Slowly Sliding Into the Abyss
Conclusion
February 9-12, 1963
The Wheels Fall Off the Wagon
We had been at my parents’ house for just over a week when I first sensed a change in my mother’s overall attitude toward Sharon. On the whole she, along with my father, had been unaffectedly thrilled when we had finally gotten home the previous Friday evening—dog tired and thankful that we’d arrived safely. They’d both run out of the house as we’d pulled in our car, waving and shouting their greetings—opening the car doors, and all but yanking us out to wrap us up in tight and teary hugs.
My mom seemed instantly smitten with little Ricky, laughing joyfully at his frequent outbursts of boundless energy that would get his arms to flailing, legs kicking wildly, and his eyes bulging almost out of their sockets. The long drive seemed to have hardly affected him, and in fact it appeared that he’d suddenly and miraculously been freed from those awful bouts of colic that he’d suffered constantly since birth.
My father had been similarly taken with Sharon—asking question after question about her home, her sisters, and her upbringing. I was at first uncomfortable when he asked about her religion, thinking that he’d soon launch into that blistering Pentecostal diatribe that would always end up condemning the sinner to eternal Hell and damnation. But when she simply responded that her family had never attended any church regularly he seemed to accept her response with a smile and a nod of his head.
It all started to unravel the morning of the day before I was to leave for Alaska. It was Friday and Sharon had awakened early to give the baby a bath, dress him, and give him his morning bottle. Since there was only one bathroom in the house, and had but a tiny hand basin, she had been using the kitchen sink as a small tub for the baby since we’d arrived.
As she prepared Ricky for his bath I told Sharon that I was going to get in the shower before anyone else so I’d get an early start on packing my duffle bag and getting things ready for my departure the following day. Since my parents were typically late sleepers and usually took their baths during the late morning I wanted to make sure that I was done by the time they got up.
As I came out of the bathroom I thought I heard some loud voices coming from the direction of the kitchen, but thinking it was probably my mom helping Sharon with the baby I didn’t give it much thought. A few minutes later, as I was dressing, the door to the bedroom flew open and an aggravated looking Sharon, carrying a bawling Ricky still wrapped in a towel, stomped in.
“Goddammit!” She hissed to no one in particular.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing!” She responded, still angry. She put Ricky down on the unmade bed and began to towel off his still glistening little wet body.
“What’s going on?” I asked…now a little alarmed. “What happened?”
Sharon’s facial expression was one of annoyance and anger; lips drawn tight and eyes dead focused on Ricky.
I pulled my shirt on and walked over to her. “Seriously, what’s happening?”
She turned to me, pushing her glasses back up her nose, just below that infamous forehead furrow. “Oh, your mother just bitched me out for ruining her plans for making a big breakfast for you and your dad.”
“What? What are you talking about? Is she even out of bed?”
“Yes, she sure is. She’s in the kitchen…pissed.”
“So…I don’t understand.”
Turning back to Ricky, who had now settled down and was trying to stuff his right foot into his mouth, she shook her head slightly. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe she just got up on the wrong side of the bed. Anyhow, it’s over now.”
“OK.” I said, “She sometimes acts that way when she and dad have had an argument. What did she say?”
Safety-pinning Ricky’s diaper and looking around for his little jumper outfit, she pushed a lock of hair back and said, “Well. Okay, I was just finishing up Ricky’s bath when she came into the kitchen. I turned to say ‘good morning’ to her and she just stopped, stared at me and made a hissing sound.”
“A hissing sound?”
“You know, like she had been holding her breath and suddenly just let it out.”
“Well, that shouldn’t…”
“That’s not all!”
“Oh…”
“So then she cocked her head and gave me a really disgusted-like look. I asked her what was wrong and she just kept staring at me. I thought that maybe she was annoyed because I’d splashed water on the floor, so I told her that I was almost done and that I’d clean up the sink and wipe the floor off as soon as I towel-dried the baby.”
“Okay.”
“So she crossed her arms and told me in no uncertain terms that I should’ve waited until after she had cooked breakfast before going and making a mess of her kitchen. And the way she said it was like, ‘MY kitchen!’”
“What!?”
“I told her I was sorry and that I wanted to have Ricky’s bath out of the way before she and Bob got up, but all she did was stomp around the kitchen making comments under her breath and throwing shit around. So, I just thought I’d just get out of her damn way and finish drying Ricky off in here.”
She was now clearly more agitated than she’d been when she first came into the bedroom.
“All right, look. I’m gonna finish getting dressed, then I’ll take Ricky out and give him his bottle while you take your shower. While I’m out there I’ll see what the hell’s going on with her.”
“I already fed him. I did that first…while you were taking your shower.”
“Okay, go take your shower and get dressed. I’ll take the baby and get to the bottom of this.”
I picked Ricky up, balanced him on my hip, and walked out of the bedroom.
As I entered the small kitchen my mother was angrily wiping down the sink and the drain board while whispering under her breath.
“Hi mom.” I said.
As soon as she heard me she straightened up and stopped wiping. She stood stock still with her back to me for a few seconds staring out the window over the sink. I moved over to the table and pulled a chair out.
Hearing the squeal of the chair on the linoleum floor she turned to face me, still holding the dishcloth in her hand.
“Oh, hi mijito!” She said in a forced cheery voice. On her face she wore a big toothy smile. “How are you? Did you sleep Okay?”
“Mom, I slept fine.” I sat down and plopped Ricky onto my lap.
“Oh, mira!” She purred, while pointing her left index finger. “Doesn’t he look cute in his little jumper?”
