A Boy at War

CHAPTER ONE

The events all began in April 1931 at the San Francisco Airport, a flat grassy location some four miles south of the city. It was a birthday present from my father, a World War I aviator in France in 1917 and 1918. He was going to fly me in a World War I single-engine biplane. I was eight years old. The 30-minute flight would provide me with the unending impetus to be a flyer myself for more than 29 years with the Army Air Corps and the United States Air Force from 1942 to 1973.

Between 1931 and 1942, I enjoyed working on airplanes at the airport and learned a lot. Making models and reading everything I could get my hands on helped me learn a lot about flight characteristics. Back in those days, plastic was a thing of the future. Model airplane building involved carving a block of balsa wood into a fuselage (or the model). The likes of Charles Lindburgh, Billy Mitchell, Amelia Earhart and Wiley Post were my idols. I did not learn much about actual flying, but I became a student of history in my young life. It kept me out of trouble, for the time being.

When I was nine years of age, mother and father divorced, and she had to go back to work. She had her degree from Sam Francisco State, so she once again became a teacher in elementary school activities. We had a house; we had a car (a 1927 Star), so we were in good shape, considering we were in the Great Depression. Like most children of that time period, we did not know the grownups were scared. We had a roof over heads; we had food on the table; we had transportation and clothes to wear (my mother was an accomplished seamstress, and between grandmother and her, I had good clothes). What more could a dumb pre-teenager ask for?

My mother worked six days a week, and I was on my own most of the time. We had a work bench with accessories, and I spent a lot of time building model airplanes, wooden six-shooters (after the cowboys), Colt 45 caliber pistols and, of course, the Thompson machine gun! Every Saturday, I rode my father’s bicycle to the local movie house matinee, paid my dine, had a caramel sucker (that was before popcorn came into the scene) and watched the perennial cowboy and bad guy movies. Once in a great while, I got to watch Wings starring Richard Barthimus. I watched that one at least five times. At other times, I would bike up into the hills that separated the Pacific Ocean from the San Francisco bay area peninsula, Sausilito, Richmond, Oakland and San Jose. It was a time I spent by myself, enjoying the splendor of the sight and sounds of the San Francisco Bay area, pretending I was flying over that area and wondering if I would ever get into the air again.

We had a large acacia tree in our backyard, and I often climbed into the highest supportable branches and acted like I was in the cockpit of my plane. I would fly by using a branch that would be my control column. From the top of the tree, you could see the rooftops for at least five blocks. It really made me feel like I was actually flying.

B-17C, Early days

CHAPTER TWO

When I was a sophomore in high school, my mother sent me to a military academy across the bay in San Rafael. This was three years before the Golden Gate and Bay Bridge were constructed, and we had to take the ferry boat to Oakland, then to Vallejo and across the bay marshes to San Rafael. The transition from public high school to a military environment was to teach me discipline and responsibility. I had two goals I strived for. One, of course, was flying, as the reader will see. The second was to be as fast running as I could. Much earlier, on the campus at Stanford University at Palo Alto, California. At the time, my father was working at the University Comptroller’s office. I became friends with the legendary Track and Field Coach Dink Templeton. After school, I would ride my father’s bike (he gave it to me for my seventh birthday) to Stanford Stadium to watch the athletes practice, under the tutelage and watchful eye of Templeton.

At an early age, I listened to Coach Templeton instructing his students that in short races (100 and 220 yards) the start of the race was when the runner could win, if he could be the first out of the blocks. He stressed this and made the sprinters practice again and again and again. I was not going to be a long-distance runner, and I watched every movement very closely from where the race started and soon noticed a young girl about my age watching the same thing I was watching. We ultimately started a conversation, and she said she had noticed I was closely listening to her father! She saw the surprise on my face and introduced herself as Jeannie Templeton. We got along famously and discussed, even at our growing age, the technology of sprinting, according to her famous father.

After practice by the university aspirants, I would go down on the track and build up my strength by running two laps (880 yards) around the track as prescribed by Jeannie, who got her information from her father. It was an interesting relationship. After several days of my training, she instructed me to run a lap (440 yards), then run hard for a half lap, then jog for a half a lap. This, she advised me, was called wind sprints. Considering we were both seven years old, I really enjoyed working out, and she apparently liked acting as my coach. I really felt great. Unfortunately, a month later, we moved to San Francisco because my father was going to work in the San Francisco Stock Exchange. That made my mother happy because her mother (Grandma Harth to me) lived by herself in the city and we could look after her. Her husband, my grandfather, had passed away several years earlier, and she was alone, but very independent.

It was unfortunate, but I never saw Jeannie Templeton again. I often wonder where she is. I missed the coaching but did not stop my training. As a high school freshman, I was one of the faster in the sprints. My continuous training gave me an edge. I wasn’t the fastest on the track team, but there was no question that I was the quickest. We had no full time coach, so I couldn’t learn anything that would help.

