“Something cool.
I’d like to order something cool.
It’s so warm here in town,
And the heat gets me down,
Yes, I’d like something cool.”

Late Friday afternoon, mid March, 1957 and “Something Cool” sung by June Christy is playing on the jukebox in the Cadet Club at Bainbridge Air Base, Georgia.

Six weeks into primary flight training in the United States Air Force and I’ve just passed a Military Evaluation check from Captain Camp. My Southern Airways contract instructor, Mr. P. D. Bridges, had put me up for an Elimination ‘ride’ intent on limiting his student table to commissioned officers. No cadets, and in particular an Australian cadet who couldn’t understand his instructor’s southern accent.

Second flight with “PD”

“Let’s do some powah ohn stalls.”

“Some what, sir?”

“Goddammit, Mr. Key-ritch, y’all hurt me. How many times do I havetuh tel yuh.”

Something was very wrong with my flying aptitude, for after everyone else had soloed and turned their baseball caps so that the peak faced forward, here was Cadet Critch, still marching to the flightline looking like a dumbshit with his cap still on backwards. Was I really going to ‘wash out’? That was uncool and I was darned if I would give up until they threw me out of the program.

Well, the captain was no Santa Claus, but he recommended that I change instructors and be given another five hours of instruction. If I hadn’t soloed by then, my options were to be transferred to navigation training, or reduced to enlisted status and either attend a technical school, or serve out the remainder of my contract for 18 months as an Airman Third Class at some cold, remote Air Force base in ‘god knows where’.

I’m back early, the other cadets are still flying and I’ve got a quiet half hour.

“Yes bartender, I’d like something cool.”

At this hour, it means a lemonade.

The Cadet Club at Bainbridge Air Base was not quite a tar paper shack, but it had been hastily built at the beginning of the “50,000 Pilots Program” which started in the mid Fifties to provide the Air Force, some NATO and friendly South American countries with pilots to fight either the Cold War or their neighbors. The club allowed Aviation Cadets to have 3.0% beer and fraternize with the local girls, imported from the outlying colleges, or those ‘properly introduced’ to the chaplain.

Later Friday night, the club will be filled with cadets and the beer turned on. We smoke – don’t all pilots, we drink – ditto, we plot to get into the pants of the local girls – some do, most don’t, but we are cadets! We fly!

“Do I fly? Why yes little girl, why do you ask?” was the standing joke. We talked about flying in front of the girls and about girls when we should have been studying our flying. But I did study. Too hard. My roommate, Clinton Dewitt, had been a Marine for several years, already had a multi-engine commercial pilot’s license and was a flight instructor after he left the Corps and long before Bainbridge. He would tell me, “Critchey, you’re trying too hard! Relax!”

The only difference between Clint and a fireplug was that nobody pissed on him. He was stubby, didn’t smile much except in the early morning when he’d roll over in bed, fart, and say in a sweet falsetto, “Good morning Critchey. The Queen’s a whore.” Clint was a real sweetie and a good room mate.

Yes, I was ‘trying too hard’ - my nature I guess, but this afternoon a quiet drink in the club was what I needed. A quiet drink and a chance to settle down. Would I make it? My academics and military grades were very good, and should I fail to solo in the next five flying hours, I’d be sure to be recommended for navigation school which still produced wings and a commission. Navigator’s wings – a poor imitation of the pilot’s wings we all wanted

“Hey Critch, how’d you do?” Gary Hooker has arrived – another mate. We had both held cadet Lieutenant Colonel’s rank in Pre-Flight in Texas.

“O.K. I guess, but I’ll be changing instructors.”

“You’ll make it. PD’s a little shit. You like that music?”

Hooker is a lady’s man. Handsome, suave, big shit-eating grin and probably hung like a stud mule. He’s picked up with an older lady who must be in her late twenties, not particularly good looking, but READY. Man, is she ready and Hook is into it – she thinks he’s serious because he met her at the local Methodist church. Last weekend he took an unauthorized ‘open post’ with Vaughn Wells, his room mate and they split for Panama City. Vaughn tells me Hooker was romancing a babe in a trailer with her husband asleep not ten feet away. I suspect that if her old man woke up, the Hook would’ve applied some wrestling hold and put him to sleep. Oh yes, Hooker is also an expert wrestler. He grew up in an Arizona mining town, he had to be.

The weekend over, I meet my new instructor, Earl Wederbrook.

Earl’s a quiet, balding guy and, as it turns out, a college graduate with six kids. He’s a patient man and I see a glimmer of hope. Perhaps the next five hours will do it.