“Mom, cut the crap! Did you have problem with Sharon giving the baby a bath in the sink this morning?”
“Como?” (What?) “What do you mean? She can give the baby a bath anytime she wants. Seguro que sí! (Sure she can!)”
“Mom!” I raised my voice angrily. “If that’s the case why did you act all annoyed when you came into the kitchen?”
“Me? Me?” She said angrily, while poking herself in the chest. “I did no such thing! No sir! Not me!”
“Mom…”
“And if that’s what she told you, then she’s lying to you!” With that she twisted her head and glared in the direction of the hallway where our bedroom was located.
“Mom…”
“Mira Frank! She said, now clearly angry. “I don’t know what that…that…WIFE of yours…” she spat the word out, “is accusing me of. All I was did was come into the kitchen and wait for her to finish so I could cook breakfast for you and your daddy.”
About that time my dad, looking both sleepy and confused, walked into the kitchen.
“Hey? What’s all the commotion about?” He asked, scratching his head.
My mother’s facial expression went from angry to angel in a split nano-second.
“Oh Bob.” She said sweetly. “Do you want me to make you a cup of coffee?”
He ignored her and turned to me. “Pancho, what’s going on?”
“Well,” I started off, “Apparently mom got all bent out of shape because Sharon was giving Ricky a bath this morning in the sink. I guess she thought Sharon was somehow in her way.”
“Look you!” My mother’s anger jerked the angel face away. “I did not do that! If she said that about me then she’s lying! I just knew that she hated me the first time I saw her!”
I was shocked at the raw and unfounded accusation, and from the look on my dad’s face so was he.
A few seconds went by, then my dad made a sudden move towards my mother.
“Mira vieja!” He yelled, his face a foot from hers. “Ya no quiero que comienzes con tu cagada! Ya basta! Compórtate bién inmediatamente!” (Look old woman! I don’t want you to start your usual shit! Enough already! Behave yourself immediately!)
Her face went into victim mode. “Oye, Bob! Yo no tengo culpa en nada aquí. Solamente entré en la cocina para preparar el desayuno. No se que dijo esa muchacha de mi.” (Listen, Bob! I’m not at fault here at all. I only came into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. I don’t know what that girl said about me.)
Her explanation immediately made me angry. I had seen my mom in this mode many times before: instigating a disagreement then professing to know nothing about it. Finally she’d shift all blame to the other person. I couldn’t hold back.
“Okay mom, that’s a load of crap, and you know it! You always do this, but I was hoping you’d changed a bit since I’d left home. I see now that if anything, you’ve gotten worse.”
She turned to me with a vicious look in her eyes and said, through a thrust-out lower jaw, “Listen Frank! You and that woman you married have never liked me! I know that—and so does everybody else! So stop blaming me for doing whatever she said I did!”
I was stunned, and could do nothing but stand there and wonder why she had suddenly turned so viciously against me and Sharon. Before I could respond, my father grabbed her roughly by the shoulder.
“Listen Evelyn! You’ve said enough already! So shut your mouth before I shut it for you!”
For a frenzied second I thought he was going to hit her.
“Aww…you!” Was all she could come up with—her face again reverting to its angel/victim form.
My father let her go and took a step back. “Look Evelyn.” he said, somewhat calmly. “You’ve said some very bad things and now you need to apologize to Frank. I don’t know what’s come over you all of a sudden. For the last month you’ve been telling everyone who would listen how you couldn’t wait for Frank to come home with his new wife and baby. Now they’re here, and Frank is getting ready to leave for a year and you’re acting like a spoiled brat!”
Mom’s lower lip pooched out and tears welled up in her eyes.
“I just want them to like me. That’s all.” She said to my father, in a child-like tone.
“Mom,” I said. “We all like you. I don’t know what’s wrong with you. You just need to calm down. Sharon was giving the baby a bath, and she was almost done. If you wanted to cook breakfast all you had to do was wait for a few minutes.”
“Evelyn,” my dad said. “Say you’re sorry to Frank and let’s forget all about this.”
Her head had dropped, chin almost to her chest, and she stared at the floor.
“Oh, all right.” She said, finally. “Mijo, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I just wanted to get breakfast started before anyone was up. That’s all. I had Bob take me to the store late last night and I bought chorizo and huevos (eggs), and fresh tortillas. Y también compré un pan dulce.” (Mexican sweet bread.) So I wanted it to be a surprise.”
A big tear rolled down her cheek and her shoulders shook just a bit.
“Oh mom.” I said, walking over to her and giving her a one-arm hug. Ricky, balanced on my hip grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled.
She hugged me back with one arm while trying to untangle herself from Ricky’s clenched fist.
“OK!” My dad said cheerfully. “Where’s my coffee? I’m needing a big shot of java right about now!”
Mom pulled Ricky’s hand away, a few strands of hair now dangling from his little hand.
“OK, Bob. Hold your horses!” She said, now playfully. “Let me get some going for you.”
I excused myself and headed back to the bedroom. Sharon was sitting on the bed with an incredulous look on her face.
“So now I hate her?” she said.
I put Ricky down on the bed. “No…don’t listen to what she says. When she gets all riled up over nothing and realizes she screwed up she uses that as her ‘go-to’ phrase. It’s supposed to put you on the defensive and make her look like a victim.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Sharon said angrily. “I hardly know the woman!”
“OK, I know. All I’m saying is that sometimes she goes off the deep end and gets overly dramatic. I suggest you just ignore her as much as you can. She’s suffered a lot with all kinds of illnesses—kidney stones, benign tumors and such—so she tends to feel sorry for herself. You remember I told you about her taking out a twenty-five thousand-dollar life insurance policy out on me when I left for the Air Force, right?”
