I'm Off!

During the 6 or 7 months I was slaving away at “1801”, prior to shipping out for Military duty, I had accumulated enough cash (remember now, I was raking in almost a buck an hour) to move up from my ’35 Plymouth Coupe to a more dignified ’52 Chevy 4-door, better suited to my status as a young businessman. But then, my orders were “cut” (as we say in the service) and I was to report for “basic training” at Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas, early February, 1957.
D-Day (departure) and I was escorted to Friendship Airport (now Baltimore-Washington International) by an entourage that included my Dad and Mom, who I’m sure were worried to death about how I would cope in the real world; my twin sisters, who were overjoyed, not just because I wouldn’t be there to torture them – but now each would have her own bedroom. Don’t know why this was important to them since they were carbon copies of each other so whatever secrets they had to hide from one another were the same secrets that the other one had to hide from the other one. My girlfriend was there, too, because, well, we were in love.
I had never flown before and this was in the stone age when Barney Flintstone was still piloting propeller propelled air craft. Somehow I wangled a seat by a window facing the assembled crowd in the building. As I was nervously waving to my “people” I heard the first ca-chunka-chunka-roooaaarrr! that was made by an engine on the other side of the plane starting up. Then I saw the propeller on the engine on my side slowly start to move and the ca-chunka-chunka and HOLY SHIT! A 10 foot flame shot out the rear of the engine – I’m too young to die! I looked to my people and Mom had drooped into my Dad’s arms, the twins were probably thinking about how they were going to divvy up my stuff, my girlfriend had turned her head away to avoid seeing the imminent explosion. Of course, the flame petered out and ca-chunka-chunka-roooaaarrr! Engine #2 was up and running. Big grins all around from everyone. We knew it was nothing to worry about. Finally, the chocks are removed and we taxi to the runway. Up, up, and away, as I furiously chew gum, barf bag at the ready, clutching the armrests with a death grip. By the time we reach cruising altitude, I have decided that the intelligent designer has future plans for me and today is not the day I die, so I begin to relax. “First time flying, son” says my seat mate, “Yes sir.” (lucky guess, you old fart.) Without further incident, the silver bird delivers me to San Antonio where the U.S. Air force will transform me from a 175 pound weakling into a lean mean fighting machine. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!