 
## ENTERING THE RACE TO THE MOON

### Autobiography of an Apollo Rocket Scientist

### By John P. Hornung

ISBN 978-0-9830441-7-8

Content: 84830 words and 53 pictures

Copyright: 2013 by John P. Hornung

Published by Jack be Nimble Publishing at Smashwords

$1.99

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### To those who make craft that ride the heavens

### Reviews

### Chapter 4 - To the Moon, Without Me

The Space Show

October 30, 2009

Having read his story, I strongly recommend it because John Hornung was among those pioneers that wrote the book on building, designing, testing, and developing rockets and human spaceflight. His memoir is an important treasure of information that would serve us all well to know, understand, and remember. Dr. David Livingston, host of The Space Show, broadcast 1248 (Special Edition), aired on October 30th, 2009.

Chesapeake Style Magazine

October 2011

(John's) delightfully entertaining memoirs of his association with the NASA space program have something for every level of reader. The graphics and NASA photos of the vehicles associated with the space launching vehicles are a treasure. This look at his first career as a space scientist is exciting and inspiring, sprinkled with hilarious moments of fun. Jean C. Keating – National Award Winning Author.

### Chapter 2 - ABANDON SHIP!

Chapter 2 is also sold as an independent book which is five star rated.

Table of Contents

Prelude

Chapter One - The Silent Aftermath

Was I Raised a Poor White Child?

Unveiling the Mystery

My Take on All of This

Acknowledgments

After the Aftermath

Chapter Two – Abandon Ship!

From Land to the Sea

Bright Lights and Sandy Ditches

An Inconvenient Photograph

The Jamboree

Chapter Three – Private 1543868

Marine Fighter Squadron VMF 143

Paris is on an Island?

Combat Training

Aircraft Mechanic School

They Also Serve Who Stand and Wait

On Gung Ho

Acknowledgments

Chapter Four – To the Moon, Without Me

Learning the Right Stuff

Reliability Engineer

NASA Data Center

Advanced Engineering

System Engineering, Maybe

Engineering Reliability into Rockets

The Unseen Flights of the Saturn IB

Nitro Man

The First Use of Artificial Intelligence

Death Makes a Visit

The Crisis of a Failure

A Reluctant Exit

The Saturn IB Established Its Place in Space

Saturn IB Missions

Saturn IB's Math Model Unit

More Information on the Saturn IB

Acknowledgments

The Author

Interview with the Author

Prelude

There were many significant chapters of my life. In this writing I include four distinctly different chapters. Three of them were selected for their significance in U.S. history; early school integration in the deep south, a period of brutality in the US Marine Corps, and the landing on the moon. The remaining chapter includes stories of Sea Scout adventures. These are the descriptions of the four chapters.

The Silent Aftermath

In the mid 1950s, a battle bubbled to the surface between a group of Catholic intellectuals, intent on removing segregation in New Orleans Catholic schools, and their formidable segregationist foes. While the intellectuals began planning for the integration of New Orleans Catholic schools as early as 1949, Archbishop Rummel and his Church hierarchy refused to desegregate them until 1962, two years after the New Orleans public schools complied with Federal civil rights laws.

In the battle's aftermath was a wake of difficult challenges my family had to face. This is the account of the attempt to understand the consequences of this epic struggle. The story begins with the description of the Hornung sibling's unusual childhood and the puzzles that surrounded it. Why were we treated harshly by our parents and at times by schoolmates? Why was I sent to a boarding school a short distance from home and not allowed to return on weekends? Who was our adopted brother Joe? Was he used as an instrument of collusion in the battle between segregationist and integrationist? More than fifty years later, the _Silent Aftermath_ unravels shocking discoveries of the mystery behind the difficulties we siblings encountered and the early battle to integrate New Orleans segregated Catholic schools.

Abandon Ship!

Here is a collection of short stories of my teenage adventures in the Sea Scouts. The stories include: a harrowing attempt to survive a severe storm at sea; an unusual way of winning first place in a Boy Scout District Camporee; an encounter with the US Army; and what it was like to attend a colorful Boy Scout World Jamboree. They are not common tales of campfire sing-a-longs and scouts driving to excel to the highest rank. Our Sea Scout Ship concentrated on other activities and carried them one or two steps beyond such noble pursuits. While being adventurous and fun loving, we took our seamanship seriously and met challenges in a responsible manner. These stories are filled with wit and humor. Every time I read these adventures I laugh out loud. Maybe you will too.

Private 1543868

I enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps in my junior year of high school. My decision to enlist was driven by an unfortunate situation and an attempt to rescue my faltering plans to complete my education. While I found my platoon's experiences during Marine Corps boot camp to be brutal at times, I learned a half century later they were the dark side of Marine Corps life. Although recruits experienced the blunt force of the dark side, they and the public were not aware how entrenched it was from the 1950s thru the mid 1970s. This came to light only after I read the book "see Parris and Die – Brutality in the U.S. Marines", while researching material for this chapter. This is the story of my encounter with the dark side and my attempts to survive it.

To the Moon, Without Me

After I graduated from college in 1963 with a degree in Physics I was immediately hired by the Chrysler Corporation Space Division and assigned to the Space Division's Engineer Management Training Program. The company constructed the first stage of NASA's Saturn IB Space Launch Vehicle at NASA's Michoud Rocket Plant in New Orleans, Louisiana. Eventually, I became a Reliability Engineer working in an organization that was the first to develop the mathematics and techniques of Artificial Intelligence. This technology was applied to deciphering the weak points in the Saturn IB rocket's design.

The Saturn IB was critical to achieving the goal of landing a man on the moon and returning him to earth because it was NASA's workhorse in testing components of the giant Saturn V and its payload to the moon. It launched and tested the Saturn V's third stage the Saturn IV-B, the Apollo spacecraft, the Saturn's brain, and the lunar lander. The testing culminated with the Saturn IB's launch of Apollo 7, the first manned Apollo spacecraft. With the very next Apollo mission, Apollo 8, the Saturn V headed to the moon.

Many of my assignments became a baptism of fire in the sink or swim approach to getting the job done that existed in the early years of the Apollo Space Program. I write; of what I did after discovering that imaginary numbers were missing, of an incident that may have led to my arrest, of my attempt to discover what went wrong during a critical test of the Saturn IB's superstructure, of the little known facts surrounding the fire atop Saturn IB 204 which killed three astronauts, and, of the unseen test flights of the Saturn IB. This is the story of my exciting and demanding career in the race between the United States and the Russians to be the first to reach the moon.

Chapter One - The Silent Aftermath

Dr. Philip J. Hornung and his new bride Maria O'Connor leaving on their honeymoon to Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

Two significant parts of my life were lifelong puzzles I could never solve. The first was the unusual upbringing that my sister, brothers and I had to endure. The second was the question, why was I sent to a boarding school at the age of 11 and not allowed home visits on the weekends and holidays. Our home was only a 15 minute drive from the school. I decided to sit down and write about these two puzzles. I didn't get an answer to why our upbringing was so unusual on completing my writing about it. However, after I was well into my research on my boarding school, I made a shocking discovery as to why I was sent there. This is the story of my pursuit of the answers. This pursuit led to the realization that I had been unknowingly drawn into the traumatic events of a battle in the fight to desegregate the New Orleans Catholic schools in the early 1950s. It was then that I understood that our unusual upbringing, my being sent to a boarding school, and the battle were all connected.

Was I Raised a Poor White Child?

Dr. Philip J. Hornung was born and raised in Baraboo, Wisconsin. His father, Otto (Adolph) Hornung, was employed by the Hoppe Clothing Store in Baraboo. During his 56 years with this prominent store, he rose from clerk, to department manager, to buyer and eventually became the store's manager. His son Philip attended Columbia College, a private college in Dubuque, Iowa. The college is now called Loras College. The college was a combined liberal arts school and Catholic Seminary. In 1930 Philip received a B.S. in Chemistry, Magna Cum Laude. His campus activities included Choir, Honor Roll, the French Society, Dramatics–stage electrician, and Lorian, the college yearbook. After graduation, Philip attended Catholic University in Washington, D.C. He obtained a PhD in biochemistry in 1935. His Doctorial Thesis was "Penicillium Zukali Biourge, A study of its physiology and biochemistry". Philip was president of his graduation class.

Dr. Maria O'Connor, Philip's wife, was born and raised in Springfield, Massachusetts. Her father Martin O'Connor died when she was nine years old. Her mother Honora Elizabeth Gleason O'Connor became the first policewoman in the state of Massachusetts in order to have arrest powers while working in child protective services. Honora retired after 20 years of service with the police force. Maria graduated from high school at the age of 16 and her mother was able to send her to Trinity College, a private all girl Catholic college in Washington, D.C. Maria majored in biology and graduated in 1933. She received a Master's degree in biochemistry from Catholic University in 1935 at the age of 21. Later in her life, Maria received a PhD from Tulane University in New Orleans.

Philip and Maria met while attending Catholic University. They were married shortly after graduation. Philip taught at Mount St. Joseph College and Catholic University after his Post Doctoral work at Yale University as a Visiting Fellow. In December 1936, while living in D.C., Maria and Philip had their first child, a girl they named Maria. They left Washington, D.C. in 1937 when Philip took a teaching position with Xavier University of Louisiana in New Orleans. During his 35 years at Xavier he became a Professor of Biology and Chemistry, Chairman of the Biology Department, the Director of the Division of Natural Sciences, and Coordinator of University Planning. Initially, Maria stayed at home to raise their five children. In 1946, when her youngest child reached the age of three, she joined the Biology Department at Xavier University as a biology instructor. In 1951, Philip and Maria established the Department of Medical Technology and Maria became its Chairman shortly thereafter. The Department inaugurated a four year program leading to a Bachelor in Medical Technology. In 1960 Maria left Xavier University to teach at Tulane University Medical School and obtain a PhD in Microbiology.

Xavier University of Louisiana is the only all black Catholic University in the United States. Jenny Vengalil, in her article "Mother Katharine Mary Drexel: A Blessed Presence in the History of Philadelphia" provides the following information. Xavier was founded by Katherine Drexel, the daughter of a very wealthy national and international banker, Francis Anthony Drexel. The family firm, Drexel and Sons Company, was located in Philadelphia. On the death of her father, Katherine inherited thirty percent of her father's fortune. Katherine was keenly aware of the plight of the African Americans for their lack of opportunities and education. One of her major efforts was the building of Xavier University for the education of African Americans. She never gave up on her cause of civil rights. She funded NAACP investigations into the mistreatment and exploitation of black workers. She died in 1955.

Katherine Drexel was a strong advocate of racial tolerance. She established the religious order, the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament for Indians and Colored People. She was canonized a Saint by Pope John Paul II on October 1, 2000. Katherine Drexel is known as the Patron Saint of racial justice and of philanthropists.

On arriving in New Orleans Philip and Maria rented a very nice apartment in the uptown district near St. Charles Ave. They hired a maid, Lillian, to help care for their daughter Maria and their newborn son John, that's me. They eventually moved to a large second floor apartment on Lafaye Street in the Gentilly area of the city. While living there they arranged to build their first home in a wide open range of wild brush and giant oak trees. The new community was called Mirabeau Gardens. For several years its streets were paved with raw oyster shells. There was city water, electricity, and phone service. However, during the early years families had to rely on septic tanks, and street gutters for drainage. Off and on, throughout our lives we had domestic help in the house. At one point, my parents employed two sisters and a cousin to serve as cook, housekeeper and laundress.

The Roof over Our Heads

My parents began construction of their first house in late 1940 or early 1941. The home was a small two story New England style house totaling 1,507 square feet. The first floor included a dining room, living room, kitchen, very small foyer, and a small half bath. A slender 9 foot wide screen porch ran across the back of the house. A one car detached garage was connected to the porch by a covered breezeway. The second floor contained three bedrooms and one small full bath. The master bedroom and two other bedrooms were of medium size.

On Sunday December 7, 1941, our family celebrated the completion of the home with a few of my parent's friends. That afternoon, as the music played on the radio, the broadcast was interrupted with the announcement that Pearl Harbor had been bombed by the Japanese. Our company departed as quiet as mice at the conclusion of the horrible news. Dinner had yet to be served.

At that time, our family consisted of my mother and father, my sister Maria, my brothers Philip and Mike and me. Within fifteen months our brother Martin arrived. We four boys shared a bedroom that was 12'6" long and 10'11" wide. We each had one shelf in a 2'5" wide and 6'long closet and one drawer in a small flimsy dresser for storing our clothes. There wasn't enough room for four regular beds, so we slept in a double bunk bed built by my father. The bed was made of pine 2x4s and 1x6s. Several 1x4 oak boards were placed a foot apart with their ends resting on 1x2s that ran along the inside bottom edges of the bed's side boards. This was our "box spring". Our mattresses were placed on top of the "box spring". The mattresses were three inches thick and were stuffed solid with cotton, same as the mattresses found in old military barracks. Those who slept on the bottom level had to worry about the 1x4 boards on the underside of the upper beds, which would fall now and then.

Philip and I, being the oldest, were assigned the two top bunks. In the summertime we roasted from the New Orleans intense heat radiating through the ceiling. There was no insulation in the attic above us and the ceiling was only 18 inches above our noses. The attic was not ventilated with soffit vents or an attic fan that could draw out the heat. This allowed the heat to multiply many times over and penetrate the ceiling. To make things worse, the tops of the two bedroom windows were only six inches above the height of the mattresses of the top bunks. This gave my brother and me no air movement in the upper bunks even when the windows were wide open. We had one small window exhaust fan in the bathroom down the hall. This provided no relief from the heat in our bunks. We would sleep in our "tighty whiteys" and perspire profusely.

Our home was constructed without any insulation in the walls or ceiling. In the winter, the temperatures would often get down into the 30s and 40s. We froze. While the house had gas piped to each room for the installation of gas heaters, heaters were installed only in the living room, dining room, small foyer, and the master bedroom. For most of the winter only the foyer heater would be lit. During the day, the foyer heater would be set on medium. A fan hung from the wall above the heater. The fan was directed so it would blow the warm air out of the foyer into the living room. On very cold days the heater in the dining room would be lit during the day and set on low. During the night, only the heater in the foyer would be lit; it would be set at a very low level. Some nights only the pilot light would be lit. Some winter nights it was not lit at all.

When we went to bed we would cover our heads with a blanket or pillow to try to keep warm. At times we could see the moisture from our breath. Going to the bathroom during the night involved a run to and from the bathroom while trying to keep from freezing. On rare occasions I would notice a slight stain on the dark blue wall next to the bunk beds. It was a tell tale sign that someone chose to stay warm that night rather than stand on the cold tile in the bathroom. I learned to always pull the covers over the bed on exiting it, for if I didn't, it would take longer to re-heat the bed with my body when I returned. I slept with my head on or covered by the pillow. I lived with untreated chronic sinus problems. I didn't discover, until I was about 33 years old, that I was highly allergic to down, the stuffing in those old pillows. In the winter, when we were rousted out of bed to get ready for school, the house felt as cold as the outside air. We would scamper down the stairs and turn on the gas to the heater in the foyer and light it with a wooden match. Our pants and shoes were so cold we had to warm them over the heater before putting them on. If you took too long at your turn warming your clothes, you were shoved aside. One time my brother Michael placed his shoes so close to the heater they curled and singed so badly he had to get new ones. Father made him pay for them. For the six hottest months and the two very cold months of the year we hunkered down to fend off the inside temperatures while trying to sleep.

The Food before Us

Our living quarters were surpassed only by our dining experiences. Mother usually cooked dinner. At times some of the food was barely edible. For example, the asparagus was tough and very stringy. I had to take care not to choke on it. We were served a helping of each of the table foods. We were to eat it whether we liked it or not. We weren't allowed second helpings of any foods until we finished all first helpings. If we refused to finish our food it was put in the refrigerator and served to us cold for breakfast. Some of us developed ways to sneak it off our plates and hide it. The cuffs of our pants worked well at times, but our attempts at hiding bad food were not too successful. When we were caught we were sent away from the table. The next time we saw the leftovers was in the morning. It was our breakfast, right out of the refrigerator and unheated. Michael could not eat eggplant unless it was so heavily coated with Italian bread crumbs it was twice its original size. He would instantly vomit on swallowing it. Mother would serve eggplant once or twice a month. He used every means possibly to sneak it out of the dining room. He was caught many times and punished by denying him supper. Michael would have to skip breakfast the next morning. He could not manage eating the stale, cold eggplant.