“Yeah? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Well that was her feeling sorry for herself! She thought that I was gonna die, and in her child-like way of thinking she thought that if she lost me at least she’d have that money. It’s not logical and it looks bad—I know that. But that’s what she does.”
“Does she do that often?”
“Well, not really. But when she does it’s usually when she’s under some pressure—then she just goes off the deep end. Just be patient with her and try to be the adult in the room.”
“Jesus! She’s more than thirty years older than me and I have to be the adult?”
“OK look, somebody has to be. Why don’t you just go ahead and get your shower and come on out to the kitchen. Just pretend nothing happened. She was all worked up because she was planning a huge breakfast and somehow she thought that you giving Ricky a bath in the sink somehow impacted her plans. Sometimes she’s just a bit short on strategic thinking.”
Sharon got up from the bed and grabbed her towel. “Yeah, whatever that means.”
The next day and many hours from Houston while on my long bus ride to Seattle, I replayed that scenario and worried that Sharon would not be able to deal with my mother’s quickly-changing moods. My only hope was that dad would be able to intervene and keep things civil between them.
North to Alaska
It was a grueling forty-hour plus bus ride to Seattle, Washington. Arriving at the bus terminal around eight o’clock Sunday night, I looked for the military desk that would assist me in finding transportation to McChord Air Force Base, about forty-five miles away.
After carrying my heavy duffle bag around the chaotic terminal for about twenty minutes I finally found a small booth under a sign reading, “Military Transport Info”.
The booth was manned by a chain-smoking civilian old man who seemed more interested in reading his ‘Field & Stream’ hunting magazine than in helping me.
“Excuse me, sir. I need transportation to McChord.”
Looking up over his magazine, he mashed his inch long cigarette butt into a foul looking ashtray already overflowing with ashes and crushed butts. “McChord?”
“Yes sir.”
“Got orders?”
“Yes sir.”
“Let’s see’m”.
I pulled up my duffle bag, unzipped one of the side pockets, and extracted the wrinkled bundle of paper on which my future for the next twelve months was written.
Unfolding the orders with his yellowish nicotine-stained fingers, and pulling his reading glasses off the top of his head and down onto his vein-streaked nose, he read almost out loud.
“Says here you’re to report to McChord at oh-five-hundred, Monday, the eleventh.”
“Yes sir. That’s tomorrow. I thought I’d check in a little early.”
“Well, as it turns out you almost screwed up.”
“Sir?”
“Well, the last bus tonight out to McChord leaves in about an hour. If you’d missed it you’d have to sleep here in the bus terminal and take the first bus out tomorrow morning. Know what time that one leaves?”
“No sir.”
“Oh-six-hundred! That means you’d be arriving around oh-eight-hundred. That would’ve put you about three hours AWOL.” (Absent Without Leave)
“Oh.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Houston.”
“Shit, son. If your bus had farted just once, you’d still be on the road instead of here.”
“Oh.”
“OK,” he said, suddenly turning all business-like. “I’ll write you up a ticket, then go out to aisle 32. You’ll see a Trailways bus there. Be sure to look at the banner on the front and make sure it says, ‘Military Charter’. Give the driver this ticket and he’ll put your duffle bag in the baggage compartment and you’ll be on your way.”
“OK, thanks.”
“Oh, and by the way. Not only are you lucky that the bus from Houston didn’t fart, you’re also lucky because you got the last seat on the bus. If anybody had’a showed up ahead of you, you’d be AWOL.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I was tired, nervous, hadn’t changed my uniform since I left Houston, and was now a little scared for what might have been.
An hour later, sitting in the crowded bus racing the forty-odd miles to the base, I wondered what other near catastrophes awaited me.
It wasn’t long before I found out.
***
We arrived at the base a little after ten. After disembarking and walking out into a cold penetrating drizzle we were asked to line up alphabetically on a large concrete pad just outside a flat oblong building. After the group shuffled itself into “A’s in the front and Z’s in the back” fashion, we were let into the building. By the time I entered, I was trembling from the light but cold soaking I received while outside.
Inside the building there was a large counter, extending from left to right, manned by about ten airmen. In front of each one there was a sign denoting letters of the alphabet: ‘A’ through ‘C’; ‘D through ‘G’, etc.
Dragging my wet duffel bag, I shuffled into the appropriate line and presented my orders. The airman read through them quickly and asked for my ID card. After verifying that I was indeed who I claimed I was, he stamped the front page of my orders with a date/time stamp and handed me a key with a round metal tag attached.
“That there is your room key.” He said without looking up. “The barracks number is stamped at the top and the room number is the bottom number on the tag. When we’re finished here, exit to the right,” he pointed with his left arm, “and get into the bus that has your barracks number on its front banner. Your flight to Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage leaves at zero-eight-hundred, so you’ll have to be at the terminal at zero-six-hundred. Here’s your boarding pass.” he handed me a white envelope. “Also in that envelope is your ticket from there to McGrath, Alaska. When you get there you’ll have to tell the military rep that you need transport to Tatalina Air Force Station. They’ll arrange transportation for that, OK? The chow hall is located adjacent to the temporary barracks building and is open all night. If you want to eat now that’s fine, but if you want to eat in the morning you need to be there no later than zero-four-hundred, because it gets really busy and you don’t want to miss your flight. This is your chow pass.” Another white envelope. “There will be buses stationed outside of the chow hall that will be marked as ‘Terminal’. Finish your chow and take one of those to the terminal. If you miss your flight you will be charged with being AWOL and you’ll spend some time in detention. Don’t miss your flight.” He looked up. “Questions?”
