(From recollections of a fledgling aviation cadet pilot) Primary Flight Training He rode a Greyhound bus from Little Rock to Marianna, Florida. They went through Holly Springs, Mississippi. Most of the highways were two-lane and crooked. The bus stopped at practically every town of any size along the way. On the outskirts of Birmingham, everything was layered with a covering of red dust. The steel mills around Birmingham were in full operation back then and the whole area was dusty and dirty. They stopped at the bus station and off-loaded for a rest stop. After about thirty minutes they reboarded the bus. When he got on, all the seats in the front of the bus were full. (This was in the deep south when segregation still existed.) Thinking little of the matter, he proceeded to the back of the bus where he sat down amidst the blacks. He noticed one or two of them looking at him in a rather questioning manner. About that time the driver boarded. After placing his personal items in his seat in preparation for the departure he looked up at the mirror and studied his load of passengers. All of a sudden, his eyes opened wide when he saw the white cadet in uniform sitting at the very back of the bus. The driver got out of his seat and motioned for him to come to the front. There he was informed, in no uncertain terms, that he must stand at the front of the bus until a front seat was available. The bus had traveled several miles down the road toward Montgomery before a seat was open. The trip took the better part of two days. They arrived in the panhandle of Florida in the early morning hours, passing through Dothan, Alabama, and Cottonwood, jut across the Florida line. He was disappointed. It didnt look like anything he had envisioned. In his mind, Florida should have looked like the area around Miami, with white sand, palms and citrus orchards. Here, there were only large live-oak trees draped with Spanish moss; it looked essentially the same as south Alabama, with cotton fields and Bermuda grass pastures. It was mid-morning when he got off the bus in Marianna, a sleepy little rural town. Someone at the bus station gave him directions to Graham Air Base, which was northeast of town some four or five miles. A local taxi ferried him out there. A long row of majestic live-oaks lined the avenue that led from the front gate. Beneath the moss-laden trees, the new quarters were laid out in neat rows, somewhat like a cluster of one story motel buildings. The clean new buildings, the sandy soil and Spanish moss hanging from the trees reminded him of a resort, rather than a military training base. Most of the buildings in the cadet area were new: the cadet club; the academic building; the fire station. The dining hall was an older building, a left-over remnant from World War II, as was the hospital. Graham was a civilian contract flying school, operated by a civilian organization, Graham Aviation, which had a contract to train pilots for the Air Force. Other than the cadets, military representation on the base was very minimal. There were three or four non-rated Air Force officers who were responsible for their military training and some three or four Air Force pilots who administered the flight checks. All the flight instruction and most of their academic training was by civilians who worked for Graham Aviation. There was a small contingent of medical people who were also in the Air Force. Each civilian flight instructor was assigned three students. Their flight schedule alternated weekly between morning and afternoon flights. The students who had morning flights were up before daylight and marched to the flight line, stopping on the way to eat breakfast. The academic classes started later in the morning, so those who had morning academics and flew in the afternoon had a good bit of time between reveille and class. He dreaded the morning flying sessions because of the early hours, especially on Mondays. Almost, if not all, the flight instructors were former World War II combat pilots. His was an ex-Navy pilot named Brandenburg, who was originally from Texas but lived in Panama City and drove home on weekends. The flight line was about a mile or so from the cadet area. To get there, they marched, (or straggled) along a sandy dirt road that passed in front of the dining hall which stood in an open field, about midway between the two areas. At Lackland they had the standard GI food which was supplemented with extra milk, juice and fresh fruit. All that paled in comparison to the extraordinary fare at Graham. The civilian cooks were superb and the dining area was more like an upscale restaurant than a chow hall. A lot of people had difficulty keeping their weight down. Here, they were not undergoing the rigorous physical training as before, which only added to the problem. In his letters to home, he tried vainly to describe the great food that they enjoyed. The food and the new, comfortable living quarters helped elevate pride much more than being reminded they were in the top three-percent. ...
Posted on: Fri, 11 Jul 2014 13:43:51 +0000
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