CHAPTER THREE

The transfer during my sophomore year brought quite a change, as indicated. The curriculum was a surprise. My mother suggested taking a typing class would benefit me. She said it was like riding a bike. Once learned, never forgot. Good advice. Also, there was a basic aeronautical course, and I was very lucky (there wasn’t any course on aviation at my previous public high school) and couldn’t wait for the fall semester to start. I got there one month before school began. I was assigned a room and a locker in the gymnasium. There was plenty of time to train, and the Academy had a lot of books about aviation. They were very informative for the short term of flight, but they whetted my appetite for more about my fixation - aviation.

The time went very quickly in my junior and senior years. One of the exciting things was a lot of field trips involving military installations in the area, including the local area airport, even as small as it was. That was interesting, but perhaps the most educational was a day-long visit to Hamilton Field outside of Novato, California, across the bay from San Francisco. It was an Air Corps facility with concrete runways, a control tower and maintenance hangars. We toured the entire flight line and even had lunch at the mess hall. It was a real treat.

There was a lot of activity all around us. Several fighter aircraft - the Boeing P-26, a low-wing, fixed-gear and open cockpit - were in the process of preparing for flight. We were guided by a young lieutenant past the line of fighters. They looked huge, but never having been near one of them before, I probably was overwhelmed by the size of the radial engine. As the group progressed towards the hangar, I lingered behind and walked up to a sergeant who was fastening panels. He looked around, smiled at my uniform and said, Hello, Sergeant (my academy rank). What can I do for you? I smiled back and told him, I would like to sit in the cockpit of your P-26. His eyes widened, then he said, If you’ve got the guts to ask, I’m going to help you out. He extended his right hand, and said, I am Sergeant Douglas, and this is my aircraft. I shook his hand vigorously, saying, I’m Cadet Sergeant Irvin. With that, he helped me on the wing and told me to step into the cockpit seat and to sit down. I was so flabbergasted I damned near wet my pants but scrambled into the metal seat and slid down, with the control column between my legs. He very loudly told me not to touch anything. I put my hands between my legs. They stayed there.

The crew chief (as he was called, as I recalled later) leaned into the cockpit and put his left arm around my shoulders, pointing and explaining the throttle, fuel control, gunsight, landing gear handle and others. I didn’t remember a lot of the things he said, for I was impressed by the complexity of all the gadgets in the cramped cockpit he was explaining. I just kept nodding my head, having little idea of what he was talking about. Hopefully, I would remember the general layout when I was back in my room.

That’s enough, Sergeant. Young man, get down out of there. It was the lieutenant guide who came back when he realized he had lost one of his chicks. The sergeant scrambled down, and I was right behind him. He and the sergeant went to the wing tip, and it was obvious the sergeant was getting his rear end chewed. The sergeant walked back to the maintenance hangar, and not a word was said by any of us. We’re through here. Now, we’ll look at the control tower, the lieutenant said, and made no comment on my transgression, if you could call it that. I got a funny look from my classmates. We had been briefed to stay with the group. The end of the story is that my straying from the group cost me a Saturday on the parade ground with rifle and a 50-pound pack! It was worth it. My early exposure to a real airplane satisfied my determination to be a flier.

When I graduated from the Academy, I got an athletic scholarship to Stanford and was very excited. They had a good aeronautical program, and I could never have gone to any college without assistance. My mother said she expected no less from me, and that was typical of her expectations. Many years later, she told me she was proud of me but did not want me to get a swelled head!

The first year went by pretty quickly, and I had almost no leisure time, so my aeronautical education was lacking. My summer went by, and I worked at a tomato packing plant. Also, I was a spare driver for the Swift Meat Packing Plant in south San Francisco, going from there to the Los Angeles area at night. It paid good money, and I enjoyed riding in the big rigs. My trips were with different drivers, and that was interesting and very educational. It wasn’t hot at night (we had to be in the Los Angeles meat distribution center no later than 6 a.m.). Once we were unloaded, I drove to Bakersfield, had breakfast, and the main driver drove back to the city. We rotated every two days, and my pay was a godsend. It saved my mothers’ money, which I didn’t want to burden her with. I had to earn everything I got. My independence felt good.

The fall semester started in September, and I tried to get myself in shape for the track season. The classes got easier, and I had decided to take two aeronautical classes. I knew they would be technically difficult, but I was intent on my aspirations - that of becoming an aviator. At that time, the thought of becoming a commercial airline crew member was in my mind, but was not the foremost consideration. My father being an aviator in World War II was always on my mind.

CHAPTER FOUR

One Sunday afternoon during the Christmas break, I went to a movie in Burlingame (my mother moved us there from the city to get a better job teaching). When the movie stopped, the lights came on and the manager spoke. We have just been advised that the United States military forces at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, have been attacked by Japanese aircraft. There has been extensive damage to our forces and a great number of deaths. More information will be on all radio stations. This theater is officially closed, and all personnel will leave in an orderly fashion immediately. With that, he left the stage, and the ushers came down the aisles, asking everyone to leave and offering assistance.