“No.” I lied.
“OK, this last thing goes on your duffle bag.” He said, handing me a stiff yellow rectangular cardboard tag with two thin wires protruding from a red-bordered hole on one end. “Attach this baggage tag to your duffle and make sure those wires are twisted firmly around one of the eyelets on your bag. When you leave this building you’ll see a baggage cart with ‘Northwest Airlines’ written on it. Throw your duffle onto it. It’ll be on the plane to Anchorage in the morning even if you’re not.”
On one side of the tag was my last name, first initial, and my Air Force ID number written on it in felt tip. On the other side was the three letter identifier for Anchorage, Alaska: ANC.
“OK, I think that’s it. Questions?”
I had so many questions, but I dared not ask. Instead, I decided to rely on my instincts and head on out the door to the bus.
“No sir, no questions.” I said.
“Don’t call me sir, airman. I’m an enlisted puke just like you.”
“Sorry.”
“Good luck. And don’t miss your flight.”
In my right hand I had my orders, the key, and the two envelopes. I moved to the right, allowing the airman behind me to receive his indoctrination, and reached down to grab my duffle bag. As I walked hurriedly to the door marked ‘To Buses’, I glanced at the clock above it. It read, ten-twenty.
Walking out of the building I spotted the baggage cart and heaved my duffle on top of the other already there. Then I looked for the buses. There were about ten of them lined up side by side—school buses painted Air Force blue—lights on, wipers and engines running. I spotted the one with my temp barracks’ number on its dimly lit banner and headed in its direction.
After giving the driver my stub I headed down the aisle until I found a pair of empty seats. I slid into the window seat, and still shivering a bit I looked out at the brightly-lit base and marveled at its sheer size and the endless activity. There in the distance I could just make out an airport tower, and still further away, punching out of the wet foggy black sky, a bright set of white lights probably belonging a plane attached to one of the many flight squadrons assigned to McChord.
Just before the driver dimmed the bus’s interior lights I took stock of my uniform. It was in terrible shape.
Because I was in official travel status I was considered as being on duty—and therefore, I was required to be in uniform. Of the two dress blue uniforms I owned, one was on me and the other was stuffed in the bottom of my duffle bag.
I remember thinking before I left Houston that I’d surely be able to change clothes somewhere between there and Seattle. What I didn’t take into consideration was that besides being packed at the very bottom of my bag I wouldn’t have access to an iron or ironing board to press out the wrinkles from the jacket, pants and shirt—and even if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t have the time or opportunity to unpack and repack my bag. So for the forty-odd hours on the bus I never changed out of those clothes once.
I think I successfully kept body odor at bay by hurriedly taking wadded-up paper towel baths, and smearing deodorant on strategic areas of my body at the various restroom and meal stops along the way. But as for my uniform, there was no way I could keep my wool jacket and pants creased or tidy-looking after wearing them continuously for almost three days.
As I entered the dark and sparsely-furnished room at the temp barracks at fifteen minutes before midnight, I looked forward to taking a nice long shower and changing into fresh underwear. Just as that comforting thought was flowing through my brain, a second, and more frenzied thought overtook it and sent me into a panic. My duffle bag, where I’d packed my uniforms, underwear and socks, was presently in an airline baggage cart several miles away. All I had with me was my shaving kit.
A crushing feeling of desperation came over me and I flopped down on the thin mattress of the one-man bunk. I was close to tears.
When I’d gotten off the bus a few minutes earlier I had happily looked forward to getting cleaned up, running down to the chow hall and having a quick meal, then getting a few hours of sleep before the flight. Now all of that had just blown up in my face.
I sat there for a while trying to take stock of my situation and berating myself for being so stupid. How did I not think this out better well before I’d left Houston? I was tired, sleep-deprived, hungry, and needed a shower. The room was cold and damp and the steam radiator under the window did not seem to be working. It looked more like a jail cell than military lodging,
Finally after sitting there feeling sorry for myself, I decided to take stock of the situation and look for some solutions. I had seen a communal shower at the end of the hall while looking for my room. Surely, if there were no towels here in the room there had to be some in the shower. The room had a small sink and mirror and there was a bar of face soap on the basin. Worst case, I could use that if there was none in the shower.
I got up and started looking around the room. There was a face towel hanging next to the sink so I could use that to towel myself off if there were no bath towels in the shower. I had toothpaste and a toothbrush, and I could shave—and my supply of deodorant was still good.
The big problem was what to do about my socks and underwear? I would just have to wash them in the sink, I thought, using the face soap in lieu of detergent. Then I’d just hang them up somewhere in the room to dry. Given that I had at least four hours before I had to be at the terminal I assumed that it would be enough time for them to dry. What I didn’t take into account was that the room was damp and had no heating whatsoever.
After scrubbing, rinsing, wringing out, and hanging up my shorts and socks on some hangers I found in the empty closet, I headed down the hallway to the shower—the little face towel barely covering my privates. Luckily, there was no one in the hallway or in the shower.
There were no bath towels in the shower room, so after dabbing my body almost dry with the thin face towel, I gingerly padded nakedly back to my room. My body still slightly damp I slipped between the thin sheets, shivering a bit, and thought that once I got some sleep I’d feel much better.
Just as I was drifting off a frightening thought suddenly jolted me straight up out of bed. WHAT TIME IS IT?
