watch and saw that I still had a little more than an hour before my lunch break was up.
Marshall and the colonel said a few words to each other, then he turned and walked toward me.
“Marshall Norgaard’s the name. And you are?” He held his hand out for a shake.
“Frank. Frank DeLeón. Glad to meet you.” I took his hand and we had a friendly handshake.
“Joe tells me you’d like a little fam flight. Is that right?”
“Yes sir. At least I think I do.”
“OK, well I’m a little ragged after that last flight but I think we can fit you in. You ready?”
“Oh, you mean now?”
“Sure! You got time, Frank?”
“Yes, I got a little over an hour, sir.”
“Great! And don’t call me sir. It’s Marshall unless we’re both in uniform and not at the aero club. Come on, let’s go!”
We walked over to the counter where I was asked to sign some forms and hand over my five dollars. Before I knew what was going on, we were out on the tarmac and Marshall was showing me how to do a pre-flight inspection. He explained that the aircraft I was looking at, a white and gold Piper Cherokee 140, was a low-wing four-passenger model. It was powered by a Lycoming 140-horsepower engine and was rated for instrument flight (IFR), but we would be conducting our flight under visual flight rules—or VFR.
I was surprised when he asked me to help him pull the aircraft up to a pair of gas pumps to top off the tanks, and we did this by pulling on a shaft which had been attached to the nose gear. Although I thought the aircraft was not particularly large, I found that it was surprisingly light.
After filling the tanks, we hand-towed the aircraft back to the center of the tarmac to continue our pre-flight inspection. This aircraft had only one access door to the flight deck, and that was a door on the right side just over the wing. Marshall stepped up on the wing, opened the door and invited me in. I entered the aircraft and was shocked to realize that by my going in first, I had to take the pilot’s seat on the left side of the aircraft.
“Go ahead and take a seat,” Marshall said. “I’ll be in control of the flight from the right side here.”
Both seats had identical flight controls—yoke and rudders—but the instrument panel on the left side had at least four times the number of gauges that were located on the right side. I sat down and found the seat to be snug and a bit hard—certainly not as comfortable as my Toyota’s bucket seats. The windshield looked extremely small, and I could barely see over the nose of the plane.
I glanced at the cluster of instruments in front of me and found them extremely confusing. And even though the weather that day was bright, cool, and sunny, I found myself beginning to sweat—probably more from nervousness than the heat building in the small cockpit. Marshall settled into his seat and pulled on his seatbelt, prompting me to do the same.
“OK,” he said. “It’ll cool off a bit once we start up the engine. I’ll walk you through what we’re supposed to be doing. You OK?”
“Yeah,” I said, not really sure that I was.
From the side of his door, he pulled out a laminated sheet with a beaded chain attached. “This is the checklist. I’m gonna go through this so we can get the engine started.”
For the next couple of minutes, he read items off the checklist and pushed buttons, spun dials, and turned knobs. “OK, see the key there by your right knee?”
“Yes.”
“Turn it to the right when I tell you to.” He pushed a lever with a red knob and pulled another with a black knob. “OK, turn it!” The propeller spun slowly clockwise, and when the engine caught, the whole plane shuddered and shook. He reached down and pulled back the red knobbed lever then the black-knobbed one, and the engine smoothed out. The plane was still shuddering a bit but not as bad as it did at first. I noticed that some, but not all, of the gauges had suddenly come to life.
He pulled a small microphone from its holder near the bottom of the dash and requested clearance from the tower to taxi out from the tarmac. The tower responded, but with the sound of the engine and the quality of the audio, I didn’t understand anything that was said.
The next thing I knew I heard a thud and the airplane lurched forward.
“Feel with your feet and you’ll find a couple of pedals down there. That’s the rudder and nose gear control. Push down on the left rudder when you’re on the ground and the plane will turn right; push down on the right rudder, and the plane will turn left. Give it a try.”
I pushed down with my right foot and the plane began to make a sharp right turn. “Whoa, gently!” he said. “Now to get it out of the turn, push gently down on the left rudder.” I did as he instructed and the plane began to come back to the left. “Now, as soon as you’re going in the direction you want to go push down on the other rudder pedal to stabilize your turn. Now head in that direction.” He pointed out the windshield and I began to push on the pedals. We zig-zagged our way across the tarmac in the direction of the active runway. I was already getting dizzy.
After what he called a “run-up”, and twisting a few dials, he asked me if I was ready to go.
“Sure,” I said, not really believing that I was. He pushed the red balled lever all the way into the dash and the engine spun up—the noise inside the cockpit increasing, but the vibrations easing off.