The quality of the food was not of our mother's doing. While father was giving away money to church building funds, tithing to our parish church, and donating to the United Negro Fund, the NAACP, Catholic missions, and the annual Bishop's Appeal, he placed us on a stingy food budget. After my mother's death two of my brothers went through father's old records. In them was a large stack of cancelled checks made out to these organizations. The food budget was something around one dollar per child per week. With that restriction Mother was forced to purchase discounted vegetables and lower quality foods and meats from the A&P food store. We were not to have fresh milk. The milk specialty of the house was canned, condensed Pet Milk mixed 50/50 with water. The flavor guaranteed that we would not drink excessive amounts of the solution. Once we became teenagers we were allowed to have instant dry milk mixed with water. When chilled really well, its flavor was acceptable.

Being involved in all sorts of athletic activities, sports and otherwise, I felt hungry quite often. On numerous occasions I would return home after school and grab several slices of bread and devour them in short order to get relief from hunger pains. Sometime in the past, one of my siblings told me father required our mother to record the quantity of each food we ate, not the amount put on our plates. Father, being a biochemist, was running some kind of nutritional study on us. You can see the results of our father's controlled experiment in the photo of my brothers and me. Left to right are Joe, Mike, John, Martin, and Philip. Joe was adopted into our family in 1949 at the age of 9.

At first glance it may appear that we look just like any other group of highly active kids. If you compare the size of our heads to our bodies, you may conclude otherwise.

As very young children, it was natural for us to become upset when we were treated harshly by our parents. If we cried or whimpered as the result of this treatment, our father placed us in a dark closet under the stairs leading to the second floor. It didn't have a light and there was a scary trapdoor in the floor to access the damp, dark crawl space under the house. At times, its atmosphere made it difficult for us to contain our crying. We were let out a short time after our crying stopped. The closet was appropriately named The Crying Closet.

One of the punishments we incurred for rule infractions, such as being 5 minutes late returning home, was being sent to our room for the rest of the evening without dinner. We would get so mad from this treatment we would slam the bedroom door shut and pound it with our shoes. That door got a good scarring as the result of our anger.

Ass Backwards

One day our father came to the conclusion he wanted to limit our use of toilet paper. So, we were summoned individually and in groups to go over the new regulations for toilet paper. We were to use only three squares for each bowel movement. We were even shown how we were to fold the paper prior to its use. We duly complied. I learned how to manipulate the delicate folds to avoid any mistakes. For a mistake meant extra washing, for there was to be no second papering application. This new hygiene procedure went on for about two months. Then, out of the blue, father summoned us for another session on defecation procedures. Before father was a short stack of old newspapers. He informed us his cost reduction procedure was "down the toilet". He began stripping the newspaper into four-inch wide strips. Then he tore those into five-inch lengths. He insisted these were to be our new toilet paper. One of us bravely ventured to point out the newspaper would be a little rough on the sphincter. Father immediately had this problem figured out. He then showed us his solution. If we crumple up the newspaper, unfold it, crumple it up again, and then unfold it, it would not bother the sphincter. Father then led us to the first floor bathroom and he showed us where the new "tissue-et" should be placed on the floor. I pointed out that the role of "premium" tissue was still on the toilet paper roll. He informed us it is no longer for our use. It was only to be used by guests. I bet his sweet behind saw the comfort of the roll rather than the self-crumpled kind.

I found it necessary to do two extra rounds of crumpling and folding to suit my delicacy. I often wondered what images were pasted on my backside when all that was left on the floor was the comic section. I worried my friends might discover the comic section when they used our half bath. I could hear it now. As I walked by they would say to their friends, there goes a colorful ass. Or, if you shake hands with Johnny don't grab his right hand.

An internet query on the history of toilet paper states that Hans Klenk first used rolled paper in 1928. The Scott Company did it in 1890, and a British man W.C. Alcock came up with an alternative to the use of newspaper in the 1880s. Father was getting notoriety by setting science back 60 years or so.

Re-gifting

From time to time we attended birthday parties with our neighborhood playmates and school classmates. We were between the ages of six and twelve. Buying friends birthday presents was not in father's budget, but he was quick to figure out how he could accommodate a gift. He came up with the idea of us giving our childhood friends a book. The books he gave us for gifts were very used and appropriate for children younger than the group we associated with. We weren't given colorful wrapping paper to wrap them in. Instead, we had to use the paper from a brown A & P grocery bag. The "wrapping" was finished off with string. I'm sure our parents thought this was great.

When we went to a birthday party we would hide our gift under the other children's presents and quickly join in the games. After the games we sat down to have cake and ice cream. Towards the end of the party we all joined together to celebrate the unwrapping of gifts. This would be my time to slink behind the other children. With each gift, the name of the child giving the gift was announced and it was anxiously unwrapped. I cringed when my gift was picked up and handed to my birthday friend. The string would be untied and the brown A & P wrapper was slowly removed disclosing a worn children's book. My friend would stare at it. Then his or her mother would whisper in the child's ear. My friend would then say a soft thank you to me. My parents were never present at these parties to see my humiliation. They must have known how my friends would feel receiving an old used gift. Here is a picture of our friends who received used books as birthday gifts from us.

They are celebrating my tenth birthday. My brother Martin, with the wide open mouth, is ready to blow out the candles. My brother Philip is looking over my shoulder and Mike is to the far right.

Our Father Was a Strapping Man

One day when I was about 14 years old, a box of chocolates was dropped off by a family friend for us to enjoy. That evening father told us that no one could have a piece of chocolate unless he allowed it. The chocolates were placed on the dining room buffet in plain view. Wow! With six children, what a test of temptation this was going to be. Father must have been full of excitement. There was little chance one of us could go without sin. Father would likely be disobeyed. The first day went by and no sin occurred. No sin occurred on the second day. On the third day father began yelling to us boys.

"Get down here in the dining room right now!" On entering the dining room we need not ask what this rendezvous was about. Sinning had definitely occurred. For there it was. The box of chocolates was on the dining room table and one piece was missing. Father demanded we take off our shirts and line up in the dining room facing the front window. The man-of-the-house was incensed. At first I wasn't worried. I had nothing to do with the missing chocolate. But then, I was. Why would I be standing here without my shirt on? I soon found out.

"Which one of you took the piece of chocolate?" he demanded. No one answered. Father took off his belt and asked us one by one if we took the chocolate. When he asked Philip had he taken the chocolate, Philip said no. With that father hit Philip across the back with his leather belt. He then asked Mike the same question. When he answered no, father strapped Mike across the back. I was then asked the question.

"No" I answered. I was hit across the back. The same went for Joe. Then it started all over again. This time it was a double strapping each. After this go-round I was wondering: What the hell is this? This guy was strapping all of us for a meaningless act maybe one of us did! At the very least the family friend would want each of us to have one of the chocolates. Then a third round of strapping began. Finally, one of my brothers announced he had taken the one chocolate. How wrong I was! Our father was successful. He had finally broken the sinner. I felt sorry for my brother. This was entrapment. A lawyer could have gotten us off by pleading that the exposing of chocolates with such limitations was deliberately creating an attractive nuisance. Furthermore, each of us was entitled to a piece of chocolate. Therefore the trapper was the one at fault. This was one of many senseless whippings given to us.

Improving the Climate

In 1960 my mother left her teaching position at Xavier University for a position at Tulane Medical School. There, she began receiving enough pay to purchase things that were lacking in the home. For example, we were probably the last middle class family in New Orleans to have air conditioning. My mother proposed to my father that she purchase a three and a half ton Fedders window unit to provide heat and air conditioning in the first floor of the house. My father forbade this. A year or so went by and my mother proposed, in addition to the AC / Heating unit, she would pay for the electricity to run it. Well, father said she couldn't do it because it would require a 220 amp electrical line to be installed. He now had her. Woops, my mother said she would also pay for the installation of the 220 line. Drat! Father had been had. The AC / Heating unit and 220 amp line were installed. Ah Ha! After they were installed, father wouldn't let anyone turn on the AC or heater. Checkmate! He won!

Unreliable Transportation

When I began dating in high school, father allowed me to use the family's 1955 Ford Country Squire station wagon once a month for dating or attending social events. At other times I would go on a date using public transportation or seek out a friend who would be willing to let us double-date. In responding to their willingness to help me, I would always offer to drive my friends on the one day of the month I had the car. This worked OK most of the time. Now and then, and on a random basis, father had a surprise for me. A couple of hours before leaving to pick up my date, he would fabricate a reason for not allowing me use of the family car. I would then sheepishly call my buddies, cancel their ride with me, and ask them for help. At times this did not work out very well. Michael was also subject to father's sudden denial of use of the car. When this happened, he often had to cancel his date at the very last minute.

When I did get use of the car, father would charge me 5 cents a mile for its use. He would record the mileage before and after I used it. Now in those days gas was 25 to 30 cents a gallon and the family car got about 15 miles to the gallon. In doing the math you would discover my father was making from 3 to 3.33 cents a mile from my date transportation. You would think he would want me to use the family car as often as I could. I guess he didn't want to rip me off "too badly".

One time I used the station wagon on a double date. Early the next morning father woke me up.

"Where did you go on your date", he asked.

"I went to a party and Rockery Inn afterwards".

"Give me the specifics."

"I picked up Bobby, picked up his girlfriend Gene, then picked up my date, went to the party at Shirley's, took our dates to Rockery Inn for a bite to eat, drove Gene and Bobby home, then I brought my date home."

"Get dressed. We're going for a ride."

"What for?"

"I'm checking the mileage you used on the car last night."

Father recorded the mileage on the odometer while I got dressed and off we went. This made no sense to me. I was paying for the total mileage I used. Who cares if I drove from here to there, and here, then there, and then came home? Well we drove the whole route I took. When we got home the mileage was close enough to what I used the night before. I should have been appreciative of father for not charging me a nickel a mile for the confirmation trip. And at least, he never charged me for the times I drove our maid home.

Why?

From about the age of six I lived through the above and other more serious situations. As I experienced my joys of fatherhood I came to realize how extraordinary and unusual our childhood really was. Over time, my attempt to understand it became more compelling and puzzling. Because of the complexities of my childhood, I never felt comfortable in broaching this subject with either of my parents during their lifetimes. Therefore, I would never know if there was a reason behind their approach to parenting. Could I figure it out on my own?

### Unveiling the Mystery

For the lack of information on our family, I began to do genealogy research in 1992. After enjoying this hobby off and on for the next 14 years I decided to write stories of things that impacted my life. One of the subjects was my puzzlement of why I was sent to a boarding school in the sixth grade. Not one of my brothers or my sister could explain why this happened. In January 2007 I decided to sit down and write about my experience while I was in boarding school and see what happened. From that simple act, compelling circumstances from the past unfolded. They were a collection of seemingly unconnected events and conflicts that eventually pulled together a powerful story that almost got away.

Orphan, Foster Child, or in Detention

One of the unsolved mysteries in my life came at the end of the summer of 1949 when I was to enter the sixth grade. I was eleven years old at the time. My parents decided, without any discussion with me, that I was to be sent to the Holy Cross School for Boys in New Orleans, my home town. I was to board at the school. This was extraordinary, for the cost for my boarding at Holy Cross would not have been subsidized by the parish church we belonged to. Extra funding would be required of my parents. Funds, by all evidence of our life style, the family didn't have.

Holy Cross, shone here, was about a 15-minute drive from our home, and about a 40-minute ride on the city bus system. St. Leo, where I had been attending school in the fifth grade, was a 10-minute ride by bus. I was too young to grasp the change in the location of my schooling, much less the reasoning behind having to go to a boarding school five miles from home. I don't remember being frightened about going to a boarding school. But, I was unsure of the changes it may have on my relationships with my siblings and friends. I did have the understanding I would be coming home each Friday afternoon and returning there on Sunday night or Monday morning. So, I guess I treated it as an adventure and the chance to meet additional friends. I remember arriving at the front door of the school's main building. I had one suitcase containing clothes, shoes, and school supplies. After a short introduction to the Headmaster, a Holy Cross Brother, I stood and watched as my parents drove away. I don't remember being upset by the departure or by being taken under tow by my new "managers", the Brothers of Holy Cross.

Holy Cross School for Boys was, in today's vernacular, a middle school and a high school combined. That is, it covered grades six through eight, as well as a four-year high school. You could board at the school during grades six through eight only. Total enrollment in all seven grades was about 450 students. About 45 students boarded at the school. The dormitory for the boarders was on the third floor. It was a very large, single room which spanned the center of the main building. It had large windows along each side and a tall ceiling. The beds were of plain metal construction with no headboards or footboards. Beds were aligned so the foot of the bed faced towards the windowed walls. They were arranged in four rows that ran parallel to the windowed walls. A main aisle ran down the center of the room separating two rows of beds on each side of the aisle. Large entry doors were at each end of the aisle. There was no privacy at all. After living in a small bedroom with three brothers, that was not a problem for me. Under each bed was a footlocker for storage. During the very hot months of September, October, April, May and June, the high ceilings, tall windows, and large fans made living in the dorm bearable. The dorm was adequately heated during the cold months of winter. No more heating of my clothes and shoes over a furnace before putting them on in the morning, as we had to do at home.

The typical day for a boarding student was what you would expect. We were awakened at 6:30 AM when lights were turned on, followed by a call to rise and shine. Often I was already up and dressed by then. The Brothers discovered two or three of us were altar boys. At six in the morning, one of us would be chosen by a tap on the head to serve Mass in the Brothers' chapel.

After getting cleaned up and dressed and making our beds, we would head off to breakfast. After breakfast came classes until lunchtime. Lunch period was an hour long, a nice time for socializing and a good meal. After lunch we had another two hours of classes. At three o'clock, the day students departed en masse. Some were picked up by parents, while others headed for the bus stop a couple of blocks away on St. Claude Avenue. Boarding students were required to spend time in the study-hall each evening. Each boarder had an assigned study-hall desk. These were fixed in place with wooden oak chairs. The desk had a four inch wide flat surface across the top which contained an opening for an ink well. It had a large slant top below the flat surface that was hinged, allowing it to be lifted from the front to store school supplies under the lid. A hall-master sat at a large traditional desk in front of the students. The hall-master's desk was elevated on a platform so he had an unobstructed view of each student. I spent many a quiet hour in that hall. It was good regimentation for providing a climate for learning.

As my first Friday approached I was informed by the Headmaster I would not be allowed to go home on the weekends. This came as a complete surprise! When Friday afternoon came, all of the boarding students left for home with the exception of maybe nine of us. My parents visited me every four to five weeks and I didn't have general access to a telephone. This made me feel very isolated.

I soon learned the other weekend-bound students were from outside of New Orleans, notably from places like Honduras, and other countries in Central and South America. On weekends, those few of us that remained on campus tried to make the best of it by filling large blocks of dead-time playing one on one games. After a few weeks the barrier of differences in culture began to weaken between the Latin Americans and me. With some caution, I became their friend. The Latin Americans introduced me to two of their one-on-one knife games. One was called football which was played with a two bladed jack knife. The second game was called territory. It was played with a throwing knife having a blade three inches or larger. I used my green, four-inch switchblade for this game. It had a button on its side which, when pressed, released an internal spring that flung its long blade out in a flash. At the end of one game my opponent was upset I had won and shot his switchblade right into my leather shoe. It went clean through and sunk into the sole of the shoe. When I pulled the knife out and took off my shoe, I found my toes intact without a drop of blood. The knife went right between my big toe and the one to the right of it. This was lucky for me but not my shoe. It was my only pair of leather shoes.