I had no watch, there was no clock in the room, and the last time I saw the time was on the clock at the front of the bus as it dropped me off at the barracks.
How in the hell was I going to know when it was time for me to get up? Well, the logical answer to that question was that I wasn’t!
So I got up, opened the door to the room, and looked out. Over the fire door at the entrance to the hallway was a large twenty-four hour military clock—its numbers barely legible at this distance. Having no other choice, I retrieved the soaking face towel from its metal towel bar and held it over my frontal mid-section. Opening the door, I checked both in both directions and seeing no one, hurriedly tippy-toed towards the clock until I could read its numbers. Zero-one-seventeen. I spun around and tippy-toed back.
Great! Now all I had to do was to stay awake (I dared not close my eyes, fearing that I’d probably wake up in a cell in Fort Leavenworth two days later) and hope my shorts and socks would be dry in roughly three hours.
And of course, they weren’t.
***
Having wrapped myself with the thin blanket I’d taken off the bed, I dragged the metal chair to the window and told myself I’d just have to stay awake. Try as I might, my exhaustion eventually took its toll.
Sometime during the short night I’d somehow slid off the chair. I woke up shivering violently, curled into a fetal position laying on the cold tile floor. It took a few seconds for my mind to spin back up to total consciousness—and it was then that the panic shot through me again.
I struggled a bit trying to right myself because I really didn’t have a sense of where up was, and I banged my elbow on the leg of the chair as I instinctively flailed my arms about. Looking up from the floor and rubbing my arm, I was somewhat comforted when I looked up and saw the still dark sky through the window.
Staggering a bit, I got up and thought that what I needed to do was get dressed and get the hell out of this room. Afraid to go out into the hallway to check the clock I just concentrated on getting my clothes back on.
Not completely wet, but damp enough to feel very uncomfortable, I pulled my shorts and my socks on. The clammy feeling of their sudden cold dampness on my skin brought on another round of severe shivering, actually making my teeth chatter. I hurried with the rest of my uniform and found that once my pants and shoes were back on my damp underwear didn’t feel so bad.
I hesitated slightly as I pulled the knob on the door, hoping that when I looked up at the clock it would tell me I was early and not late. I kept my head down as long as I could as I walked down the hallway—finally jerking my head up and focusing on the big round clock. Zero-three-forty-three!
Next to the exit door leading to the outside of the building I saw a large wooden box with a slot on top. “LEAVE ROOM KEYS HERE!” And so I did.
I was able to find the chow hall, eat breakfast, and in short time I had climbed aboard one of the buses destined for the airport terminal building. To my eyes the terminal was huge, but only because I’d never seen an airport terminal before. I was used to bus terminals, with their dated and scarred wooden benches, very few amenities, and the usual scattering of homeless people and ne’er-do-wells.
After I got checked in and got my seat assignment, I found a seat near a large window that looked out onto the tarmac. Although not as big as a large civilian airport, the McChord terminal sported quite a variety of aircraft. There were quite a few aircraft there, including the four-engine propeller-driven Northwest Airlines DC-7 that I was about to board as a first-time ever passenger, but the majority were of military designation. I noted that the most striking difference between military and non-military aircraft was that our armed services didn’t spend a whole lot of money on paint.
Last night’s drizzle and fog was beginning to burn off and the dawning sun’s golden rays bounced off the silver wings and fuselages of those dozing silver birds. As I sat there waiting for my flight to be called I thought back to when I was a child—clumsily gluing gray plastic wings to various World War Two and Korean War era fighter planes. More often than not I would end up gluing my fingers together or to one of the model’s parts.
And other times I would just spend time studying each different disassembled part, wondering how all those different pieces once put together could allow the plane to break gravity’s bonds and soar high into the sky. I spent hours over each model, inhaling those addictive fumes and dreaming of someday sitting in a cockpit of my own turning barrel-rolls and sliding through an endless series of chandelles.
The flight was finally called and I lined up according to my seat row number. Glancing around me I began to feel a great sense of embarrassment. In the line ahead of me and sitting all around the departure area I saw sailors resplendent in their flat-ironed navy-blue bell bottoms, Dixie cup caps jauntily cocked on their crew-cut heads. Marines, proudly wearing their colorful uniforms, with pants and shirts creased so sharp they seemed to be made out of cardboard.
And then there was me: standing in my three-plus day-old rumpled Air Force dress blues, shirt collar corners sticking up instead of lying flat, scuffed shoes, baggy pants—pleats long forgotten. My once damp underwear and socks had finally stopped itching but still felt very uncomfortable. I wondered if I smelled bad.
As I entered the narrow fuselage I quickly found my seat and settled in next to a window, my mood as low as it ever had been. Tired, lonely, and feeling sorry for myself, I felt the sting of impending tears welling up in my eyes. Turning my head and concentrating on the two engines—their giant propellers starting to turn—I swallowed hard, trying to push the sorrow I felt rising back down into my gut.
So on the very first flight of my life, the excitement and anticipation that I should’ve been feeling was instead supplanted by feelings of shame, loneliness, disappointment and sheer exhaustion.
***
When the sudden thrust of the four propeller-driven engines pushed me back into my seat on our take-off roll it caught me a bit by surprise. A few seconds later my stomach did a little flip as the plane leveled out momentarily before resuming its lumbering climb and making a sweeping left turn out over the sparkling blue Pacific Ocean.
A persistent and almost undetectable vibration pulsed through the cabin as the aging bird punched through a thin veil of silky haze on its lazy climb to its final cruising altitude. The rising roar that the engines made on our takeoff roll droned back into a loud undulating hum that drowned out all conversations, save for those who were sitting next to each other.
