It started February 3, 1967. On this day the class of 68-E received the dubious honor of being the first class in "Willy Air Patch" history to begin the business of fifty-three weeks in the Stag Bar. For better or for worse this set the tone for the remainder of our pilot training. After the usual hours of briefings, the class was ready to follow our illustrious leader, "shuffle-foot" Richardson, to BEMO, Academics, and the first of many flight physicals.
Soon after, we boarded the "Blue Comet" for our first pre-dawn look at Casa Grande International weed-strewn Airstrip, and the first of three frightening, "geez!", dollar rides. The T-41 recalls memories of those sage and sometimes patient men who were experts in the art of transforming, "gator and 2nd ballons" into flying "Tigers." The irascible Mr. Scott "Get'em briefed, get'em airborne". Loveable Benseley who converted many into chain smokers . . . representing the military; the ever present voice of Captain B.S. Snelling, among others . . . "Gut" Truman whose students had such a tough time turning final for a very apparent reason . . . "Mr. England, my eardrums." With four kegs, excellent steaks (compliment of Bud Boettger) and a rudimentary aircraft knowledge we were ready to tackle the jet age, and the Stag Bar once again.
In late March we transferred to the tutorage of Warlock, the male witch of the 3526th, who soon taught us the magic spells necessary to control the T-37. These spells were purchased with megaboners from "Curses" Kilborn, and "Spin the Wheel" Samuels, with sympathy from "Mother" Roell and "Mother" Waters, with wisdom from "Aren't we dismissed yet" Redding, and "War Story" Kohlmeier. Thanks to these men and others, we were soon soloing in our own whistling 6000 pound broomsticks, but not without a few mishaps. For instance, Richardson's non-standard reply to "Low approach only," "Oh Shit! . . . Pietro's initial solo, "it's only a fire light, and I don't smell smoke so I'm not going to shut it down" . . . Simon's crushing the check pilot's helmet . . . Taylor getting airsick in the Link . . . Aguilar's lost procedures . . . Broadbent's gear-up landing . . . and the many normal no flap landings. As this phase drew to a close, we found that we had made a few discoveries: the real school secretary, "Check" Muccciano, the walking S.O.P., "Be Prepared" Dennis, the best of all a glimmer of light in Sundine's all--pervading shroud of pessimism. Before graduating to the great white phallic symbol, we closed the phase with a true Warlock pagan ritual, much to our wives' chagrin.
Two days later we walked into Boysan to find that we were now considered pilots, but could not be trusted to land the bird for two months. We also found that we had a complete new dash-one to memorize. By the time we got over this traumatic experience we were faced with another one -- soloing. But this passed and we confidently took in stride our cross country, formation, instruments, and navigation. Now that it's all over we look back and remember . . . Mister "there's no reason, just policy" Rager . . . HELsel's angels . . . "Hat on the Nose" Kretzchmer . . . how much we enjoyed Lt. Vick's fly safe briefings . . . the warm heart and cold face of "Lash" LaRue . . . two majors, Burris and Krueger, who bailed so many of us out . . . and try not to remember . . . Deichelmann's solution to a go-around . . . the Jolly 5BX . . . Nettleson's sarcasm . . . the week of non-standard radio calls . . . McGraw's attempted taxiway landing . . . those 80 mph drives down Williams Field and Power Roads . . . and the ever present time line.
Though we have taken this opportunity to rib and reminice the lighter side of our training, we want it on the record that we are greatly indebted to those instructors, academic and flying, who taught us so much in such a short fifty-three weeks. Just as we are proud of our fine instructors, we feel sure that in our future years of flying, they will be given reason to be proud of us.