Early in the morning on Thanksgiving Day my parents arrived at Holy Cross and brought me home for a day visit, my first since September. I was happy to share a wonderful turkey meal with my family which was now expanded by one, our adopted brother Joe. Early that evening I was returned to Holy Cross. I was allowed the same day visit on Christmas Day.

In early spring I decided to join the glee club. We practiced two or three times a week. Attendance was mandatory. The songs we practiced were from Broadway musicals. One day, after six weeks of preparation for a show, I was five minutes late for practice due to a late dismissal from class. After practice, the choir master notified me I could no longer be in the glee club because of my late arrival. I think the dismissal happened because I was going through a spurt of maturity and having a voice change. Either way, the club and I departed amicably.

By the end of February, I had spent a considerable number of weekends with my new Latin American friends. International relations appeared to be good between us, so much so a couple of them began giving me foreign language lessons. I was being taught cuss words in Spanish. Many years later I proudly displayed my language skill to Spanish speaking friends. They weren't impressed. They did not recognize my speech as having any meaning. I must have learned this new language from a Latin American with Inca ancestry.

Throughout my exile from home, my parents neither appeared to know how much loneliness I was dealing with nor did they seem to care. I realized I was more and more on my own.

When the school year ended, I looked back on it and tallied the benefit from the adventure. I had learned two new knife games, believed I could cuss in Spanish, met Brother Melchior, lost my budding career in the glee club, passed the sixth grade, and I was allowed to come home. I did enjoy: dining in the cafeteria three times a day, the lack of having to do dishes and cleaning chores, and not having to iron my clothes and mow the lawn. The reason for this venture away from home was quite a puzzle to me. Was it a special gift toward my education? Was I orphaned for nine months? Or, was I given the experience of a foster child, or put in detention? Since I was allowed to return home, I would have to say I was a foster child on loan to the Holy Cross Brothers. For 58 years, since my boarding school experience, the mystery as to the reason why I became a "foster child" was still unresolved.

On returning from Holy Cross at the start of the summer of 1950, I found father in the throes of converting our single car garage into a bedroom. It already had plastered ceilings and walls. The single side window had to remain closed. A large shed was built on the side of the garage to contain some of the contents which were formerly in the garage. The contents were piled up against the window. Here, father and my brother Mike are posing for their picture while father reinstalls a garage door after cutting out space for a window.

There was a right rear door in the garage. It had a screen door that afforded limited ventilation. However, the solid door was to be closed at night to deter intruders. The garage didn't have insulation in the walls or the ceiling. With no insulation and only limited ventilation, the room was a heat sink in the summer and an igloo in the winter. Windows were installed in the garage doors and the walls were painted green. A large old kerosene stove was placed in the garage for heat during the colder days in winter. It had two circular wicks that were lit to obtain heat. The stove had no ventilation to the outside. Father seemed unconcerned about the stove being a fire hazard and the carbon monoxide it produced. Hence, the garage became my bedroom. The addition of the "new bedroom" relieved crowding in the home's single room for boys.

The Return of Scholarly Events

When I returned home to live in the garage in June of 1950, I had successfully completed the sixth grade at Holy Cross. In August, I learned I was going to repeat the sixth grade. WHAT? From a financial point of view this made "perfect sense". How you ask? Well consider this. The Bishop created a new Catholic parish and our home was assigned to the new parish of St. Raphael. In September 1950 Saint Raphael was opening a new school with grades one through six. It would add one grade for the next two years, seventh and eighth grades, respectively. My sister Maria was attending the ninth grade at Ursuline Academy. Father's five boys: John, Philip, Michael, Joe and Martin could now be placed in the same Catholic school, and Bingo, full tuition paid for Philip and me, half tuition for Michael, and, Joe and Martin go free. I think it would have been more cost effective for me to be the one attending St. Raphael for free. That way you would get more education for the buck. I wouldn't be learning a thing by repeating the sixth grade, at no cost.

In the spring of 1953 I graduated from St. Raphael and was looking forward to attending high school. The Brothers of Sacred Heart operated St. Aloysius high school located at the intersection of Esplanade Avenue and Rampart Street, an old original area of New Orleans. They planned to open a second high school, named Cor Jesu, within a mile and three quarters from our home in the fall of 1953. This was to be my high school. Cor Jesu was not able to open on time, therefore I was sent to St. Aloysius for my freshman year. I enjoyed the school year and made friends with fellow students and a few teachers. I tried out for the football team even though I was carrying only 120 plus pounds. The heavy weight boys were given priority over the few lightweights. I was given consideration for the position of kicker. I enjoyed the opportunity to go out for the team. However, I was eventually cut before the freshman football season started. I enjoyed the school's atmosphere and my teachers. This showed in my grades. The lowest test score I received over the entire year was an 83, a B. Towards the end of my freshman year my parents were approached by St. Aloysius to have me stay in their school rather than transferring to Cor Jesu. It turned out to be more convenient for my parents to send me to Cor Jesu. This ended a very pleasant year of schooling. In the fall of 1954 I was enrolled as a sophomore at Cor Jesu High School.

Into The Vortex

In January 2000 I received the quarterly alumni news letter from Cor Jesu. The newsletter contained a short obituary, mentioning the contributions that Brother Flavian made during his tenure at Cor Jesu high school. Flavian was the principal when I attended Cor Jesu. Two of his siblings, Brother Gordian and Brother Colon, also taught at the school when I attended there. A high school classmate of mine, Neal Golden, wrote the obituary in the alumni news letter. Neal had joined the Brothers of the Sacred Heart soon after graduating from Cor Jesu. One of the contributions Neal mentioned was Flavian converted the school's grading system from a numerical one to a letter grade system. I felt compelled to write Neal and let him know of the circumstances surrounding a conversation I had with Flavian.

I had very strong and mixed feelings about the article. I too admired Flavian. One day in Latin class he gave us an extraordinary quiz for an extra point. It was to diagram a very long Latin sentence. After the two minutes were up, he collected our papers. He then announced that only one student diagrammed the sentence correctly. He then asked me to come up to the board and show the class how to do it. This surprised me, but shocked the class. For I always flunked Latin and counted on passing it in Summer school. While I was working on the board, two or three of the straight A Latin students asked, in a complaining manner, if I was going to get an extra point in Latin or English, another course Flavian taught us. Flavian paused and said, "I think I will give him an extra point in each subject".

In our junior year I had the misfortune to have Flavian's brother Gordian as a homeroom teacher. Early in the school year, Gordian selected about four of us as individuals who were not worthy of passing his courses. He worked diligently to purposely lower our grades. Gordian took points off my grade for such things as taking a two second glance out the classroom window as an oil rig crew boat over 100 feet long on the back of a giant flat bed truck was passing in front of the school. Then he took another point off because he saw anger in my eyes.

One day I saw anger in his eyes. During religion class, he was leading a discussion on whether or not predestination existed as to those who will go to heaven or not. In other words, when we are born into this world, are we destined to go to heaven or hell because of the life we lead? Gordian took the Catholic Church's position that we each have the choice of right or wrong and, therefore, we choose our own faith in getting to heaven or being sent to hell. Having made this point to the class, I raised my hand to pose a question. He acknowledged me and I proposed the following. Doesn't the Catholic Church teach that god knows everything in the past and he knows all in the future? Gordian said yes. I responded, then at the moment of our birth he knows if we will be able to do right or wrong and atone for our sins. Therefore, god knows if we are going to end up in heaven or hell at the instant of our birth. This would be predestination wouldn't it? At this point I got a mean glare from Gordian and his face turned pink from anger. This was immediately followed by boos coming towards me from three or four of his favorite students. I did not get a verbal follow-up response from Gordian. However, the response I received was my final grade.

Gordian picked away at my weekly grades in such a way that he knew I would have difficulty in passing his courses. He flunked me in two of the three courses he taught us. I flunked his course on Religion with the numerical grade 74. A 74 would have been a "C" at any other school. Cor Jesu had instituted the following grading system: A = 95 – 100, B = 88 – 94, C = 82 – 87, D = 75 – 81, and F = below a 75. The testing system was equally hard on obtaining a reasonable grade. Knowing I usually failed Latin taught by his brother Flavian, Gordian assured my repeating the junior year with the other three or four targeted students.

I had failed Flavian's Latin class and Gordian's Religion class and one other course of his with grades in the 70s. My parents did nothing to understand how this happened or to look into the situation. Therefore, I went to Flavian and asked; if I went into the Marines for six months, would he let me repeat my junior year by attending school from January to May the following year. He said yes without hesitating. At that time I was thankful, but realized that there must have been more to the situation.

It wasn't until my senior year in 1958 that I became aware of the full story of Gordian. The parents of the other students, who were failing his courses, took their boys out of Cor Jesu and placed them in other schools at the end of the school year. Their numerical grades went with them and, for the most part, their letter grades went up one or two levels at the new high schools. Flavian had a policy that any student who left Cor Jesu could not return due to the difference in the numerical equivalent of letter grades at other schools and those of Cor Jesu's. Later that summer the parents of these students went to Flavian and got their boys reinstated at Cor Jesu for their senior year of 1956 - 1957. Coincidently, Gordian was reassigned to a New York school during the summer of 1956. He never returned to Cor Jesu. After his New York assignment, Gordian was returned to his home state of Louisiana and sent to Catholic High in Baton Rouge.

After my six months with the Marines ended in January 1957, I returned to Cor Jesu to repeat my 1/2 of the junior year and graduated in June 1958. Looking back, I'm thankful that Flavian accepted my request to repeat my junior year in five months. However, he knew more about the circumstances than I did. He should have not allowed Gordian to fail me in Religion by one point, and should have allowed me to go to Summer school for Latin and the one other course.

On November 6, 2007 I found the internet website boshf.org/lives.htm, presumably maintained by the Brothers of Sacred Heart. On the website was a picture of Brother B. Gordian Udinsky with a brief summary of his life. In the summary was the following, "A huge man, standing well over six feet tall, Gordian commanded the respect of his students with a rich baritone voice. His classes were always well-prepared. His teaching style was direct and forceful, emphasizing perfect attention, good order, and consistent discipline." In 2005, a former Cor Jesu classmate of mine sent me an article on the dedication of the new Gordian Udinsky Science Center at Catholic High School in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. In the article was a statement referring to Brother Gordian. It said his students either loved him or feared him. These were two fitting epitaphs for Gordian. No doubt those who Gordian perceived as opposing his teaching style had reason to fear him. I neither loved nor feared him. However, he placed me in his category of opponents of his teaching style.

Living through these circumstances was traumatic. The fallout from it was down-spiraling. In 1956 I was dating a girl I was very fond of. She was also very fond of me. After failing my junior year, I made the difficult decision to enter the Marine Corps, serve six months of active duty, return to high school, and then graduate. College for me was a must. On returning from active duty in December 1956, my girlfriend's mother decided my potential was far below that which her daughter deserved. She forced her daughter to end our friendship. It was difficult for the both of us. This was the first and immediate fallout from the Gordian caper.

The second fallout occurred during my five month repeat of my junior year of high school. My mother arranged for me to be interviewed by a TV repairman who ran a repair shop in a dingy, windowless shop in downtown New Orleans. She tried to impress upon him that I was good with my hands and I would be a good apprentice under his tutelage. His shop was the pits. TV picture tubes, capacitors, wires, and other parts were in total disarray. The humiliation of having an adult think this would be the pinnacle of my career was pretty bad. I was thoroughly embarrassed. I was to eventually learn my parents had no intention of financing my way to college. I was not the only one in this predicament. With the exception of my brother Martin, my brothers Philip, Mike and Joe, and my sister Maria would have to find ways to complete their education.

When I graduated from Cor Jesu High School in May 1958, I wanted to go to a state college away from home. State tuition, room and boarding were not at all expensive. My college of choice was Southwestern Louisiana Institute (SLI) in Lafayette, Louisiana. I wanted to major in Physics, a subject I was very good at. SLI had a Physics Department and the school was less expensive than LSU in Baton Rouge. My parents refused to provide any out of town college expenses. I assume they didn't want to waste any of their spendable cash on my education. Donations to the Maryknoll Fathers, the Catholic Church, and the United Negro Fund had drained funds headed for my college education.

In 1957, the US Navy closed its airbase at the New Orleans lakefront on Lake Pontchartrain. The state took it over and opened their new university called LSU New Orleans (LSUNO). My only option was to stay at home and pay the tuition to attend LSUNO. When the university opened for classes in September 1958 it was overwhelmed with its enrollment. The state scurried to hire any and all teachers. The teachers were of poor quality and some were misfits. There were few good teachers. When I registered as a student, I discovered the Physics Department was only a dream, and I would not be able to take a physics course until my junior year. For the lack of math teachers, I could only take math courses I had already taken in high school. There were white, bigoted bullies who seriously intimidated the black students, which disrupted the "campus". The place was so screwed up. I was now at the bottom of my downward spiral.

Recovery Begins

At the end of May 1959, I was determined to find a job and save money to go to Southwestern Louisiana Institute (SLI) in Lafayette. I worked as a stock clerk at the local A&P Food Store and the National Food Store for 18 months. During the first year, I made 35 cents an hour. Then a union arrived and I made 50 cents an hour during the last six months of my employment. I went to work for the U.S. Post Office on the night shift for the Christmas rush period, prior to leaving for college. My pay doubled to one dollar an hour for the four week duration.

As I worked and saved money for 19 months, my parents were "kind" enough to allow me to continue living in their garage at the cost of $1 a day. At 35 cents an hour, I earned $2.80 a day. Deducting my rent left me with one dollar eighty cents a day. With that $1.80, I paid income and Social Security taxes on the $2.80, and I paid union dues. The leftovers went towards my college savings fund and a date now and then. By January 1961, I saved enough money to attend one semester at SLI in Lafayette. As a contribution to my education, father returned the money he collected from me for the rental of the garage. I was both grateful and upset at the same time. For the 19 months I struggled to save money for college, I was unsure if I could ever keep up the drive to finance my entire college education. My doubts would have been lessened knowing that I had additional money saved. But, more significantly, I would have also been able to return to college one semester earlier.

When I tried to register as a Physics student at SLI for the 1961 spring semester, the head of the Physics Department, Dr. Paul S. Delaup, attempted to persuade me to major in engineering. He was well aware of my transcripts from LSUNO. After I politely turned down his suggestion, Dr. Delaup was kind enough to give me a chance. As the result of my class work during the 1961 spring semester I received excellent grades, all "As" and one "B". At the end of the semester, SLI was renamed the University of Southwestern Louisiana, USL. That summer I was able to find work at the Frey meatpacking plant in New Orleans to help finance my next two semesters. At the end of the 1962 spring semester I again searched for a summer job. No job was to be found. In a stroke of luck, I contacted USL's business office and discovered the National Defense Student Loan Program. The program offered loans to students majoring in subjects which were critical to the nation's defense. Physics was one of the critical majors. By this time my grades were high enough to qualify for a Program loan. With the loan, I was able to enter the 1962 summer semester and live on campus. I was able to increase the loan each semester to carry me through to graduation.

I supplemented the limited funding by working as a dormitory proctor (Residence Assistant) on campus and at a private dorm off campus. I graduated from USL in June 1963, two and one half years after starting there. If you were to look on page 65 of the L'Acadien, the University of Southwestern Louisiana 1963 yearbook, you would see the 17 members of Sigma Pi Sigma, the Honorary Physics Fraternity. I'm the one on the second row far right. Thanks, Dr. Delaup! USL is now called the University of Louisiana Lafayette.