Looking out the small oval window I marveled at how different the world looked from above. Once we’d reached cruising altitude it seemed as if we were not moving at all. We seemed to be hanging by an invisible silk thread from a strangely bluish-gray sky over a glossy blue-black ocean. Occasionally both the sky and the ocean would display superficial white linear scars as planes and ships plowed mutely through their ethereal skin.
A suddenly violent bump shook me awake and it took me a few seconds to realize that I’d been dozing. Another thump and an abrupt drop in altitude made my heart jump and I heard a few voices around me rise in excited chatter.
The captain came on the scratchy intercom to remind us that we should always have our seatbelts tightly buckled and to advise us that the coffee service would be interrupted for the time being so that the stewardesses could sit down. I pulled myself up from my slouching position and checked to see that my seat belt was still snugly buckled.
The plane then entered into a series of violent bumps and rolls that brought back an unpleasant memory when I was eight or nine years old, of the time that my parents had taken me to an amusement park between Houston and Galveston named, “Playland Park”.
In spite of my whining reluctance to climb aboard and ride the “Hurricane” roller coaster, I found myself being dragged on by my father and pushed down into the very last small wooden rail car. As the chain hooked to the bottom of the car and pulled us haltingly up the first incline I held my breath, gripped the safety bar with all my might, and squeezed my skinny legs tightly together.
At the peak, I saw the first few cars in front of us disappear, and then my father let out an ear-splitting whoop. Letting go of the safety bar and throwing his arms high into the air he stood up. In an instant my body was at once thrown back into the hard wooden back of the car and off the seat. I was floating and falling at a speed I’d never known before, and it felt as if my soul had all but left my body. I screamed for my daddy to save me, but as I looked around to find him I saw that he was in a kind of hysterical trance—mouth agape, hair flying straight back and laughing maniacally.
I closed my eyes, and held on to the bar with all my might. I was thrown left and right, hitting the side and back of the car with my bony shoulders and back, and finally, after a particularly nasty rise and fall, splitting my lip on the bar.
As the car mercifully came to a jolting stop I was crying frantically—my salty tears stinging my lip, mixing with the blood from my injured lip, and soaking into my white shirt.
Never having flown before I was concerned and confused about the constant bumpiness of the flight. Looking around I expected to see everyone’s face expressing the terror and panic that I was barely keeping suppressed, but to my amazement I everyone I could see from my seat was peacefully reading their newspapers and magazines and appearing to have not a care in the world.
I was sure that something had to be wrong with our plane because every movie or newsreel that I’d ever seen always showed airplanes and their passengers flying smoothly and calmly. I searched the sky outside my window to see if I could find the cause of the horrible bouncing and rolling but saw nothing.
I heard the drone of the engines increase in level, and that sudden change in sound sent my heart into a series of hops and skips.
Just as my panic was reaching a level inside me that I would soon be unable to control, the pilot came on the scratchy overhead speakers.
“Folks, this is the captain speaking. Sorry for the bumpy ride and the suspension of the coffee service, but it looks like it’ll be a just a few more minutes before we’re out of this turbulence. I’ve asked ATC for a higher altitude and we’ve been cleared to climb a couple of thousand feet to get into smoother air. So, just be sure to keep those belt tightly buckled for a little longer and we’ll be out of this before we know it. Thanks folks.”
Well that announcement, probably meant to calm my fears, did nothing but confuse me and stoke my curiosity. ‘Turbulence’? ‘Smoother air’? I thought air was smooth! What made it bumpy?
Sure enough, in just a few minutes the airplane settled down and the hum of the engines returned to their previous level. Pretty girls in snappy uniforms and caps soon came up the aisle pushing a little cart and asking if we wanted coffee. When it came my turn I told the petite blond with blood-red lips that I didn’t drink coffee but wouldn’t mind a glass of milk. She dug into her cart and produced a small square cardboard box and handed it to me along with a small cellophane packet of chocolate cookies.
Putting the milk between my legs I worked to tear open the packet of nickel-sized cookies. Just then I noticed the burly sailor sitting next to me had placed his coffee on a small shelf that he’d pulled down from the seat back in front of him. Wow, I thought. They think of everything!
The remainder of the flight was fairly uneventful, and when I landed at Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage, Alaska, I was told that I had a three-hour layover before my next flight to McGrath—more than enough time to freshen up and put on a clean pair of socks and fresh underwear.
Retrieving my duffle bag from the baggage claim area I hurried to the men’s room to retrieve what I needed before delivering it back to the Alaskan Commuter Airlines counter to be loaded onto the next flight.
Afterwards, feeling somewhat relieved but still wearing my slightly disheveled uniform, I took a seat in the departure area to await the next leg of my trip.
***
On June 3, 1963, the same flight that I had taken from McChord AFB eighty-one days prior, crashed, killing all aboard.
The following excerpt was taken from the official Aircraft Accident Report issued by the Civil Aeronautics Board issued on April 21, 1964:
NORTHWEST AIRLINES, INC
DOUGLAS DC-7C, N 290, ARNETTE ISLAND, ALASKA
JUNE 3, 1963
SYNOPSIS
A Northwest Airlines, Inc., Douglas DC-7C, tail number N 290, MATS charter Flight 293, crashed in the north Pacific Ocean approximately 16 nautical miles west-southwest of Annette Island, Alaska, at approximately 1816 GMT., June 3, 1963.