“As we start our takeoff roll, you’re gonna see the airplane begin to drift left of that white runway centerline. Push the right foot gently on the right rudder pedal to bring it back. Not too much or you’ll make the plane go to too much to the right. Got it?”
I began to push and the plane magically drifted back to the right.
“Don’t ease up on the rudder or the plane will go back to the left.”
“OK.”
“Put your hands on the yoke (steering wheel) like this.” He was now almost yelling.
“OK.” We were now accelerating pretty fast down the runway.
“Now pull back on the yoke gently and the plane will all but leap off the runway!”
I eased back with both hands and before I knew it we were leaving terra firma!
“See how easy that was? Now neutralize the rudders so we don’t fly sideways!”
I did what he asked and the plane’s nose straightened up to a full forward position.
“See that lever between the seats? Depress the button and push it down. That’ll retract the flaps so we can increase our forward speed and climb at a better rate.”
I did as he asked, and as soon as the lever was pushed down onto the floor, I sensed the airplane change attitude and the speed increase.
“Now, pull back gently on the yoke and rotate the lever above your head counter-clockwise until you notice that there’s no more downward pressure on the yoke. That’ll mean you’ve established a positive rate climb!”
Within a few minutes, we were climbing smoothly—the engine purring contentedly as we pulled away from the base’s giant runway.
“Now that wasn’t too hard, was it?” he asked.
“No, but I was just following along with what you were doing.”
“No, you weren’t.”
I looked over and he was sitting there with his arms crossed over his chest. His feet were also nowhere close to the rudders.
“See?” he said, with a big toothy grin. “You’re flying this baby all by yourself!”
My hands tightened on the yoke hoping we wouldn’t suddenly stop flying.
“Hey! Easy. You’re doing fine—and you know what? You’re a natural. Now let’s get out of the pattern and go do some turns.”
We flew for almost an hour, making several climbs and descents, some turns—a couple a bit steeper than I cared for—and finally headed back to the airport for a touch and go, then a final landing. During the whole flight, Captain Norgaard explained the purpose of each instrument on the dashboard and by the time we re-entered the pattern on final approach I was starting to feel pretty comfortable.
After we landed, we returned to the aero club’s office to debrief and discuss whether or not I was going to join the club. I told Marshall that I’d first have to discuss my joining the club and signing up for the Private Pilot training course with my wife before making any decision. He agreed, thanked me for taking the flight and told me he’d be looking forward to being my flight instructor.
After arriving back at our building, I spent the last couple of breaks of the day sitting outside watching the little Cherokees take off and land, and daydreaming of someday becoming a pilot.
***
“I’ve got some news to tell you about today!” I said to Kaz, as we sat down to have dinner.
“Oh? What happened at work?”
“Well, it wasn’t so much what happened at work, but more like what happened during lunch.” It was hard for me to contain my excitement.
“Lunch? What happened at lunch? They have something special to eat in the cafeteria?”
I chuckled because what the cafeteria served for lunch on a daily basis was one of our usual topics of conversation. “No…in fact, I don’t have a clue what they served for lunch today. No…it was a little more exciting than that. In fact, I didn’t even have lunch today.”
“OK, so you gonna tell me?”
“I went flying.”
“Huh?? Flying? How can you go flying? What you mean, flying?”
“Well, I went to what is called the ‘Bergstrom Aero Club’ and I was taken up in a little airplane. I flew for almost an hour.”
“Huh?? I don’t understand. What is ‘Aero Club’?”
I explained to her what I understood about the aero club that I’d visited that day, and that I was thinking about maybe joining the club to learn how to fly.
“You want to learn to fly? Why?” she asked quizzically.
“Well,” I started haltingly. “I think that maybe I’d like to become an airline pilot someday. I’ve always loved airplanes and have often dreamed of flying, but until now I’d never really understood how one goes about doing that.”
“Oh. Isn’t it going to be expensive? We don’t have too much money, you know.”
“No, we don’t. But I figure if maybe I can get a part-time job for the next year, we’ll be able to afford what it would cost to learn how to fly. The dues at the aero club are very cheap, and according to the colonel who runs the club, I’ll be able to earn a pilot’s license for less than five hundred dollars.”
“That’s still a lot of money,” Kaz said, wrinkling her brow and pooching out her lips. “But maybe if you get good part-time job…”
“We’ll see,” I told her, not knowing where I could get a part-time job.
A few days later I paid a visit to the aero club to get all the details I would need to enable us to make a decision on whether I could start my flying lessons anytime soon. Although not particularly expensive, the cost of taking two to three lessons a week easily exceeded my monthly Air Force salary.
So in the end, Kaz and I decided that before we did more planning for any proposed flying lessons, some part-time work would have to be sought out.
To be continued…