Before graduating from USL, I received, and accepted an offer from The Chrysler Space Division to work on the Saturn IB rockets at NASA's Michaud Plant outside New Orleans. Having no car, I took the bus to my office in downtown New Orleans. I saved as much of my salary as I could. After living in my parent's garage for eight weeks, my father said he wanted me out in two weeks. At a salary of $3,600 per year, I barely had enough savings to put a down payment on the purchase of a car. I was able to get a car and find two roommates to share an apartment and meet my father's deadline. At this point I rose out of the vortex of the downward spiral I had been in over the last eight years. I have never seen such highly educated and "religious" parents treat their child so badly **.**

I have a Dream

It is now January 2007. I am one month shy of my 69th birthday. Over the years, so many I can't remember, I have had a recurring dream. The dream goes like this. I'm in New Orleans by myself. I'm of no specific age, probably college age or older. And I'm trying to get to my parent's home on Chatham Drive. I don't live there. I'm going there to see my parents. No specific reason. I don't know if they are present at the house or not. I have no thoughts of anyone else during the dream. I know the general directions in which I must travel to get to their house. Sometimes the directions in which I must go differ between dreams. I know where the main streets should be, but the buildings are different and I'm not familiar with most of them. The difficulty I face is in getting to my destination. Sometimes there is confusion about making bus transfers, difficulty in determining how to obtain transportation, a question as to the direction in which I am being driven while riding in the bus, and uncertainty as to changes in the location of streets and bus stops. I go along my journey. However, I never reach my parent's house. The dream melts away. I don't have any fear or anxiety during my travels, the dream is not in the form of a nightmare. It is just a challenge I cannot overcome.

In January 2007, I learned that the Holy Cross School for Boys, which was destroyed by hurricane Katrina, was relocating to the property formally owned by St. Francis Cabrini Catholic parish. This is the parish where my boyhood home is located. At this time, I had a discussion about Holy Cross being damaged by flooding during hurricane Katrina with a gentleman named George. George owns a bird food and supply store here in Virginia. During the discussion, George and I discovered we both went to Holy Cross middle school and to Cor Jesu High School. This surprised the both of us. The conversation with George brought back old memories. These memories triggered thoughts of Holy Cross and the school's location in New Orleans. They came to me one day following a night of dreaming about trying to get to my parents home. It was then I made the connection between Holy Cross, hurricane Katrina and the dream. My dream always begins in the vicinity of the New Orleans Ninth Ward near the Mississippi River. The Ninth Ward was one of the badly flooded areas as the result of hurricane Katrina. Holy Cross was located in the Ninth Ward. In light of this discovery, I have concluded I had been dealing for a very long time with the psychological impact of my parents abandoning me at Holy Cross. I just hadn't realized it. But, why had I been abandoned?

Joseph - The Adopted One

In the summer of 1949, my parents informed us that they were going to adopt a child. This was confusing and surprising at the same time. However, since I was only 11 at the time, the why or how we could manage this didn't enter my mind. Our parents had established a plan of action to assure us that we would adopt the right child. It went like this. Catholic Charities operated an orphanage across the Mississippi River from New Orleans. The name of the orphanage was Hope Haven. Their plan called for the family to travel to the orphanage on the weekend and take a child out for the day. My parents would observe the behavior between us and the child and give it a rating.

The appropriate weekend would arrive and we would pick up a child and go on an all day picnic. At the end of the day we returned to Hope Haven and said goodbye to the child. We did this exercise about four times. This process, no doubt, raised the hopes of each child of having a home and family to raise them. One of the orphans given the chance to join our family was nine year old Joseph F. Decker. Joe was good looking and gregarious. Shortly after spending one day with our family, our parents selected him as the winner of a new family. According to my sister Maria, a social worker evaluated our family and the living conditions in the home prior to the adoption. This allowed us to receive our very first medical examination. To avoid some of the cost, our mother performed all of our EKGs. She was equipped to do so. She was head of the Medical Technology Department at Xavier University. This medical test was fortunate for my eight year old brother Martin. It was discovered he was living with a leaky heart valve. I remember my mother giving me the EKG, but I don't remember ever meeting the social worker. How the social worker and my parents could determine, after Joe spent less than seven hours with us, that he and our family members were a good fit is beyond me. For better or worse, Joe arrived at our front door as a new family member at the end of the summer in 1949.

The Discovery

When I returned to my genealogy research in January 2007, I began working on acquiring the schooling history of my brothers and sister. I developed a matrix showing each of my siblings across the top and each school year in the left column. I began filling in each square with my sibling's school-grade and the name of the school they attended. I was unsure of the information pertaining to my sister Maria and brother Mike. I called Maria and she provided me with information on her schooling. I then opened a discussion concerning Joe's age when he was adopted into our family. I said,

"I believed he was nine."

"I think he may have been 10," Maria replied.

"Joe was a year older than Mike, wasn't he Maria?"

"No, Joe was born in 1940, the same year as Mike."

"So, Joe would have been nine in the summer of 1949, right?"

"That would be right."

"Well, 1949 was the year I was sent off to boarding school at Holy Cross. There were four of us in boy's room; Philip, Mike, Martin and myself. But, with Joe we had five boys. That means I was sent away to holy Cross boarding school to make a bed available for Joe. That corresponds to his age being nine when he was adopted."

"I guess that would be right. He would have been nine at the time, not ten."

After finishing our conversation, I hung up the phone. Ah Ha! The 58-year-old mystery is solved. The perpetual dream, where I am trying to get from the Ninth Ward in New Orleans (the location of Holy Cross School for Boys) to visit my parents, never returned since this discovery.

After taking a few minutes to savor my discovery, I recalled another conversation I had with Maria. It was two years earlier, in the summer of 2005. I was interested in obtaining information on Joe's birth for our family genealogy. I knew nothing about his biological parents. I began preparing a request for his birth records from the state of Louisiana and the orphanage where Joe once lived. A wild hunch entered my mind. The hunch was Maria knows something about Joe's birth parents. I decided to call her and talk about it. I made the call. I asked Maria if I was going to be surprised about any of the information I would find regarding Joe's birth records.

"Yes.", she said. A moment of surprise went by.

"What would that be?" I said.

"You will find his birth certificate states that his father is Father Fichter. But, he put his name down to protect another priest." Wow! My hunch was right on!

We knew Father Joseph H. Fichter, SJ. He was a nationally known sociologist at Loyola University in New Orleans. He was a very close, long time, friend of my parents. I first met him when I was a child at the age of nine. He came to our house on many occasions, usually for meetings, parties, and social visits. The closeness between Father Fichter and my parents led me to believe my parents named their adopted son after their good friend. Thus, Joe Decker became Joseph Fichter Hornung. When mentioning the name Decker to Maria, she said, "No, his name was always Joseph Fichter. Joe was taken in by the Decker family as a foster child when he was a baby. They returned him to the orphanage, Hope Haven, after Joe burned down their barn and nearly burned down the Decker home." After ending our conversation I hung up the phone. I leaned back in my chair and my mind stopped thinking. I became stunned. I realized my parents forced me to give up my bed, my family, my home life and my friends, and they abandoned me at the Holy Cross School for Boys in order to raise the illegitimate son of a Jesuit Catholic priest. I was so disturbed by this realization it took me a few months before I could return to this writing.

It may be an impossible task to acquire the documentation needed to identify who Joe's birth parents were. The Louisiana Juvenile Court System does not release adoption records to anyone except the adopted child. Joe died long before I began writing this story. In spite of Maria's statement that Father Fichter hid the identity of another priest, I question why he would hide the priest's identity by giving the child his own name, Joseph Fichter.

Why did my parents intentionally pursue the adoption of Joe? They didn't have the physical space to house another boy. And, it appeared to us they didn't have the financial where-with-all to support another child. If they simply wanted to adopt a child, the easier child to adopt would have been a girl. Maria would have had a sister to share her life with, and there would have been space in her room for two beds. There had to be a very compelling reason for this adoption.

The Secret Within

In May 2007, my wife and I began to try to resolve the Father Joseph H. Fichter / Joseph Fichter Hornung mystery. Kathy got on the Internet and did a general search on "Joseph H. Fichter". Since Father Fichter had published twenty two books and over 200 papers as a PhD sociologist and was nationally known, the list of Internet references for him were numerous. We were looking for anything involving his biography or life history. Only two items stood out. One was a book written by Joseph H. Fichter, published in 1973, " _One-Man Research: Reminiscences of a Catholic Sociologist"_. It was described as his memoirs of five of his research projects. The other item was a book published in 2005, " _Black, White, and Catholic: New Orleans Interracialism, 1947-1956_ ", by R. Bentley Anderson. Bentley, a Jesuit priest and sociologist, wrote the book based on his PhD dissertation. He conducted extensive research on a Catholic lay organization that spearheaded a major effort to integrate the Catholic schools in New Orleans.

At the age of twenty two, Joseph Fichter entered the New Orleans Province of the Jesuits in 1930. He attended the Jesuit Seminary in Grand Coteau, Louisiana for four years. He left Grand Coteau in 1934 to continue his studies at St. Louis University in St. Louis, Missouri. After receiving a BS in Sociology and Philosophy in 1935 he taught at Spring Hill College in Alabama for two years. He then returned to St. Louis University and obtained a masters degree in 1939. Father Fichter then began his theological studies at St. Mary's College in St. Mary Kansas and was ordained a priest in 1942. Following his ordination Father Fichter entered Harvard University where he received a PhD in Sociology. He returned to New Orleans in 1947 to become chairman of the sociology department at Loyola University of New Orleans.

All of the material in the following discussion which pertains to the Commission on Human Rights (CHR) was compiled by me from Joseph H. Fichter's book, _"One Man Research: Reminiscences of a Catholic Sociologist."_ I make no claim to the creation of the facts with the exception of remarks that are obviously my own. Bentley Anderson covers the same CHR subjects in much greater detail than Father Fichter and commands a far greater scope of the subject in his book, _"Black, White, and Catholic."_

Father Fichter founded the Commission on Human Rights in February 1949, and was its chaplain and consultant. The CHR grew from an initial 27 members to about 100. Among the lay leaders of the CHR were members of the interracial faculty of Xavier University: Philip and Maria Hornung, Victor Labat, Numa Rousseve, and Stephen and Patricia Ryan. The CHR was headed by an Advisory Board. Dr. Vernon X. Miller, Dean of the Loyola Law School, was the Board's first Chairman. He served in that capacity from February 1949 until January 1950. On his resignation the Advisory Board unanimously elected Dr. Philip J. Hornung as its second Chairman.

The following is the text of a letter from the Advisory Board of the Commission on Human Rights to Dr. Philip Hornung. _"Feast of St. Anthony, Abbot. Dear Dr. Hornung; At the meeting of the Advisory Board of the Commission held last night, January 16, 1950, at 8440 Panola St., the resignation of Dr. Vernon X. Miller as Chairman of the Board was accepted; he will continue as a member of the board. It was voted unanimously that you be named Chairman to succeed Dr. Miller._

It was further voted at the meeting that regular meetings of the Advisory Board were absolutely essential and the recommendation was made that such meetings be held on a monthly basis.

It was hoped by all present that you would see fit to accept the chairmanship now offered you, and there was general agreement that you very definitely possessed all the qualifications necessary for the post.

With very personal good wish, I am, Yours in the Mystical Body, Patricia Ryan (Mrs. Stophon P. Ryan), Directive Secretary."

The CHR was very active throughout its seven and a half year existence. They held meetings and a mixed racial mass monthly, and held social gatherings and mixed racial parties in the homes of its members. The CHR put out a newsletter, _The Christian Impact_ and held an annual Catholic Interracial Sunday. The leaders of CHR gave talks to high schools on the benefits of desegregation.

In 1955, Victor Labat, a black faculty member of Xavier University, told me he introduced my father before an all black audience. His introduction was, "And here is Dr. Hornung, the only white man who can pass as a Negro!" It is likely this event was one of the CHR talks. In the 1970s I located Victor's son, Vic Jr. He and I happened to be living in the Washington D.C. area. I contacted him and we went to lunch. As we talked about our fathers, I told Vic about his father's introductory comment. Vic laughed and said his father told him about it. He said, "It brought down the house".

According to Father Fichter, the CHR conducted a "spectacular drive in 1956 to desegregate the Catholic school system." The CHR developed an educational project to provide basic preparation and motivation to accept the proposed desegregation of the Catholic parochial school system in September 1956. From January 1956 to August 1956 they sent out fourteen mailings of 201,200 pieces of printed material. In addition, the CHR held a well publicized essay contest for parents who had children in the New Orleans Catholic schools. The title of the essay was "Why an Integrated School is better than a Segregated School". The winners shared in the $550 prize money.

In January 1956, Archbishop Rummel invited Father James Hoflich, superintendent of St. Louis, Missouri Catholic elementary schools, to give a talk to the New Orleans Catholic clergy on how Cardinal Ritter had effectively instituted desegregated Catholic schools years before the public school system in St. Louis. After that talk, the New Orleans _Times-Picayune_ printed the headline, "Mixed Classes Possible in 1956."

Beginning in February 1956 the CHR began a series of eight forums to address eight specific issues on desegregation. The forums played a significant role in the CHR's integration education program. Each forum consisted of a noted speaker on the topic, a panel of professionals, and a panel moderator. Archbishop Rummel presided over the forum's program. The topics of these forums were: School integration is a failure - it doesn't work; Negro children would "spread social disease" throughout the Catholic school system; Negroes themselves don't want to go to white schools; Negro children would lower the intellectual standards of all children in the Catholic schools; The decision of Supreme Court on school desegregation had nothing to do with private schools; The Bible proves God was the first segregationist; The admission of Negro children would raise the delinquency rate among white children; and, White racists believe that the immorality of racial segregation was a new teaching of the church. Father Fichter states, "Anyone connected with the forum series in any way was branded an "integrationist", which was not the most popular label to carry in New Orleans in 1956."

The three New Orleans papers: the _New Orleans States,_ the _New Orleans Item_ , and the _Times-Picayune_ , as well as the _Louisiana Weekly_ (a Negro paper), gave excellent coverage of the eight forum lectures. On the other hand, Archbishop Rummel's weekly, _Catholic Action of the South_ , virtually ignored the CHR educational program. One of the local TV stations, WDSU, and its radio affiliate also gave good coverage of the forums. However, WWL, the radio station owned and operated by the Jesuit's Loyola University, did not cover the forums or their lectures.

The CHR was unable to find any pastor or principal of a Catholic elementary school in a white parish willing to allow an "integration" forum on their church premises. However, the CHR forums were received at Xavier University, St. Mary's Dominican College, Ursuline College, Loyola University, and only at two high schools, St. Joseph's Academy and Cor Jesu. Only St. Raphael Parish and St. Louis Cathedral Parish, of the many parishes in the archdiocese of New Orleans, allowed the CHR to have their mixed racial mass celebrations in their churches.

The Citizens' Council of New Orleans, which was affiliated with the White Citizens' Council of Mississippi, was established to counter the CHR's actions to desegregate the Catholic school system in New Orleans. They were not anti-Catholic. In fact most of them were Catholics themselves. They were made up of civic leaders, business men, professionals, and a mix of influential people throughout the New Orleans metropolitan area. Their goal was to attack the Archbishop and the members of the CHR, and put an end to their school desegregation movement. The Citizens' Council, with civic leaders such as Leander Perez, Emile Wagner, and Emmet Irwin, were the strongest opponents of Catholic efforts for racial improvement.

During the late spring of 1956, the Parent's Clubs of three white Catholic schools went on record as voting against the desegregation of their schools. Parents wrote the CHR letters telling the CHR to remove their names from its mailing lists. Others wrote the CHR to voice their strong opposition to the move to desegregate the schools. The larger groups of Catholic lay organizations, such as the Holy Name Societies, the Sodalities, and the Knights of Columbus, refused to support the CHR and dissociated themselves from it. The priest-chaplains of these organizations and the priests of the Catholic Parishes had no plans and apparently no intentions to integrate their lay groups or their parish schools and churches. The Catholic Orders of Brothers, Priests (e.g. Jesuits), and Nuns that operated the Catholic high schools in New Orleans made no move to desegregate them. In addition, the lack of planning for desegregation was apparent at the highest administrative levels of the archdiocese.