The flight departed McChord AFB, Washington, for Elmendorf AFB, Alaska, carrying 95 passengers and a crew of 6. The passenger list included military personnel, dependents, Department of Defense employees, and a Red Cross employee. All occupants of the aircraft were lost at sea and the aircraft was destroyed.
The aircraft had been airborne approximately 2 hours and 35 minutes when radio contact was lost. No difficulties were reported by the crew prior to this time. The wreckage was sighted by a Royal Canadian Air Force aircraft at 032 GMT, June 4, 1963, at 54°21’N – 134°39’W, but no survivors were observed. Approximately 1,500 pounds of floating aircraft wreckage was recovered.
Because of a lack of evidence the Board is unable to determine the probable cause of this accident.
Frankie Sinks Into Depression
From the very moment my bus had pulled out of the terminal and I waved goodbye to my parents, my wife, and my little boy, a nagging feeling of discomfort and apprehension had slowly seeped into my mind. At first, the idea of Sharon staying with my parents during my assignment in Alaska had seemed such a good one. After all, I had reasoned, who better to watch over my wife and child and tend to them during the birth of our new baby, than my parents? But I had sensed trouble almost from the start.
As I sat in the air terminal awaiting my commuter flight to McGrath, I could not seem to shake a feeling of dread that kept coming over me and got stronger the farther north I traveled. I was beginning to see that the incident that had occurred in the kitchen the morning before I left had not marked the beginning of a crack in the relationship between my mother and Sharon, but in fact had brought to the surface a deep and brooding antipathy that had been simmering just below the surface from the very first day we’d arrived. That antipathy would soon erupt, causing all of us varying degrees of emotional damage.
Now thousands of miles away and facing a full year of isolation in the remoteness of Alaska, I began to comprehend that perhaps the decision to leave my little family in the care of my parents had probably been, at best, ill advised.
Panic, fear, and dread rolled uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach, and a lump in my throat grew heavy and large. Desperation raced through my body and I felt as though I might scream uncontrollably at any moment. I clenched my jaw tight, put my hands over my ears, and held my breath.
Closing my eyes tightly I strained to bring Sharon’s face into view; I suddenly realized that I’d forgotten to bring a picture of her or my son. An angry inner voice chastised me for being so thoughtless, and an ache deep in my heart reminded me of how much I loved them, and how deeply I was starting to miss them both.
A loudspeaker far away called out the gate for my flight, and a few people around me began to get up and move towards an open doorway leading out to the tarmac where a small twin-engine plane awaited. With leaden feet I reluctantly joined the little group, digging out the wrinkled ticket from my uniform’s jacket pocket. As the line slowly progressed forward I thought that maybe I could just step out of the line and quietly walk out of the terminal. I could catch a bus maybe and end up in Seattle. From there I could hitchhike back home.
“Good morning, ticket please.”
I looked up to see a smiling young woman in a beige uniform holding her hand out.
“Excuse me?” I said, trying to understand what she had asked me.
“Your ticket please.”
“Oh, sure.” I handed her the crumpled ticket.
“OK, you’re in A5, have a nice flight.”
I took a step to the door and saw that the person ahead of me, a large Asian man in a giant furry parka, was already walking up the temporary stairs to the airplane. I forced my legs to move forward.
The sun, blasting its morning brightness down on the sandy wet concrete, blinded me temporarily and I stumbled slightly as I went through the door. It was cold and the frigid air stung my damp eyes as I moved slowly towards the plane. I needed an overcoat to ward off the cold wind, but it was buried at the bottom of my duffle bag.
Taking my seat next to the window and shivering slightly, I watched wistfully as a couple of airmen disembarked from another aircraft parked next to us. They seemed very happy as they hurried to the terminal, laughing and slapping each other on the back. And why not? I thought. They were walking away from where I was heading.
As we broke ground and lifted up into the air I wondered what kind of place Tatalina was, and I wondered what the next year would be like for me.
If I would’ve been able to see my future I would’ve never boarded the plane.
Tatalina Air Force Station
The terminal at McGrath, Alaska was tiny. As I entered the door I saw a yellow sign over a small counter that said, “Military Personnel Report Here”.
Since I was the only military person on the flight from Anchorage I broke away from the crowd of mostly large Asian-type people and headed to the desk. (They turned out to be Eskimos).
I stood there for a few minutes when a gruff-looking man, looking to be in his sixties, approached me.
“You the one heading to Tatalina?” He asked.
“Yes.” I answered.
“Let’s see your orders.” He said, holding his thickly-gloved hand out.
I dug my orders out of my breast pocket and handed them to him.
“OK buddy. My name’s Stan. Where’s your luggage?”
In my funk, I’d completely forgotten about my duffle bag. “Oh, maybe it’s still on the plane.”
“Naw, it’s probably on one of those carts.” He pointed out a window.
I looked out and saw my bag sitting on a cart with a couple of other bags.
“Oh, there it is.” I said, pointing.
“OK, follow me and we’ll get it and haul it out to the plane.” He started out a side door. “Don’t you have an overcoat?”
“Uh, yeah. But it’s in my duffle.”
“Nice fucking place for it! Oh well, you’ll just have to freeze your ass off on the way to my plane. When we get up to the mountain, there should be someone to pick you up and take you to the radar site.”
“OK.”
The “plane” was a bright red single-engine, four-seat, tail dragger on skis. By the time we got to it my hands were freezing and the bottom of my feet were starting get numb. My teeth were chattering and my nose was running.
He opened a compartment in the fuselage between the passenger door and the tail of the aircraft.
“Chunk her in there!” he said, holding the hatch open.
