The Air Force Special Orders that I, and many other young enlisted men, had long hoped for had finally become a reality. Special Order – Number 70, dated 23 March 1953 had been dispatched under the banner of Headquarters, 3615th Pilot Training Wing, Craig Air Force Base, Alabama. The base near Selma had been our assignment for the past six months as we served in a Pre-Cadet Detachment, awaiting an Aviation Cadet class assignment and eventual entry into Officers Training School and pilot training. Craig AFB had been my second assignment since my Air Force enlistment, having previously undergone basic airmen training at Sampson AFB near Geneva, New York.
Our duties in this Pre-Cadet Detachment were simply serving as flight line mechanic’s assistants as they maintained the North American F-51 fighter aircraft, then used to train foreign pilots under a State Department agreement. Actually, we were simply “gofers”, or airmen known to be of short duration in the assignment, that were available for menial tasks to make life easier for higher ranked enlisted sergeants. Naive to a fault, we were a source of humor to the more experienced mechanics. A task to retrieve a “sky hook” to perform an unknown but difficult task, was initially accepted prior to the realization that this order could not be serious. But who were we to question any order or request – the wearer of a single stripe of an airman third class did what he was told. We all had that imbedded in our airman basic training.
The most memorable event of that tour of duty was the observation of a near fatal ground accident. I had pulled the chocks of an F-51, with a French pilot in training on board, who then proceeded to taxi out for departure on a solo mission. The aircraft pulled onto the runway behind a similar aircraft also with a Frenchman at the controls. Then, due to an apparent language and communication problem with the control tower, the number two aircraft started his take off roll before the aircraft in front who had actually been cleared. The F-51, with its nose high attitude on the ground, allowed for no straight ahead visibility until the tail was elevated to a more level position. The huge four bladed propeller of the second aircraft proceeded to chew right up the tail of the unsuspecting first aircraft as full power was added. The corkscrewing metal prop ripped the tail section and fuselage apart before it came to a halt just inches from the cockpit of one shocked but lucky French aviator. The words he undoubtedly later imparted to his fellow countryman would have been interesting to translate.
Our long awaited orders directed us to report to Lackland AFB, San Antonio, Texas by April 13, and allowed for three days of official travel time, with the other time available for home leave. At the time I, as a poor kid fresh from the farm, had no automobile, so I was searching for a way to get back home. Earnest Parker, from Jamica, New York, owned a 1946 Buick, and agreed to take me along since we were headed in the same general direction. We were joined by another compatriot, Norman Robinson, from Rochelle, New York. The three of us had spent the previous six months in the same unit and, with a common goal of becoming Air Force pilots, had developed a friendship.
Parker and Robinson were both blacks, at that time a perfectly acceptable descriptive word. The term African-American was unheard of and, to my knowledge, never used by anyone. We were all young men, Americans, joined together in the United States Air Force, a military organization that from what I had thus far observed proposed and practiced equality of all members. As a youngster I had few exposures to other than white skinned folks, but possessed no hidden racist tendencies. In my childhood I cannot recall any such input from my parents and was exposed to relatively few racist jokes. In any case my relationship and friendship with these two New Yorkers was harmonious, and we all wanted simply to get home for a visit.
As we began our sojourn from Selma, a fairly small city east of Montgomery, our goal was to get home as soon as safely possible, and with three drivers saw no reason not to drive through with no over night stops. But that journey through the deep south was certainly to become an enlightening experience for me. We were two blacks and one white, but that did not alleviate the necessity of making fuel and bodily function stops, as well as the need for some food. Having spent the past six months on a military base, with practically no off base exposure, and where there was no segregation, the sudden appearance of the “Whites Only”, “Colored”, and “No Blacks Allowed” signs that proliferated at all the service stations and restaurants along the way came as a shock to me, and to the two New York friends. Simple water fountains displayed the segregated signs that could imply that the “Blacks Only” water must have come out of a dirtier hole. The realization of a different attitude within a different section of the United States readily became apparent. I guess we all knew better, but recalling that the Civil War had ended some nine decades earlier, made the signage all the more resentful. This was 1953 – surely this country was further along than that. The fact that neither of my traveling companions could use the same water fountain or dine in the same location suddenly made me think less of the country I was recently sworn to defend.
Ernest Parker and Norman Robinson said little about this repulsive southern attitude, much less than I vocalized. I surmised that their relatives had imparted in them that they would encounter a different attitude in racial matters in other parts of the country and that they had best accept it as a matter of fact. It would do no good for me to attempt an apology for the white race, but I had to admit to my two companions that I had no idea that racism was so openly practiced as widely as we observed in our travels northward.
The necessary gas stops for the Buick were not a problem, but the associated rest rooms were simply not used by the two, even though the “Blacks Only” sign could be found. A wooded section isolated along the highway offered a more hospitable accommodation for a relief stop. When the desire for food dictated a stop, I became the courier and simply ordered “to go” and made the food purchases that were consumed in transient. I am sure we all had the feeling that the sooner we got far enough northbound the repulsive signage would eventually disappear.
We proceeded through Birmingham, Chattanooga, Knoxville, and into Virginia. Each passing state border brought a bit more relief as our home destination got closer. I was dropped off near my home, offered profound gratitude for the transportation, and assured them I would soon see them in San Antonio as we began the joint venture of attempting to become officers and pilots. My two friends had many more miles to go but the last part of their trip would surely be more enjoyable in the northern environment. I knew I would soon be buying a car at home and therefore, my return to Texas would be via my own transportation.
Parker and Robinson would rejoin me in Officers Training School in San Antonio and we all three eventually completed our goal of becoming Air Force pilots and commissioned officers as members of Pilot Class 54-M. After graduation we went our separate ways in our military assignments. I would later learn that Ernest Parker had met with a fatal accident while based in Japan. While attending a Class 54-M reunion held in San Antonio, thirty years after our graduation, I would find that Norman Robinson had also lost his life later in his career, joining a long list of those classmates who have made their last flight. They were both good guys, intelligent and dedicated, and worthy human beings that were happy to serve as members of a cohesive military organization. For that they should be so honored. The fact that I was a member of the United States Air Force, and that the newest military service was in the forefront of being a totally integrated service, softened my feelings a bit about that drive through the deep south.
Wings Over Cumberland 