The Citizens' Council held a large rally in the major league farm team baseball park, Pelican Stadium, to show their unity and displeasure with Archbishop Rummel and the desegregation of Catholic Schools. After the rally, the CHR fought a public battle in the press branding the people who appeared on the Citizens' Council program rally as being racist, anti-American, anti-Southern, anti-Catholic, and irreligious people. The Citizens' Council countered, by requesting J. Edgar Hoover of the FBI to investigate the Rev. Joseph H. Fichter and his secret organization, the CHR. At this time, The House Un-American Activities Committee was investigating the Fund for the Republic, long suspected of Communist leanings. The Fund had given Father Fichter, via Loyola University, a grant of $10,000 to support the work of CHR. The Citizens' Council of New Orleans used this information to attack Father Fichter and the CHR.

In 1956, with the backing of the Citizen's Council, the Louisiana legislature passed Act 250. This was an amendment to the teacher tenure law. The amendment permitted the firing of school teachers and of school officials who act toward the integration of the races in the public school systems of the state of Louisiana. The state of Louisiana already had a law on the books that required all organizations in Louisiana to send a list of its members to the Louisiana Secretary of State, in Baton Rouge. I believe this law was originally passed to identify the membership of the KKK and NAACP. This did much to put pressure on the KKK to disband, and the NAACP was never effective in Louisiana. Father Fichter refused to abide by this law when he was requested to file the CHR membership with the Secretary of State. This refusal was the one reason why the Citizens' Council wanted the CHR investigated by the FBI as a secret organization. CHR's membership included black and white public school teachers. They felt the direct threat of these two state laws. The attorneys within CHR strongly advised the public school teachers to resign from the CHR.

Twice in 1956, Archbishop Rummel let it be known that those Catholics in the Louisiana legislature who voted for laws that would interfere with the operation of Catholic schools would be excommunicated from the Church.

In March 1956, the Association of Catholic Laymen was formed with 30 chartered members. Their purpose was "to seek out, make known, and denounce Communist infiltration, if any there be, in the integration movement". The Association's membership grew among the Parents' Clubs of a number of Catholic elementary schools and high schools. Their members spoke against the school desegregation. They became successful in offsetting the CHR's desegregation educational campaign. To counter this movement, the Archbishop sent every member of the Association's board of directors a letter stating they would be excommunicated from the Catholic Church if the Association continued. The Association bowed to this pressure.

Throughout the summer of 1956, the CHR continued its educational campaign. Monthly meetings were held and mailings of integrationist material were made. The names of the lecturers and the forty-two panelists who participated in the eight forums were published in a program digest as contributors to the lecture series. This publication, a forty page booklet, became the _Handbook on Catholic School Integration_. 8,000 copies were produced. Half were distributed in the final mailing of this educational project on August 27, 1956, just prior to the opening of the 1956 school year.

The CHR could not get around the demands that the names of its membership be provided to the Louisiana Secretary of State, as required by law. The reprisals, anticipated by the CHR, were a great threat to its individual members. All of the moderates and liberals who favored racial desegregation had been driven under cover by the domination of the Citizens' Council and the influence it had over Louisiana and New Orleans public officials. For the safety of its members, the CHR disbanded in late August 1956. Over the next four years, the Citizens' Council grew even stronger.

Archbishop Rummel could not come to the decision to desegregate the Catholic schools by September 1956. He stated that desegregation would not come before the 1957 school year. He continued to drag his feet on the issue for six more years. Federal Judge J. Skelly Wright enforced the 1954 directives of the U.S. Supreme Court, and the New Orleans public schools were desegregated successfully in September 1961. Archbishop Rummel finally decided to desegregate the Catholic schools in 1962. Three individuals, Una Gaillot, Leander Perez, and Jackson Ricau, voiced their objections to the Archbishop's decision. The Archbishop excommunicated them from the Catholic Church.

In the Preface of Joseph H. Fichter's book, " _One-Man Research",_ he states the following. "Here I want to thank John Elsner and Daniel Quinn who were on the research team for Southern Parish; Maria Hornung, Henry Montecino and Joan Forshag Ogilvie, who were in the middle of the fight for school desegregation;...."

Why Tell You?

Now, why would I tell you about the Commission of Human Rights? Well it is an important part of the history of New Orleans. Its story has finally been told by R. Bentley Anderson in his excellent book, " _Black, White, and Catholic"_. I suggest you read it. I also told this to show the close ties and complex relationships between my parents and Father Fichter, the father of their adopted son Joseph Fichter Hornung. In the following picture, Joe is on the right. I'm on the left.

On page 138 of _"Black White and Catholic"_ is a picture of Father H. Fichter. Take a good look at it. The two Joes look alike. Their skin tone, facial structure, and hair match.

I also want to tell you that my parents hid their nine years of involvement with the Commission on Human Rights from their children. Not one of us knew about this until 2007, after my wife queried "Joseph H. Fichter" on the Internet. The reason for their secrecy had to be they thought their silence protected us from reprisals that would come from all their work to integrate the Catholic schools in New Orleans. Unfortunately we did suffer reprisals. They came from bullies, teachers, and, in the case of my sister Maria, being shunned and taunted by her fellow students at Ursuline Academy. We didn't know there was a source from which the reprisals came. Our parents knew the reprisals were occurring. Maybe our parents were hiding the cause which generated reaction and reprisals. The cause, they themselves were instigating.

In my case, I now believe my parents strategically and purposefully stepped aside when I needed their help to counter the Brothers of the Sacred Heart for their unjustified failing me in my junior year at Cor Jesu High School in 1956. In the spring semester of 1956 my mother, on behalf of the CHR, was leading the fight to integrate some of the New Orleans Catholic schools. One of those schools was Cor Jesu which hosted a CHR Forum on integration during the 1955-1956 school year. All of the New Orleans Catholic school Parent Associations, Catholic Parish priests, and Parish lay organizations were adamant in their fight to maintain segregation in their schools. My feelings are my parents didn't want to rock the boat by taking on the school's administration and Brother Gordian for the injustice done to me. Their pursuit to integrate Cor Jesu along with other schools in the fall of 1956 may have gotten the wrath of Brother Gordian. My parents were willing to trade their children's education for the defeat of segregation in the Catholic schools.

An Encounter with His Friend

My sister Maria celebrated her fiftieth Jubilee of being a nun in June 2007. My brothers Philip, Mike and I were at the Medical Mission Sister's Mother House in Philadelphia Pennsylvania enjoying this celebration for Maria and five other nuns. Father Joseph Currie, S.J., a Jesuit priest, presided at the celebration of the Mass. During the dinner that followed the Mass, I asked Maria who he was.

"That's Father Currie, a long time friend of mine", she said. "I invited him to say the Mass."

I believe she mentioned she met him in India. Towards the end of the meal Father Currie got up and walked towards the exit of the dining room. In anticipation that we might learn new information about Father Fichter, I said to my wife,

"Let's go and talk to him before he leaves".

Father Currie stopped and began talking to a nun. We waited until their discussion was completed and approached him. We introduced ourselves. I mentioned to him I knew he was a Jesuit priest and wondered if he knew Bentley Anderson, the Jesuit who recently wrote the book "Black White and Catholic".

"I believe I know the name", said Father Currie.

"Bentley's book was about the desegregation work Father Fichter was involved in, in New Orleans", I replied.

"Joseph Fichter was a close friend of mine. I used to take Joe to football games at the Superdome in New Orleans. Joe got in trouble on a research project at Holy Rosary parish."

"It was Mater Dolorosa."

"That's right"

"I recently discovered some "wow" things about Father Fichter, I said.

"What type of wow things?"

"I'd rather get some more documentation before discussing them".

"Well, tell me what they are".

"Did you know Father Fichter had a son? And, his son was my adopted brother". Father Currie showed not a sign of surprise.

"How old were you when the adoption occurred?"

"I was 11 years old", I replied.

"Then you would have been of an age to understand this. These things happen." We finished our discussion and wished each other well. This was an interesting encounter, to say the least.

### My Take on All of This

When I was a young boy, I remember my parents talking about how they had to contact colleges and universities to try to get them to accept the black students from Xavier into their graduate programs. This was an annual exercise professors did not do at other colleges and universities. My parents had been doing this extra work since the early 1940s. They understood if Loyola University accepted their students, it would make their work a lot easier. If the black students were accepted into Loyola's graduate and professional schools of law, medicine, and dental schools, it would not be long before this would occur in the private and state universities.

How my parents met Joseph Fichter around 1948 is still unknown. It may have been during their contacting Loyola to inquire if the university would allow Xavier students to enter Loyola University's post graduate programs. They found a "kindred Spirit" in Joseph Fichter and he was strategically important to them. He had a wide following and could open doors.

In the section on _The Desegregation Project_ of Joseph H. Fichter's book, " _One-Man Research"_ , he writes, "Aside from limited clerical encouragement, the whole thrust for improved race relations within the New Orleans Catholic Church was basically the work of the laity. Among the lay leaders were members of the interracial faculty of Xavier University: Philip and Maria Hornung, Victor Labat, Norma Rousseve, and Stephen and Patricia Ryan."

A large majority of the small number of Catholic organizations, which allowed the Commission on Human Rights to use their facilities for meetings, had their associations with Philip and Maria Hornung. They were: St. Raphael Parish, Cor Jesu High School (Now Brother Martin), St. Louis Cathedral, Ursuline Academy, Hope Haven, and Xavier University. St. Raphael was our parish. My brothers and I were its first altar boys, and we attended its parochial school. We attended Cor Jesu, St. Louis Cathedral, and Ursuline schools. Hope Haven is the orphanage from which my parents adopted Joseph Fichter, and our parents were professors at Xavier University. It appears one of the reasons the CHR may have been given access to these locations was our attendance at their schools.

In the summer of 1949, my parents conducted the "Adopt Father Fichter's Son Program". This is the very year the Commission on Human Rights was incorporated. My parents were two of its original 28 members. On January 17, 1950, four months after I was put in the Holy Cross "foster home" to provide Father Fichter's son a warm bed, my father became the Chairman of the Advisory Board of the CHR. Father Fichter's intent was to push for the desegregation of Loyola University's post graduate programs. This is in total sync with my parents' goal. My parents were willing to sacrifice my home life and friendships to acquire an insider to open up Loyola to the black students of Xavier University. This looks like a deal my parents made with Father Fichter.

Joseph Fichter Hornung could be difficult at times. Joe did not have the "advantage" of nine years of my father's harsh discipline and tomfoolery before he became a member of our family. My father's behavior was odd to us, but it must have been very odd to Joe. We were "conditioned" from childhood, Joe was not. Joe resisted the heavy controls which were put on us. He violated the controls now and then. This didn't sit well with father. When Joe had a rule altercation with father, I could discuss the matter with Joe in a way that an additional rule was not violated. Like the rest of us Joe put up with unreasonable rules and punishments, and constant mental games.

Two significant events occurred in the summer of 1956 which doomed Joe to a difficult life. The first was my going into the Marines. This left Joe without a sounding board and mentor. Something went terribly wrong. Father had Joe placed in Milne Home, a home for troubled boys. He did this when I was in Parris Island Boot Camp with the Marines. My parents would never tell us why Joe was sent to Milne Home. The second was the collapse of the CHR, ending its campaign for desegregating the Catholic schools in New Orleans, as Father Fichter was preparing to leave New Orleans for an appointment at Notre Dame. I believe the agreement for my parents to raise Father Fichter's son in exchange for Father Fichter's continued push to integrate Loyola University's graduate schools collapsed. Joe was out of the family and Father Fichter was no longer at Loyola University.

Joe struggled to put his life together from 1956 to 1962. He ended up serving a couple of years on a minimum security farm in Monroe, Louisiana for his multiple escapes from Milne Home. He tried serving in the Marine Corps and it didn't work out. He moved to California, got married, had a child, and attended college part time while holding a job. On August 3, 1963, I received a call from the state police in Los Angeles notifying us of Joe's death. He was killed in an automobile accident. At the time, my parents were traveling by car out West headed to a conference. I called the state police in the state where I expected my parents were traveling. They were able to locate them and give them the bad news. Those of us at home did not have the means to travel to California for the funeral. Father decided the conference he was headed for was more important than attending his son's funeral. Therefore, my mother was the only member of our immediate family that attended Joe's funeral. Joe is buried in a Los Angeles cemetery.

I believe my father was aggravated at Father Fichter's exit from New Orleans and the collapse of the CHR. He got back at his disappointment by ignoring Joe's death. All too often, this was his way of dealing with things not going his way. I also believe Father Fichter became disenchanted in the ways of my father, and for this he made no mention of Philip Hornung in the Preface of his book, " _One-Man Research: Reminiscences of a Catholic Sociologist"_. However, he mentioned my mother, Maria Hornung.

Maria's Recall

After distributing copies of the draft of this story to my brothers Philip and Mike and my sister Maria asking for their editing, I received a call from Maria. The story had jogged her memory about the circumstances surrounding the adoption of Joe.

She said, "Mom told me Joe was put in the orphanage when he was a baby. When he reached the age of two he was placed in the foster care of the Decker family. When Joe reached the age of seven, Mr. Decker told his wife either the kid goes or I go. The Decker family returned Joe to the Hope Haven orphanage".

Maria recalls our parent's intention was to adopt a girl from the Hope Haven. We were taking girls on picnics, three at a time. When Father Fichter heard of this, he asked our mother if she would adopt Joseph Fichter instead of a girl. After his plea, our parents brought Joe along on one of the picnics. While at our house after the picnic, Joe asked Mom if she would adopt him. Mom did not give him an answer. Later, Mom said to all of us, you heard what Joe said, what do you think?

Maria said Mom told her Joe was put in Milne Home because he had tried to kill Dad with a knife, and Mom had to go the Court Hearing to testify.

Money Isn't Every Thing, But Did It Help?

Our parents sent their offspring to Catholic grammar schools and Catholic high schools. They grouped us together into schools to take advantage of reduced rates for multiple children at the same Catholic school, which at the time seemed to be a reasonable approach. Their adopted son, Joseph Fichter, would get into trouble with school administrations. My brother Mike was the same age as Joe and in the same grade in school. When Joe was told not to return to a school the following year, Joe and Mike were sent to another school. Was Mike's attendance at the same school a plan to lower our parent's cost per pupil rate? Or, was the school getting a premium of two tuitions to accept a problem student? Mike was a bright student and had to sacrifice the continuity of being in a single school for the benefit of our parents. He had to make do with his reassignments to different schools. My parents made me repeat the sixth grade in order to get a quantity discount at the newly opened Saint Raphael Grammar School which had only grades one to six. At no time during my high school career did my parents mention they had no intention of providing financial support for me to go to college. It wasn't until I was 71 years of age and writing this book that I learned of the difficult challenges my siblings had in achieving their own higher education due to the lack of support from our parents. I was shocked by some of the details they revealed and the callus way in which our parents treated all of us.

Parental support was not a problem our parents had to face at home or college. Their parents did everything they could to support their children in pursuit of their educational dreams. Father's dad, Otto Hornung, worked in a department store and rented the second floor of a duplex home in Baraboo Wisconsin. During the Depression Otto worked hard to provide his son with a good education at Columbia College (now Loras College), an out of state private college. After graduating, father received a scholarship to complete his PhD at Catholic University in Washington, D.C. Mother was just as fortunate. Her mother was a policewoman and long time widow living in Springfield, Massachusetts. She arranged for her daughter to attend Trinity College and Catholic University in Washington, D.C to obtain a BS and Masters Degree. Both of our parents were able to reach high levels of education during the difficult years of the Great Depression. I never heard any mention of a college loan needing to be paid off by either of my parents. In 1960, Tulane Medical School provided my mother a teaching position with full salary and the opportunity to pursue a PhD at no cost to her. She got her PhD within two years after arriving at Tulane.

Our father did Post Doctoral work at Yale University. He received a top notch education. He could have joined any of the best research centers or biomedical corporations in America. His salary and career would have provided a comfortable living for himself and his family. However, strong religious beliefs drove him to forgo this for helping lift the Negros from their misfortunes in the South. Hence, he chose a teaching position at Xavier University in New Orleans. Xavier is the only all Negro Catholic university in the United States. The university was run by nuns headed by Mother Drexel, its founder. Mother Drexel was one of the children of Francis A. Drexel, a successful national and international banking magnet. She used her family income and inheritance to help fund Xavier's operation. Father was Chairman of the Biology Department at Xavier University. Mother created and ran the Medical Technology Department. She and her Department reported to my father. My mother told me father arranged to have her salary cut in half.

