IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE 1958 AT 4 P.M. I AM VISITING HOME OUTSIDE BOSTON AFTER WORKING IN NEW MEXICO FOR SEVERAL MONTHS FOLLOWING COLLEGE GRADUATION IN MAY.
The phone rings and I’m the only one in the house, so I answer and the caller asks for me. He says he is calling from Navy Air recruiting and they have a class date for me to begin pilot training in Pensacola, Fla., on January 10. Am I interested?
Yes, I am interested! Exhilarated, elated, euphoric, overjoyed because I have dreamed of flying as long as I can remember. And because I’m not necessarily a strong candidate—English major, lousy GPA, no athletic track record. But they have a class to fill, so I guess the first one to answer the phone gets the slot. Merry Christmas!
I drive into Boston and propose to my girlfriend Fran. We marry seven days later and on January 10 I report to the preflight school at Naval Air Station Pensacola. (Fran and I celebrated our 62nd anniversary this year.)
Preflight is four months of academics, physical training, swimming and military indoctrination. Our class has 22 guys from all over the country and we settle in for the training. Our first test is PT