On the way home, there was a scarcity of vehicles on the road. When I reached my mother’s house, the lights were on all over the house. As I pulled into the driveway, Mom was waiting in the doorway, motioning me to hurry. When I climbed the steps, she took me by the hand and led me into the living room. We sat down together on the couch. Do you know what all this means? I told her I was aware of the impact of a war, if that is what it means to my family and me. I was 18 at the time, found out I was too young for the Royal Canadian Air Force and Royal Air Force and could sign up for a pool of young people who would be tapped to be navigators, bombardiers, gunners, including the ball turret. My mother said she had already talked with my father and decided I shouldn’t rush into anything, but rather to wait and see what would develop. I ultimately signed up for the Army Air Corps via a waiting list. We were told to go home and wait for written instructions. I took a job as an electronics assistant and worked stringing electrical wiring in the bowels of the Kaiser Liberty ships. It was concentrated work, and I followed the instructions of the chief electrician eight hours below deck. That didn’t seem too bad, and it was the best way to go, considering I could be called into the service any day. I kept on doing what I was doing, being able to have lunch on the busy deck of the ship.

Time seemed to drag by, and finally, on February 23, 1942, I received my orders to report to the Commandant of the Monterrey induction center. Fortunately, that was just an hour from our house. For convenience, my mother drove me down to the base. When we got to the base gate, I had to get out of the car, was patted down, and the military policeman read my orders and instructed me to report to the processing center. I noticed there were quite a number of soldiers with rifles and combat gear milling around the base. Having been through the military routine at San Rafael, I was not too impressed.

It took me some time to find the processing center. I asked several soldiers, but none of them seemed to know what I was talking about. Once there, a corporal took my orders and pulled my records from his file cabinet. He told me to report to the transient barracks and gave me directions. He didn’t deserve a salute, so I turned around and left my mother waiting out front. As I was leaving, a young man in civilian clothes entered and saluted. I said nothing. Seeing my mother sitting in the car embarrassed me, and I told her to leave, that I would make it on my own. She nodded, started the car engine and drove off, not too slowly. It was just as simple as that. I made my way two blocks to the transient area. As I entered the two-story building, there was a room on the right with a placard saying Charge of Quarters. I knocked on the door, was told to enter, which I did, and there was a short, swarthy-colored corporal with a crew cut. He asked me, gruffly, for my processing forms, looked at me, and told me my bed was on the second floor, marked number 46. He said I better hurry to my bunk, drop off my luggage and get to the mess hall next door. I apparently was the last one to arrive, for all of the cooks looked at me. The mess hall was strictly cafeteria-style. I grabbed a metal tray, got a hamburger steak, mashed potatoes, cauliflower, peaches, and the last cook handed me a mug of coffee. I walked over to the nearest table that had half of the seats empty, with a master sergeant and two young men in civilian clothes sitting and eating.

Sergeant Foster, Privates Galbraith and Hickok, said the sergeant in military Army uniform with his hand extended as a way of welcome. I grabbed his strong hand, trying to hide my surprise, for he was a master sergeant and looked like he was about 15 years old. Dave Irvin. Glad to meet you, and sat down

Foster asked if I had passed the Aviation Cadet Examination and physical. I said I had, and he said all those in the transient quarters were in basically the same position, and we would be given a thorough medical exam and shots the next day and then receive our uniforms, also. I thought, now we’re getting somewhere, and told him I already had my Cadet physical in San Francisco. Foster nodded, and continued, We are where ‘they’ are going to send us for classification, probably Nashville. I was to learn later, he was a very intelligent master sergeant and had just returned from the Aleutians, where he had fought the Japanese invasion force. Remember, this was early 1942. He had applied for flight training and was here, waiting his turn with the other 45 of us. He commented that he was very happy to be away from the Cold Country.

The next morning, the CQ rang the bell (attached to the wall) and said it was time for us to get going. He said we were going to have a long hard day. Breakfast in 30 minutes. He was a very tall negro corporal and had a nice, mellow-sounding voice. Breakfast was good. Fried eggs, bacon, toast, juice and coffee started our day. The corporal waited for us outside the mess hall and guided us to the hospital about four blocks away. When we got there, we were lined up in single file and got our shots. The medic had a strange contraption in his hand. We all were naked from the waist up, and he took this device that looked like a flashlight, pressed it into our upper arm and then released it. Each of us flinched and walked on. When it was my turn, I saw that the device was a six-pronged needle. It hurt a little when he gave me the multi-shot, and told me to move on. I thought it was very easy (I have an aversion to needles), went back to the dressing room and put on my shirt.

The corporal was waiting for us, and pointed down the street, saying, Lineup two abreast and we will head for the supply office, where you’ll get you uniforms and such. I noticed our corporal had another corporal standing at the back of the line, telling the recruits to get up in line, pointing to where our corporal was standing. It took another five minutes to get us all in line. As the rear got filled, the tall NCO motioned us ahead, and off we went down the street.

After three blocks, we came upon the supply building, and the NCO stopped us at the door, telling us in a very commanding voice, "When I call your name, step up to the door and wait until I tell you to go inside. The supply sergeant will ask you your name, and you will tell him and follow his instructions. No talking.