When my mother and father inherited their parents' estates, the assets from them seemed to disappear. My mother's brother, Martin O'Connor, served in the Second World War as a weather forecaster. When he was stationed in Burma he contracted TB. After returning to the U.S. he struggled with the disease and passed away in 1947. His mother passed away in 1946. World War II soldiers had a $10,000 insurance policy. If a soldier died as the result of military action in the war, the U.S. Government provided his beneficiary $10,000. Being her brother's only beneficiary, my mother received the government's contribution of $10,000. When I was a young boy, one of my parents mentioned in my presence that their new home and lot cost about $10,000. The topic of the benefits of paying off a mortgage came up during a casual conversation with my mother in 1989 when she was living with my wife and me. I asked her if the $10,000 she received as Uncle Martin's beneficiary was used to pay off their home. She said they decided to use it as operating funds instead of paying off the mortgage. $10,000 was a significant amount of money for a middle-class family living in New Orleans in 1947. When Martin O'Connor died in 1947 our mother was the sole surviving heir of both her mother's estate and her brother's estate. Her mother passed on her two-story duplex home in Springfield, Mass. to our mother. Otto Hornung, my grandfather, worked for 56 years at a clothing store and became its executive manager. On his death in 1949 our father and his sister inherited his estate. As children, our difficult living circumstances never improved as the result of our parents' salary increases or the inheritances they both received from their hard working parents. The extra money was neither used for meeting our family basic needs nor for our higher education.

Our father passed away in 1977. At that time, mother had no idea of the financial condition of his estate or the location of records and documents he controlled. My brother Michael had the dubious task of sifting through numerous brown grocery bags full of magazines and trash in the master bedroom closets. It took Michael a couple of months to find what little documents existed. He analyzed mother's financial position and found absolutely no assets to support her retirement. Father had given them away. Michael informed mother she would have to save 50 to 75 percent of her income to keep from falling into severe poverty when retiring. She socked away as much income as she could and did a good job of it.

In 1989 my wife was on a business trip in Texas. On the way back she stopped in New Orleans to see how my mother was doing. Mother was being treated for terminal cancer and living at home. Kathy found her in a terrible state. She was being mistreated by her son Martin and receiving poor care. My wife got her on a plane and brought her to live with us in Virginia. We gave her five good months before she succumbed to the cancer. We had support from Maria, Philip and Mike during this difficult time of her life. Father Joseph Fichter called my mother at our home every day during her final months. The two of them were life-long, close and best friends. Father Vincent O'Connell, former director of the Catholic Committee of the South and involved in the integration work in New Orleans, called my mother every weekend. They were also close friends.

At my mother's funeral, which we held in Virginia, I noticed a black woman talking with my sister Maria while standing on the steps in front of the church. The woman did not approach my wife or me to offer condolences. I asked my sister Maria who she was.

"She was from California. She is one of the people Mom and Dad helped put through college". I wonder how many others my parents supported, the support they denied their own children.

Acknowledgments

Joseph H. Fichter, wrote chapter three, _The Desegregation Project_ , in his book "One-Man Research: Reminiscences of a Catholic Sociologist", published in 1973. R. Bentley Anderson published a book in 2005 titled "Black, White, and Catholic, New Orleans Interracialism, 1947-1956". Without these two publications I would not have discovered some of the critical connections between significant mysteries and puzzling circumstances that surrounded my formative years. The photograph of the old Holy Cross High College for Boys was provided by Holy Cross High School in New Orleans.

After The Aftermath

Maria joined the Order of Medical Mission Sisters after high school. The nuns in this Order acquire degrees in the medical profession. They attain medical careers of all types. Maria attended Trinity College for Women in Washington, DC, the college from which mother received her Bachelor of Science degree. She served in the Order's mission in Africa for 25 years. Maria developed field pharmacies, ran hospitals, and became head of the African Sector for her Order.

My brother Philip went into the Catholic seminary in 1953. He had just completed the eighth grade. He was in the seminary for twelve years before being ordained a priest. He decided to leave the priesthood after three years. Philip received a Papal Dispensation from the priesthood. He eventually got married and has four wonderful children. Philip is a successful School Psychologist.

Mike went into the Marines after high school. His IQ scores were exceedingly high. Consequently, the Marines offered him his choice of assignments on entering the Corps. On leaving the Marines after four years, he put himself through Tulane University while providing for his family. Mother was teaching and doing research at Tulane Medical School at the time. As a benefit to its staff Tulane waved tuition fees for the children of its professors. Mike took advantage of Tulane's generosity. Mike and his wife Sheila established their own software development company. They also have a wonderful family.

Joe had difficulties as a teenager. They prevented him from pursuing a college education until he was out on his own. He was working in California and going to college part time when he died in an automobile accident at the age of 23.

Our parents paid for Martin's college education, room and board, and all related expenses. He was the only trouble maker among us. He turned out to be the worst father and husband a person could be. His behavior within his own family and his personal association with some of us siblings were deplorable. He died in 1990.

Maria, Philip, Mike and I rose above our family misfortunes. We have all achieved advanced degrees and made significant contributions during our careers and our lives. We nurtured and supported our children and family in every way possible. Unfortunately, this was not the legacy my parents sought for themselves. Our parents gave us many lessons in life which didn't go unnoticed.

Chapter Two - Abandon Ship!

The Author's Olson 30 on the Tred Avon River in the Chesapeake Bay

From Land to the Sea

I was in the Boy Scouts for many years. My tenure began with the Cub Scouts at the age of five. I was a Cub Scout for only two years. At the age of nine, my father became scoutmaster of a Boy Scout Troop attached to St. James Major Catholic Church in New Orleans. I was summoned to become one of his scouts. Shortly thereafter, my father became scoutmaster of a second Troop attached to our new parish church, St. Raphael. Then he summoned three of his sons to join the second Troop. After a couple of years we had been assigned to another new church, Mother Cabrini. My father became a scoutmaster for a third time. The photo below is of part of the Cabrini Boy Scout Troop. My brother Mike is to the far right. I'm fourth from the right. My good friend Henry Bovie is second from the right of the tall Assistant Scoutmaster, Hal Grunsky.

Within a year, I was 14 and too old to be a scout. I was then requested by my father to become a Junior Scout Leader. This kept me in the fold and my supervision could be continued. Here I am as one of the three Troop leaders. My face was swollen from a bee sting to my forehead. My father is to my left.

Soon after becoming a Junior Scout Leader I left the scout troop and joined the Senior Scouts as a Sea Scout.

The Recruiters

When I was around 13, one of my neighborhood friends was Jack Dinkel. He was a year or two older than me. Jack was deeply involved in electronics. I thought he was a genius. His bedroom was his electronics lab. He had an oscilloscope and other elaborate testing equipment spread among all kinds of electrical equipment he was building. One day when I was visiting Jack in his lab, he said,

"Johnny, take this speaker into the living room and plug it into an electrical outlet." I looked down at the speaker. It was a basic magnetic speaker which had an electrical cord attached to it. At the end of the cord was a two pronged plug.

"If I do that it's going to shock me."

"No its not, it's insulated."

"Ok, but, if it melts or catches fire, your mom is going to be mad." When I entered the living room I found an electrical outlet and put the speaker on the floor next to it. I carefully took hold of the plug and plugged it into the outlet. I jumped back as the speaker came alive with music. I hurried back to the bedroom.

"Jack! There is sound coming from the speaker."

"Yep and here is the radio that is doing it." I gawked at the radio which had no speaker.

"How in the heck is the sound getting to the speaker", I asked?

"See the cord leading from the radio to the wall socket?"

"Yes."

"I'm using the house wiring as an extension cord to the speaker in the living room." We then went into the living room and I examined the speaker thoroughly to make sure it didn't have a small receiver connected to it.

"How did you do that?" Jack didn't respond. I thought, some day he was going to burn down his parent's home. It never happened. Later, I found out his mother gave him the dickens a couple of times for his inventiveness.

Thirty years later, while I was Director of the U. S. Customs Service Computer and Telecommunications Security Program, I came across the technology which allowed Jack to transmit sound through the house wiring. The technology is used to siphon off information from computer and communication systems and send it out of buildings. I learned of the technology to counter this. It is called Red / Black Engineering. Obviously, Jack's mother knew nothing of this type of engineering.

Jack lived next to another tinkerer, Tommy Nugent. Tommy was a mechanical genius. We three did many interesting things together. We built a two-man motorized car from tubing, bicycle parts, and engines we dismounted from lawn mowers and engines we "acquired" from water pumps used to drain construction sites close by. Our car had a steering wheel that would pivot the two front wheels for turning, a hand clutch used to tighten a drive belt which transferred the engine power to the drive shaft connected to the two rear wheels, and hand breaks that were not sufficient for the speeds we could obtain. We could get the carriage up to about thirty miles per hour.

We made pop-guns from bamboo and Tinker Toy parts which shot berries from a China-ball tree using manually compressed air. We caught wild horses and rode them bare back at the ages of 10, 11, and 12. And, we had many adventures with our other neighborhood friends.

Jack, Tommy and I would depend on one another to survive a trial in our lives which would be imprinted on my memory for the rest of my life.

The Recruit

In 1953 I was 15 years old. Jack and Tommy were members of a division of the Senior Boy Scouts called Sea Scouts. Sea Scout units are called Ships. You had to be between 14 to 18 years of age to be a Sea Scout. One day they asked if I would consider joining their Ship, Ship 12. This sounded interesting to me, so I decided to look into the idea and began going to their meetings. The meetings were held in a very large two story wooden building which was formerly an oilfield floating barracks. This structure sat on a large floating barge. The barge was anchored inside a seawall which protects the New Orleans municipal yacht harbor located on the southern shoreline of Lake Pontchartrain. This photograph was provided by the New Orleans Power Squadron.

Ship 12's 26 foot motor craft can be seen in the far left of the photograph. A sailboat is tied up to it. Ship 12 held their meetings in the building just inside the door located at the rear of its boat.

The Venue

Lake Pontchartrain is oblong shaped. It is 45 miles west to east, and 23 miles south to north. It encompasses 630 square miles and its depth ranges from 12 to 14 feet. The harbor is located at the western edge of New Orleans's northern border, which runs along the lake's southern shore line. The harbor contained two yacht clubs, 57 boat houses built along the harbor's shore and protective sea wall, and over four hundred motorboats and sailboats.

The seawall which protects the harbor extends out from the shore and turns right, forming the shape of an inverted "L". It begins at the top left of the next photograph, extends to the right along the back of the row of boat houses, and goes out of view as it turns towards you on the far right.

The seawall carries a sandy two lane road on its back with large boulders and broken chunks of concrete along its sides. The road ends at the harbor entrance, which is behind your right shoulder, with a turn-around and parking area which serves as an observation overlook for viewing the seascape. The overlook is on the starboard (right) side of your boat as you sail through the harbor entrance. It is a popular spot to view boats as they come and go from the harbor and sail the local waters. It was also used to view "submarine races". The harbor's one hundred fifty foot wide entrance is perpendicular to the shoreline. As you enter the harbor, the port (left) side of the entrance is the end of a sea wall which runs for six miles along the southern shore of Lake Pontchartrain. The face of the wall is solid concrete. It is shaped as steps which climb from below the water to an imposing fifteen foot height. The port side of the harbor entrance is anchored by the "New Canal" Coast Guard Station. The station's two story structure looks like a large, square, southern beach house. Its lighthouse was placed in the middle of the structure and on top of its red tin hip-roof. The lighthouse was destroyed during Hurricane Katrina.

Although the floating barge with its oilfield barracks was old and a little rugged, I found its location irresistible. I discovered the barge and its structure were owned by the New Orleans Power Squadron. The Power Squadron is a national organization dedicated to training boaters on seamanship and safety, and providing boat patrols during local boating activities. The New Orleans Power Squadron was the sponsor of Sea Scout Ship 12. This sponsorship provided the Ship with a large meeting room, storage facility, and a great docking location for the Ship's boat. When I decided to join, the Ship had only five members. It was led by Skipper Claudino. Mr. Claudino was a Harbor Captain managing one of the two large marinas located in the New Orleans yacht harbor on Lake Pontchartrain.

The Vessels

Ship 12 and three other Sea Scout units owned 26 foot long patrol boats. These wooden motor craft were given to the Sea Scouts after being retired from the United States Coast Guard fleet. Our boat was docked at the New Orleans Power Squadron floating Headquarter barge. The forward half of the boat contained the cabin, and the aft half was a large open deck. The forward portion of the cabin was under the forward deck. It had only four feet of head room and it was used primarily for storage. The boat's operation took place in the wheelhouse. The wheelhouse was located in the aft portion of the cabin area. The wheelhouse had room for a maximum of three people. The person handling the wheel and controls was stationed to the left side of the wheelhouse. A large compass was mounted forward and to the right of the wheel. The navigator's table was stationed to the right. An opening between the two stations led to the forward storage area below. A flat wooded bench across the back wall of the wheelhouse provided seating. The wheelhouse had two large windows looking forward. It had large side windows and a window to the rear. The wheelhouse had a rear door which opened to the port (left) side of the aft deck. The aft deck was expansive and appeared to be longer than the cabin and wheelhouse. It was low to the water, making it easy to perform rescue work. The aft deck had eight foot long seats running along both sides. Under the seats were very large fuel tanks. The engine was located in the middle of the aft deck. It sat in the bilge. The top of the engine protruded above the deck. It was covered by a large oblong box-shaped wooden cover which rose above the deck about 18 inches. The transom had strong towing cleats on each side.

A fifth boat owned by the Sea Scouts, was the Pine Tree Jim. It was shared by two Ships. It was a thirty five foot, wooden lake boat built in the 1930s. The Pine Tree Jim was periodically loaned to the Southern Yacht Club for use as their committee boat for yacht races on Lake Pontchartrain. The picture of the motor craft, taken by me in 1967, is likely the Pine Tree Jim. The Southern Yacht Club Race Committee is towing two Knarr racing boats. I learned to race on a Knarr.

Training and Duties as Assigned

After attending three meetings I was accepted into Ship 12 in the early summer of 1954. Ship meetings were held every Friday night. They consisted of formal opening and closing ceremonies, uniform inspections, training sessions for seamanship and navigation, rank advancements, and training for inter-Ship competitions called a camporee or jamboree. I began my indoctrination and training for promotion up the Sea Scout ladder. Seamanship was our main emphasis. We were taught knot tying, wig wag messaging, Morse code, first aid, survival skills, watercraft piloting, cruising and navigation, man overboard skills, building signal towers, engine maintenance and repair, and more.

We performed all the repair and maintenance on our boat. Some of the work was done following the Friday night meetings. My first engine maintenance assignment was giving its engine a valve job. Tommy Nugent rigged up a tool for grinding the valves. He put the shaft of projectile used with a spring-powered toy gun into the bit of a manually operated hand drill. The projectile had a suction cup on one end. I pushed the suction cup down onto the top of an engine valve. As I turned the hand drill, the projectile shaft and suction cup rotated the top of the valve. Grinding paste was placed between the valve and the valve-seat. After an hour and a half of grinding I finished repairing two valves. It was late so we cleaned up the worksite and went home. By the time we returned the next morning, we had figured out a quicker way to do the job. We replaced the hand drill with an electric drill. We finished the valve job, placed a new gasket on the engine head, and bolted down the head and valve covers. With the spark plugs removed, we cranked the engine and checked the pressure and vacuum readings of each cylinder. Their values were now within operating specifications. This helped to bring the engine back up to its original horsepower. A test run out of the harbor and into the lake showed the boat's performance had improved significantly. The improvement became obvious by the smooth, strong rhythm of the engine and the increase rumble of its exhaust pipes.

The following are four short stories of my Sea Scout days.