I slid the bag in, and he slammed and latched the hatch securely.
“OK, follow me. I’ll get in first, slide over to the left seat and then you come on in after me.”
He reached up and yanked the door open. I’d seen ancient cars in junk yards that had sturdier doors than that plane had. He lifted his right foot high on a wing strut and swung himself into the plane.
“OK, your turn. Grab that strut with your right hand, put your foot on the same strut where it joins the fuselage, and pull yourself up. At the same time swing your left foot into the cockpit.”
It took me three times to get the gist of it, finally managing to pull myself in.
Stan didn’t bother to help me get in as he was twisting dials, strapping on his harness, and pushing his feet back and forth onto the floor.
“You in?” He asked as I flopped onto the ragged seat.
“Yeah.”
“OK, pull those two straps on the floor between your legs, and grab those two straps with the big circular buckle behind your seat and pull them over your shoulders. Snap the two lower straps into the big buckle and pull all four straps tight.”
He turned back to his instrument panel while I struggled with the straps. I was finally able to get everything buckled up. I was freezing and my hands were almost numb.
Stan pushed a button on the panel and the giant four-bladed propeller spun noisily. The engine caught and the entire plane shuddered and shook.
“That’s my baby!” He yelled.
He began to push his feet back and forth on the floor, and it was then I noticed that I had identical controls in front of me.
“Get your feet off the pedals, those are for the rudders, and don’t touch the yoke!” He yelled over the deafening roar of the engine.
I wasn’t sure what the yoke was but when he started twisting what appeared to be half a steering wheel back and forth I figured that’s what he meant. My yoke mimicked his.
He pushed a small plunger-looking device into the instrument panel and the engine roared even louder and we started to move.
It was then I realized that all I could see out of the front window were the low-lying gray clouds overhead. I looked over at Stan and saw that he was navigating by looking out of his side window. That made me a little nervous.
We bounced our way onto what I hoped was the runway, since I couldn’t see anything, then he stopped. He looked left and right, adjusted a laminated green map that he had strapped to his left leg, pulled a stop watch out of his pocket and pushed a button on it, and jammed the plunger-thingy flat into the panel. The engine roared mightily, the plane shook and we began to roll (sliding, as it were; we were on skis).
Slowly the tail of the plane came up and for the first time I could see where we were going. Stan was still leaning a bit left but his eyes were now pointing towards the front windshield. He pulled the yoke back slightly and the plane leaped into the air. Stan straightened out in his seat and started giving his full attention to his stop watch and the map on his leg.
We flew into a solid overcast; besides not being to hear anything over the deafening roar of the engine, I could no longer see anything. It was like being on a roller coaster again, but with a blindfold.
A few minutes later, as he studied his stop watch intently, he made a sudden turn. For the next ten or so minutes he climbed and made turns based on what his stop watch was showing.
Finally, consulting the watch one last time he began a steep descent. As we broke through the cloud layer, there was directly in front of us a small snow-covered strip surrounded by a dense green-white forest.
“How about that shit?” He said to no one in particular. “Right on the money!”
He pulled a couple of levers and aimed the nose down. When I thought we were going to crash nose-first onto the runway he pulled up and we glided smoothly onto the surface.
Stan brought the plane to a stop, reached across my chest and disengaged my seat harness.
“Pop open the door and step out onto the strut!” He yelled over the noise of the engine. “Then, step down onto the runway. When you get down there open the baggage hatch and drag your bag out.”
“OK!” I yelled back. A little unsure about the whole thing, I pushed the door open and the wind blast from the propeller pushed the door back.
“Push that door hard!”
I did. Then, while holding the door open with my left hand I stepped out onto the strut. Once balanced on the strut with both feet I decided to just jump down onto the runway. That was a mistake.
As I landed I sunk almost up to my knees in slushy wet snow.
“Shouldn’t have jumped!” Stan yelled from the plane.
I struggled for a few seconds extricating myself and trying not to lose my shoes, and slogged over to the airplane’s luggage hatch. I twisted the handle and opened the door. As I pulled out my duffle bag I lost my balance and fell backward onto the snow with the bag on top of me.
“Having a hell of a good time, aren’t you?” Stan said, cheerfully.
I wrestled the bag off of me and dragged it, and me, off the runway.
“Close the door!” He yelled. I saw that the luggage hatch was still open. I trudged back to the plane, fighting the prop wash, and pushed the door with both hands.
Stan reached over, grabbed the inside handle and slammed the door shut. As I struggled to get back to my duffle bag lying in the soft wet snow and away from the plane, Stan gunned the engine and made a short U-turn, heading to the end of the runway.
As he pulled away I thought I heard a car horn. For the first time, I looked away from the runway and saw a blue pickup truck flashing its lights. It was parked on a little dirt road that paralleled the runway. It was a good fifty yards away, and to get to it I had to walk through more snow.
By the time I got to the pickup I was completely exhausted, soaked up to my knees in freezing cold wet snow, and shivering violently.
I swung my bag onto the bed of the truck and reached for the passenger side door. My hands were so cold I couldn’t grip the handle to push the button to open the door. The driver, finally seeing my dilemma reached over and opened the door for me.
“Hey, partner! Welcome to Tatalina! I’m Sergeant Billy Bob!”
I pulled myself into the wonderfully warm truck.
“Thanks.” I said, wearily. “I’m Airman De León.”
“All right, we’ll get you right into your room so you can unpack and warm up!” He said, putting the truck into gear.
“Thanks, I’m freezing!”
“Well, no shit! Where’s your fucking overcoat?”