“Something cool.
I’d like to order something cool.
It’s so warm here in town,
And the heat gets me down,
Yes, I’d like something cool.”

Late Friday afternoon, mid March, 1957 and “Something Cool” sung by June Christy is playing on the jukebox in the Cadet Club at Bainbridge Air Base, Georgia.

Six weeks into primary flight training in the United States Air Force and I’ve just passed a Military Evaluation check from Captain Camp. My Southern Airways contract instructor, Mr. P. D. Bridges, had put me up for an Elimination ‘ride’ intent on limiting his student table to commissioned officers. No cadets, and in particular an Australian cadet who couldn’t understand his instructor’s southern accent.

Second flight with “PD”

“Let’s do some powah ohn stalls.”

“Some what, sir?”

“Goddammit, Mr. Key-ritch, y’all hurt me. How many times do I havetuh tel yuh.”

Something was very wrong with my flying aptitude, for after everyone else had soloed and turned their baseball caps so that the peak faced forward, here was Cadet Critch, still marching to the flightline looking like a dumbshit with his cap still on backwards. Was I really going to ‘wash out’? That was uncool and I was darned if I would give up until they threw me out of the program.

Well, the captain was no Santa Claus, but he recommended that I change instructors and be given another five hours of instruction. If I hadn’t soloed by then, my options were to be transferred to navigation training, or reduced to enlisted status and either attend a technical school, or serve out the remainder of my contract for 18 months as an Airman Third Class at some cold, remote Air Force base in ‘god knows where’.

I’m back early, the other cadets are still flying and I’ve got a quiet half hour.

“Yes bartender, I’d like something cool.”

At this hour, it means a lemonade.

The Cadet Club at Bainbridge Air Base was not quite a tar paper shack, but it had been hastily built at the beginning of the “50,000 Pilots Program” which started in the mid Fifties to provide the Air Force, some NATO and friendly South American countries with pilots to fight either the Cold War or their neighbors. The club allowed Aviation Cadets to have 3.0% beer and fraternize with the local girls, imported from the outlying colleges, or those ‘properly introduced’ to the chaplain.

Later Friday night, the club will be filled with cadets and the beer turned on. We smoke – don’t all pilots, we drink – ditto, we plot to get into the pants of the local girls – some do, most don’t, but we are cadets! We fly!

“Do I fly? Why yes little girl, why do you ask?” was the standing joke. We talked about flying in front of the girls and about girls when we should have been studying our flying. But I did study. Too hard. My roommate, Clinton Dewitt, had been a Marine for several years, already had a multi-engine commercial pilot’s license and was a flight instructor after he left the Corps and long before Bainbridge. He would tell me, “Critchey, you’re trying too hard! Relax!”

The only difference between Clint and a fireplug was that nobody pissed on him. He was stubby, didn’t smile much except in the early morning when he’d roll over in bed, fart, and say in a sweet falsetto, “Good morning Critchey. The Queen’s a whore.” Clint was a real sweetie and a good room mate.

Yes, I was ‘trying too hard’ - my nature I guess, but this afternoon a quiet drink in the club was what I needed. A quiet drink and a chance to settle down. Would I make it? My academics and military grades were very good, and should I fail to solo in the next five flying hours, I’d be sure to be recommended for navigation school which still produced wings and a commission. Navigator’s wings – a poor imitation of the pilot’s wings we all wanted

“Hey Critch, how’d you do?” Gary Hooker has arrived – another mate. We had both held cadet Lieutenant Colonel’s rank in Pre-Flight in Texas.

“O.K. I guess, but I’ll be changing instructors.”

“You’ll make it. PD’s a little shit. You like that music?”

Hooker is a lady’s man. Handsome, suave, big shit-eating grin and probably hung like a stud mule. He’s picked up with an older lady who must be in her late twenties, not particularly good looking, but READY. Man, is she ready and Hook is into it – she thinks he’s serious because he met her at the local Methodist church. Last weekend he took an unauthorized ‘open post’ with Vaughn Wells, his room mate and they split for Panama City. Vaughn tells me Hooker was romancing a babe in a trailer with her husband asleep not ten feet away. I suspect that if her old man woke up, the Hook would’ve applied some wrestling hold and put him to sleep. Oh yes, Hooker is also an expert wrestler. He grew up in an Arizona mining town, he had to be.

The weekend over, I meet my new instructor, Earl Wederbrook.

Earl’s a quiet, balding guy and, as it turns out, a college graduate with six kids. He’s a patient man and I see a glimmer of hope. Perhaps the next five hours will do it.