### Bright Lights and Sandy Ditches

In January 1955 we got the news that a Senior Scout camporee would be held on March 5 and March 6 at Camp Salmon. This meant Explorer Scout (the senior branch of regular scouting) and Sea Scout Units would be competing against one another for top recognition during the camporee. Skipper Claudino wanted us to be the camporee's best unit. To assure this, he put us through intensive training. The Skipper had no humor. Things were done always with a purpose and without any distraction. He cut us no slack. We practiced time trials for knot tying, map and compass reading, ship to ship flag signaling, Morse code, fire building with flint and steel, first aid, signal tower construction and other activities. We were to do ourselves proud and return to the barge with a first place ribbon. By the first of March we were thoroughly prepared for the camporee competition. However, winning was going to be tough. Only three members of Ship 12 would be making the trip: Jack Dinkel, Tommy Nugent and I.

Camp Salmon was a very large camp run by the New Orleans District of the Boy Scouts of America. It was located across the lake from New Orleans in a long-leaf pine forest five miles east of Slidell, Louisiana. Bayou Liberty ran thru the camp and emptied into the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain five and a half miles downstream from the camp. The camp had a large chow hall, rustic swimming pool, ceremonial council ring, small fishing dock, headquarters offices, leadership stone cabins, central campfire facility, and five groupings of wooden shelters. Each shelter housed eight to ten scouts.

The boat trip to Camp Salmon would be 18.5 miles of open water, as the crow flies, on a right diagonal across the lake, and then five and a half miles up Bayou Liberty. Six Sea Scout Ships were attending. Three would be bringing their patrol boats, and two units would bring the Pine Tree Jim. The remaining Ship would be coming by "four wheel land crafts". We were to leave early Friday morning on March 4, and return Sunday afternoon. Our competition events would be held all day Saturday. Sunday was for church and the awards ceremony.

During the week prior to our trip we prepared our boat. We loaded the two fuel tanks with gas, made sure all the life vests, anchors, and safety gear were in good condition. We checked the engine, oil, bilges, manual bilge pumps, batteries, first aid kit, horn, steering, rudder, lines and running lights, and we filled the fresh water container. Everything appeared to be ready to go. On Thursday night we loaded our duffel bags, camping gear, food, and competition supplies. Jack Dinkel checked the weather forecast for the weekend. The trip was on. Skipper Claudino would not be able to make the boat trip over. He had to work Friday morning. The skipper would be driving his pickup truck carrying the fifteen ten-foot, 2 1/2 inch bamboo poles we would use to build our signal tower for the wig wag signaling competition. He would certainly be there to supervise us before the events and to give us inspection.

The Trip Over

I got up at 5:00 AM on Friday. I showered and packed my clothes and toiletries while my mother fixed breakfast. The French toast and bacon were just right. The two large cups of dark roast coffee with condensed milk finished off the meal in style. You just can't beat New Orleans dark roast coffee. I said good-bye to mom, and loaded my gear into our Ford station wagon. Dad drove me to the West End marina five miles away. We arrived at the barge at 6:15 AM, fifteen minutes before departure time. Jack, Tommy, and Mr. Claudino were already there and the boat engine was idling. The skipper made a final check of the weather forecast. The weather report called for partly cloudy skies and warm temperatures for Friday and Saturday. Winds were expected to be moderate, to occasionally fresh, and southerly. We did a final check of the boat and our supplies. We said our good-byes to the shore crew who tossed us our lines and wished us a safe trip.

Tommy Nugent was the navigator and Jack Dinkel was at the helm. Jack put the boat in forward gear and made a sharp "U" turn from the side of the barge and headed through the harbor along its South-to-North seawall. He turned to starboard and passed the boat houses on our port that cling to the West to East harbor sea wall. We passed the beautiful Southern Yacht Club and the Coast Guard station on our starboard and exited the harbor. There was a light fog and the fog horn was sounding from the lighthouse. A couple of the men manning the station waved as we passed. The water was calm, the air still, and other than the muffled sound of our engine, it was quiet. As we passed the overlook at the terminus of the harbor sea wall on our port side, Tommy suggested we follow the lake's southern shore for a while and then head northward across the lake to the mouth of Bayou Liberty. We traveled at 10 knots across flat water and through small patches of light fog for six miles. Now and then we touched the edge of a school of shrimp loafing on the top of the water. They would all dive at once, splashing the water's surface. Jack looped the boat around the New Orleans Lakefront Airport which juts out from the shore. After another four miles Tommy took a visual sighting of our position, plotted our location on his chart, noted the time as 0705, and gave Jack a heading of 23 degrees. Jack turned the boat to port.

Just as Jack set the boat on its new course we became engulfed in a dense, but bright, fog bank. This told us that the fog was short in height. And, once the sun started to burn it off, it would disappear quickly. Jack slowed the boat to 6 knots. We could see only two boat lengths ahead. I have never seen the lake so smooth, not a ripple, not a swell in the water. The density of the fog and the glass effect of the water made it feel like we were not moving. It felt as if the boat was aground. Needless to say, the three of us were constantly looking for any sudden appearance of an object poking through the fog. We strained to hear the sound of an approaching vessel. Jack asked me to stand on the front deck and keep a watch for any other vessels. It was my duty to blow the fog horn at intervals to worn other vessels of our presence. Our big worry was the rare occasion of the passing of a tugboat pushing a large barge and dredge used for digging clam shells from the bottom of the lake. It was well known that the tug captains didn't pay much attention to navigation safety rules, such as using or listening to fog horns. His vessel size and right of way was enough safety for him. We were still surprising a large school of shrimp now and then. The sound of their splashing unnerved us. We expected to see another vessel every time we heard their noisy dives. The fog continued to hold us in its grip.

After motoring slowly for another half hour we abruptly exited the fog bank. The sky was crystal clear with only two high altitude clouds shaped in thin swirls. We looked back to view what we had passed through. The fog bank appeared as a huge snow slide floating on the water. We felt quite relieved from the worry of hitting another boat, or a tug and barge hitting us. Tommy looked at the navigation chart and ship's clock and figured we had another 17 miles before we would reach Point du Chien and the mouth of Bayou Liberty. Jack checked the compass bearing and brought the speed up to 12 knots. Tommy took a look at the knot-meter, turned back to the navigation table, made a note in the log book. He mentioned we would be on the lake another hour and 5 minutes and we are expected to arrive at the bayou at 0900. A slight breeze picked up from the northwest. From here on it was clear sailing and we reached Point du Chien at 0857.

"Tommy! You goofed up. You're three minutes off.", said Jack.

"That's because the lead in the pencil is too thick. The line I drew on the chart took us off course a couple thousand feet. If you want better accuracy, sharpen the pencils more often", Tommy responded.

Navigation markers guided us through a half mile lake channel to the mouth of Bayou Liberty. For the next two miles the bayou was surrounded by large fields of six foot reeds. At times, the bayou's meandering creates blind turns. Tommy took over the helm and asked me to get on top of the cabin and watch for oncoming boat traffic. A quarter mile into the bayou we reached a branch of Bayou Bonfouca. Tommy made a sharp port turn. We were now in a short stretch of water shared by both bayous. After 10 minutes of motoring we reached a fork in the waterway. Bayou Bonfouca continued straight ahead. We took a right and continue up Bayou Liberty. After another five minutes I spot a bridge spanning the bayou. The road on either side of it was hidden by the tall reeds. I alerted Tommy of the oncoming bridge. As we rounded a bend in the bayou we saw that the bridge was low to the water and we would not be able to pass under it. We then observed it was supported by a single large central column in the center of the bayou. Our curiosity as to how we were going to continue up the bayou ended quickly when we spotted a large circular hand crank attached to the bridge above its central column. Tommy pulled the boat up to a small landing on the starboard shoreline 50 feet from the bridge. After tying two lines to cleats on the landing, Jack and I scampered onto shore and walked to the dirt road and onto the center of the bridge. The bridge was a scant single lane wide. We took notice of a second landing 100 feet upstream from the bridge. We discovered the hand crank was used to swivel the bridge on its central column. Jack lifted the latch on the crank and both of us began turning the wheel. To our amazement the bridge began to rotate counter clockwise. Jack told me to get back on the boat and prepare to help Tommy move it through the opening when he finished turning the bridge. Jack cranked and cranked and we got enough room to pass through. Tommy and I tied the boat to the second landing and waited for Jack. Jack cranked the bridge closed, latched the crank wheel, walked the path to the landing, and jumped aboard. This do-it-yourself bridge system was the first for the three of us.

After another five minutes of cruising we left the reeds behind and began entering mixed grassland with scattered large oaks and pine forest. After ten minutes of gentle turns in the bayou we rounded a slight curve and spotted the small tree-lined beach of Camp Salmon. At this point the bayou had narrowed to 60 feet wide. Tommy gently guided the boat up to the small fishing pier and we tied up. Jack, Tommy and I walked to the camp administration building to get our cabin assignment. We were given cabin number two in the Choctaw section. We returned to our boat and unloaded our gear and supplies. After stowing them in our cabin we returned to the fishing pier. I grabbed one of the camp's rowboats as Jack and Tommy backed the boat out into the bayou and anchored it. I rowed out and retrieved the two of them. We returned to our cabin, made our beds, and went to the chow hall for lunch.

The Competition

In the afternoon Skipper Claudino arrived with the signal tower building equipment. We decided to use the rest of the afternoon constructing our bamboo tower. Interest grew among our competitors as the ten foot tower began to take shape. Their towers were no more than six feet high. We didn't have enough bamboo to make a ladder to the top. The slick surface of the bamboo made climbing to the signal platform difficult. The fine stiff hairs of the bamboo also found their way into our skin. The tower worked well and looked impressive. We soon drifted off to our cabins to wash up for dinner.

Early Saturday morning we were awakened to a bugle blaring out reveille. We made our beds, cleaned the cabin, attended the flag raising ceremony, and headed for the chow hall. After breakfast we gathered our gear for the various competitive events and headed off. Our cabin was visited by the camp's inspection team during our absence. Jack, Tommy, and I did well in the events we entered. I took first place in starting a fire by flint and steel, a specialty of mine. I had a trade secret in preparing the tinder for receiving the spark. The three of us were not allowed to compete in the five man relays, such as the five-man knot tying relay. Our score was zero for these events. That evening we attended the ceremonial bonfire, listened to stories and sang scouting songs.

Sunday morning the bugle sounded and the day started. All units dressed in their formal uniforms. The Explorer Scouts wore their dark green shirts, olive shorts and hats, and unit neckerchiefs. The Sea Scouts wore their summer whites, white caps, and black cross ties. The camp provided services for the various religions. Breakfast followed the conclusion of services. The awards ceremony was held at 11:00 AM. After the awards we returned to our cabins to change to casual uniforms, collect our gear, and prepare the boat for the trip back. Some scout units left while others stayed for lunch. Jack, Tommy and I rowed back and forth loading our gear and supplies onto our boat.

The Trip Back

The skippers of the Sea Scout flotilla gathered to coordinate the cruise back to New Orleans. Their behavior told me there was uncertainty in deciding if we should delay our departure or leave immediately. A check on the morning weather report stated we were to expect partly cloudy skies with scattered showers and the temperature would be turning colder in the late afternoon. The winds were to be moderate to fresh southerly, shifting to northerly in the late afternoon. A half hour went by and still no decision. Another half hour lost if we were to get going, I thought. It was 1:00 PM by the time the skippers made the decision to leave and to stay together for the duration of the cruise home. At 1:30 PM, units of the three 26 foot crafts and the two units on the 35 foot Pine Tree Jim lake-boat were ready to depart.

Jack took the helm and started the engine and let it idle for a few minutes. Skipper Claudino wished us a good sail as we pulled the anchor from the sandy bottom of Bayou Liberty. Jack backed the boat into the center of the slim bayou. Tommy stowed the anchor in the forward hatch. Jack put the gear leaver forward and the boat began to respond to the increase in the throttle. The three other boats repeated the departure sequence and we were on our way. Our speed through the bayou was a bit faster than when we entered it on Friday. As we reached the rotating bridge we slowed down to tie up to the landing on our starboard side. I got out and walked to the dirt road, and got to the center of the small bridge. I cranked the wheel and the bridge began to swing open on its center column. Once fully open I remained on the bridge and allowed our boat and the three others to pass through. I cranked the bridge closed and walked the path to the second landing where Jack and Tommy were waiting. As I scampered aboard Jack put the boat in gear and increased the throttle. In a short distance we joined the other units and we continued our exit of the bayou. We reached the mouth of the bayou at about 2:30. The waves were two feet high and the wind was 10 knots out of the northwest. We followed the channel markers in a southeasterly direction, rounded the last marker to starboard, and headed southwest to New Orleans.

The wind and waves slowly increased in strength and height. After a half hour, conditions began to get rough. Each of us put on a life vest. None of the boats in the flotilla were equipped with marine radios. Communication between boats was done by hand signals or the use of voice megaphones. I could see a couple of boats draw close to one another and the skippers were yelling to each other. One of them broke away and slowed to drop back closer to us. Once we were within hailing range the skipper shouted that we are to go to Mandeville and wait out the weather. Mandeville was 20 miles west and a little north of our location. It was a very small town on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain directly across the lake from New Orleans. They were separated by 24 miles of open water. Jack turned to starboard and steered a course of 280 degrees. After a half hour the temperature had fallen from the mid eighties into the high 50s. The winds increased significantly and were now coming out of the north. The waves were six to eight feet and we were traveling almost parallel with them. Our boats were pitching and rolling severely. Waves were beginning to come over the starboard side of the back deck. The scupper drains on the deck enabled the water to exit the sides and transom. Tommy, Jack and I stayed in the crowded wheelhouse.

Things were just as bad on the southern shore of Lake Pontchartrain. Sunday morning brought beautiful boating weather for the yachting community of New Orleans. The waters along the shore had enjoyed the company of a large number of sailboats and motor craft. However, boaters were unaware of the change in the weather yet to come. In the early afternoon the beautiful skies suddenly changed without warning. The temperature plummeted from 83 degrees at 3 PM to 55 degrees by 4:30 PM. The fleet of water craft found itself in survival mode as the wind and waves began tossing boats in all directions. Many were able to make a dash to the safety of the harbor. Sailboats lowered their sails or reefed them to reduce the force of the wind. Those which had engines used them to return to the harbor as fast as they could. Motor craft began their swift return home. A number of the boats were too far out to make the trip back an easy one. The Coast Guard and New Orleans Marine Police found themselves in the midst of a rescue mission that looked like a wild western roundup. They rescued many boats but were eventually outnumbered by the task at hand. Yachts and other water craft began to be driven against the harbor's breakwater and up onto the concrete seawall. The Coast Guard and New Orleans Marine Police struggled to save as many craft and crew as they could. There were heroic efforts performed by them and other yachtsmen. However, the rescue boats of the Coast Guard and Police were claimed by the storm. The storm dashed them onto the seawall along with the other craft that couldn't make it to safety. Luckily no lives were lost.

Twenty three miles away on the north end of the lake, our flotilla of four boats was now struggling to maintain a course to Mandeville and was being beaten sideways by the waves. The boats had to steer in a northwesterly direction to maintain its western movement. We could only see the tops of other boats just above the waves. After two hours of fighting the weather, we had not made much headway. The waves were now over eight feet and we could not push through them. Tommy spotted two of the boats heading to the southwest. Their skippers realized we could not make it to Mandeville. I could see one of the crew of the two boats arm signaling they were now heading for New Orleans. Jack turned to port and asked Tommy for a heading for New Orleans. Tommy reviewed the nautical chart and called out, "Jack, that would be 220 degrees. But, I think we should take a heading of 265 degrees to offset the winds. If you can manage it, try to stick with it for awhile." Jack turned the boat to 265 degrees. Our rolling became less severe. However, our pitching was just as bad and now we had a following sea 50 degrees starboard off our transom. The waves were still increasing. They were constantly breaching over our starboard deck and transom. Jack said, "Johnny! Take over the wheel for a while". I slid from the center standing position to the left. Jack took my place. I began the struggle of keeping the boat headed in the right direction. I quickly discover I have to turn the wheel to the right going down a wave and to the left going up a wave to maintain the direction of 265 degrees. "I better go out and check the bilge for water", said Tommy. He slid by Jack and me and cautiously opened the door onto the deck. Jack kept an eye on Tommy as he struggled over to the bilge hatch in the deck. He opened it and discovered we have been taking on water. He hollered to Jack, "Give me a hand. We need to pump out the bilge." Jack was surprised by this and made his way out the door. The boat did not have an engine driven bilge pump. This task was done by the use of an old fashion portable hand pump. Jack retrieved the pump lying below the deck. He lowered it through the bilge hatch and began long up and down strokes with its internal rod. On the forth stroke water began to flow from the spout near the top of the long cylindrical metal tube. Tommy hung on to Jack and a hand grip attached to the cabin. Waves continued to come over the starboard side and transom. The scuppers did the job of releasing the wash off the deck. I steered the boat in a direction that lowered the pitch, roll and yaw. After struggling for a while, Jack and Tommy concluded their pumping. Tommy stowed the pump, closed the deck hatch, and the two made their way back into the wheelhouse. They were cold and soaked. The temperature had dropped significantly. I turned the boat to put us back on course.

After a half hour the waves have gotten huge. We could only see another boat when we and the other boat were simultaneously on the crest of waves. A boat in a wave's trough would be hidden from view. When our boat was in a trough we could see nothing but angry sea. We were now experiencing new phenomena. When the boat crested atop a wave the engine would rev up considerably. The waves were throwing the boat high enough that the prop was coming out of the water. While I fought the wheel, Jack and Tommy watched for the other boats. As we crested at the same time as another boat we could see that the rear of the boat came clear out of the water. No doubt their prop was grabbing air and humming away. It was getting toward dusk and the waves continued to build. As I steered down a wave the boat would propel itself directly into the trough. I notice a change in the trough as the waves became more intense. I wasn't sure if what I was seeing was real. I said,

"What do you think is in the trough?" Tommy stared into the next trough as we zip down the next wave. Jack was alarmed and said,

"It looks like sand! The lake bottom is being churned up." The depth of the lake ranged from 12 to 14 feet deep, and, we were in a 26 foot boat that was sliding down huge waves. If we go any deeper into the sandy trough the bow would crash into the bottom of the lake. I could tell from the lack of conversation my fellow crew members were thinking the same thing. This sleigh ride from hell continued for another hour or so. It was pitch black, cold, and we had no idea where the other boats were.

It was time to check the bilge and change the wheel-man. Tommy took over the wheel as Jack and I tried to make our way onto the deck. We opened the cabin door and instantly got hit by a huge wave. The weather was so bad we had to abandon our attempt to pump the bilge. We could now see the lights from the city reflecting off the storm clouds above. With a minor correction to port we took aim in the direction of the harbor. Tommy was doing a great job at the wheel and we continued on. The wind and waves did not relent. Another hour went by and we began to identify features of the shoreline. At about two miles from shore we could see lights shining out into the lake where we estimated the mouth of the harbor should be located. I took a look through the binoculars. I could make out the rhythmic pulse of the lighthouse above the Coast Guard station. It was on the left edge of the lights shining out into the lake. I could not see the red navigation light on the end of the seawall marking the starboard entrance to the harbor. It was critical that we knew where the entrance was. If we went to the right of the light we would be thrown up onto the huge rocks on the breakwater. Too far left and we would not make the entrance due to the force of the waves and wind coming from the right. Jack took a look through the binoculars. In a concerned voice he said,

"It looks like the lights shining into the lake are from several cars parked at the turnaround at the harbor's entrance. That's why we can't see the navigation light. Man! This is going to be tricky."

It was pitch black and there was no sight of the other boats in our flotilla. We had taken the best possible course to position ourselves for a run at the entrance to the harbor. The problem we faced was the harbor's entrance was 200 feet wide, but, it ran perpendicular to the shoreline. The wind and waves were driving us directly towards the shore and sideways to the entrance to the harbor. We would have to hit the opening just right and make a quick starboard turn to clear both sides of the entrance. As we approached to within four blocks of the entrance the lights from the cars began to obscure our vision. The waves were huge and we were being tossed from starboard stern to port bow. They were hitting the seawalls and disappearing over their tops. Tommy said in a warning tone,

"We have to get the people on the breakwater to turn out their lights so we can see the navigation light."

"I'll try to get on the deck to signal them", I said. I slowly opened the door and worked my way out onto the deck. While hanging on for dear life, I waved and placed my hand over my eyes. I repeat this three times with no results. They could see us as plain as day. I wondered why they wouldn't turn out their darn lights. Just then the engine sputtered and died. Tommy frantically tried to get it started. Nothing! Jack made his way out onto the deck with a flashlight. I held onto him and the boat as he stretched to reach the engine cover in the center of the deck. He lifted it slightly and shined the light into the engine compartment. The water had risen to the level of the coil and shorted out the engine. By the time it would take us to bail out the engine, the waves would have thrown against the seawall. Tommy started blowing the horn to let the Coast Guard know we are in trouble. He gave a series of three blasts over and over. We could clearly see the Coast Guard station 250 feet away. Jack raced back into the wheelhouse and down into the storage area in the bow. I noticed that the emergency survival craft was being readied at the Coast Guard dock. Jack reappeared from the cabin with the long through-line with a weight tied to the end. We rolled down into a trough, got swamped by a wave, and rose up again. The Coast Guard rescue boat now moved from its dock and slowly plodded towards us.

We were in luck! Then we noticed the rescue boat turn around and head back to the Coast Guard dock. What the HECK! We were now moving sideways toward the twelve foot high concrete seawall. After the entire struggle with the storm we weren't going to make it. Jack looked to our starboard and yelled, "One of our boats is on the way in!" It was a one of the patrol boats. It was pitching heavily. We began waving our arms like mad. They were taking their one possible shot at the harbor's entrance. "They see us!" Tommy yelled. If they turned in our direction they would miss the entrance and end up on the seawall with us. It appeared the skipper at the controls knew this. Their boat was almost a hundred feet from us and beginning to cross our starboard bow. It's the Cartagena with Ship 2 aboard. The Cartagena began its run for the harbor's entrance. Jack was already wheeling the throw line attached to our bow tow rope. The weight at the end was circling the air. He let it fly. The line and weight could clearly be seen in the bright light coming from the cars at the entrance. Holy cow! The line flew right over the top of the cabin of the Cartagena. One of its crew grabbed it while hanging on to the back of the cabin. We continued to be slammed toward the seawall. We lost sight of the back half of the Cartagena as a wave covered its stern. We continued to slide sideways. The Cartagena pitched forward down a large wave just as we began moving backwards into a trough. The tow rope flew up and shivered through the waves between us. Both boats came to a complete standstill. The sudden stop slammed the skipper of the Cartagena into the ship's wheel badly injuring his chest. One by one the waves overtook the transom of the Cartagena. Suddenly our boat got a slight, firm pull forward. "They got us hitched", Tommy yelled. The two boats began to slowly pick up forward movement. Tommy turned the wheel to starboard to stop our sliding to port. The Cartagena's engine was straining to its limits. The storm began to reluctantly release the two boats from its grip. We were now at half speed. We slipped pass the Coast Guard station to our port and into the mouth of the harbor. The noise of the storm softened as we moved behind the breakwater to our right. We could hear the parents of Sea Scouts standing next to their cars yelling at us. They were joyful of our rescue. We waved and yelled in unison, "Turn out your lights! We can't see the entrance!" and glided further into the safety of the harbor.

The Cartagena throttled back, and pulled us over to the Power Squadron barge. We were set adrift and Tommy guided the boat to our docking area. We gave the crew of the Cartagena grateful thanks as they pulled away. Everything was soaking wet. We took a short pause of relief. We then opened the cover to the engine. The water was up to the sparkplugs. We casually began the task of manually pumping the water from the bilge. After fifteen minutes we noticed the Pine Tree Jim rounding the marina channel and heading in our direction. As Jack continued to pump out the bilge the Pine Tree Jim did a "U" turn and docked next to us on the barge. Its stern was facing us. This was not the location where the boat was kept. Its slip was a ways away from the barge. We continued our pumping. There was unintelligible conversation on the Pine Tree Jim for about ten minutes. The boat was running well and looked fine. They must have taken on some water. Their engine-driven bilge pump continued to pump water. The engine went silent. The Pine Tree Jim sank in four feet of water in five minutes.

There couldn't be a better situation to demonstrate the Boy Scout motto more strongly than the survival of this storm, the rescue, and the willingness to attempt it. The motto, Be Prepared!

The following diagram shows Ship 12's voyage to Camp Salmon and its return.

During the storm we were in open water for 7 hours. We traveled a total of 25.6 miles in open water at 3.6 miles per hour. Point Du Chien was 18.5 miles from our harbor.

In 2009, after reading my account of our difficult trip back, the Skipper of Ship 2, Vernile B. Bagert, told me he was at the helm of the Cartagena during the entire storm. And, during our rescue the Cartagena was brought to a halt so quickly he was slammed into the ship's wheel injuring his chest. He said the storm had battered him badly. He also wondered why the Coast Guard decided not to come to our aid.

This is the exact location where our Sea Scout boat would have ended up had the Cartagena not been able to rescue us.

Our boat would have been dashed to pieces on the concrete seawall. This photograph was taken after hurricane Katrina. The hurricane wrecked the Coast Guard Rescue Station, which was located where the two story block house exists in the center of the photograph. The new Southern Yacht Club complex is the large building on the right. This is a photo of the harbor's entrance looking out into Lake Pontchartrain.

The critical navigation light is located on the turnaround and breakwater jutting out from the left. The old Southern Yacht Club complex and pool are in the foreground. They were destroyed by hurricane Katrina. The sailboat above and behind the cruiser marks the location where our engine became flooded and quit working. Huge waves drove our boat from left to right towards the concrete seawall which can be seen just above the yacht club roof. Ship 2's boat passed between us and the turnaround. The Coast Guard Rescue Station is out of sight and just right of the yacht club.

This is the location where the Sea Scout parents' cars were parked with their high beams on, shining out into the lake. A new navigation light sits in the parking area on the far right.

This photograph was taken from the turnaround on the breakwater across from the Southern Yacht Club. The Coast Guard station, now gone, is directly behind the schooner. The Southern Yacht Club is in the far right of the picture.

Abandon Ship

Two months after surviving the storm I changed Sea Scout units. Three of my close friends had joined Ship 2 which was sponsored by Saint James Major Catholic Church. Joe Rodriguez joined on September 29, 1954. Pat Walker joined on October 27, 1954. And, Henry D. Bovie joined on May 11, 1954. I made the change for three reasons. I had close, enjoyable and fun relationships with Joe, Pat and Henry (aka HD, Hank, and Bovie). Another close friend, Bob Dessommes eventually joined the unit on February 8, 1956. The Sea Scouts in the unit varied in age from 16 to 18 years old. Ship 2 owned the Cartagena, an ex-Coast Guard light patrol craft identical to the boat owned by Ship 12. It was the Cartagena which saved us from being smashed against the seawall. I wanted to use my scouting talents in supporting them during the highly competitive jamborees. The third and key reason for changing Ships was the level of regimentation and formality the skipper of Ship 12 insisted on. At the age of 16 I had eight years of scouting, numerous merit badges, Red Cross Certifications, many competitions under my belt, and was a Junior Scout Troop Leader. I was in the mood for the social aspects of group dynamics, not more close supervision. Announcing to Skipper Claudino that I was transferring to Ship 2 didn't go very well. His being upset with me confirmed my change in units was a step in the right direction.

### An Inconvenient Photo Opportunity

The New Orleans, "Beauregard", District of the Boy Scouts scheduled a large camporee for all scouts and senior scouts for June 12 and 13, 1955. The camporee was held on Scout Island in City Park, New Orleans. Our Ship would be competing not only against other Sea Scout units, but against Air Units and Senior Explorer units throughout New Orleans and the surrounding cities. Three weeks before the District camporee Mr. Belaire resigned as Skipper of our unit, Ship 2. V.B. Bagert, an Assistant Skipper, offered to lead the unit until a permanent skipper could be found.

Getting Prepared

While we enjoyed a camporee, we didn't take our standing in the final results too seriously. We did, however, prepare ourselves for the competition. Skipper Bagert assigned each of us to specific events. I was given the fire by flint and steel. I was also a member of the five man knot tying relay. The relay was an important event because of the number of points awarded. During our meetings leading up to the camporee we made a diligent effort to go over all the items required of each of us. Those who needed help were assisted by others in the training. One of the young men assigned to the knot tying relay had a physical handicap. Jim had a deformed left hand. His fingers were curled inward and fairly immobile. Jim had difficulty in tying the more complicated knots. Since, in a relay, you could expect to be assigned any knot to tie, you had to perform them all, and with as much speed as possible. Two of us took extra time in training Jim. We concentrated on his skill in tying the more difficult knots. One such knot was the bowline. This knot requires skill with both hands. We worked it over and over with him. I was happy to help Jim. Jim was helpful to me many years earlier when we were in the third to fifth grades. My parents gave me lunches to bring to school that were on the short side for the energy I needed. Now and then my hunger would overcome me while I was on the school grounds during recess. I did not have the money to buy a small carton of milk or candy bar. In a rare moment of embarrassment I would ask a friend if I could borrow a nickel to get a snack. Jim willingly lent me that nickel once in a while. He would say, sure Johnny. He reached down in his pocket and pulled out a change purse. He held the purse between his deformed left hand and his chest and took out a nickel with his good hand. I always made sure I paid him back. Now it was my time to pay him the interest. I stayed late into the evenings working with Jim. I didn't know how he would hold up under the time requirements, but I knew with his positive attitude he was going to know his knots.

I did not need practice in the fire by flint and steel. I had a secret weapon, super dry tinder. A year earlier Skipper Claudino had me demonstrate the flint and steel on live TV in the WDSU TV studio. He timed me with a stopwatch. In four seconds I had smoke and flames rising from the palm of my hand.

Heigh Ho, the Derry-Oh, A Camping We Shall Go!

Late afternoon on Friday June 11 we loaded our camping gear, food and supplies and headed to Scout Island in New Orleans City Park. We set up tents and the kitchen in our assigned area and prepared for dinner. After dinner we sat around our campfire and clowned around a bit. We then strolled around the rest of the encampment. Taps was sounded at nine o'clock. Late in the evening we settled down and chatted as we lay in our bedding. One by one we quit talking and dozed off. Reveille came too soon for the night owls. We made breakfast and gathered to go over the day's events and where each of us had to be to begin our competition. A new event was assigned to senior scout units. Each had to put on a play for 10 points. No play, no 10 points. The units with the best play would present them on stage that night. All units and their parents were invited to attend the evening program which included the plays. We did not care to put on a play. However, we would do so to get the 10 points. We also didn't want to be sitting around camp singing songs and watching the evening's program.

At each of the required times of the day, our scouts would disappear one, two, and five at a time to participate in their events. I had a ten AM appointment for my fire by flint and steel. Each scout had to start a fire by flint and steel, and, with a small stack of sticks, get the fire to burn a cotton string hanging from two pegs ten inches above the ground. The time from the call "start!" to the burn through of the string was recorded by a referee. I completed the event and lingered around to see how others would do. I then took off for our camp.

After lunch we went over the afternoon events. Our knot relay was scheduled for 1:30 PM and the four putting on the short play had to report at 2:00 PM. I noticed our players improvising with a pillow shoved under one of their shirts. I didn't know what all that was about. At twenty minutes after one, Jim and three others and I headed for the knot tying contest. When we arrived another scout unit was half way through their relay. A contestant was in front of a referee tying a knot and a man with a stopwatch was next to him. When the scout completed his assigned knot he darted fifteen feet back to a starting line and tagged the next scout. That scout ran up to the referee for the next assigned knot. When the last scout completed his knot and reached the starting line the timer clicked the watch and recorded the total time it took the five-man team to finish. The team took a few minutes standing around before they left.

We huddled behind the starting line and decided our order of participation. I was first and Jim was third. As we made a semblance of a line of five, I looked toward the referee's position. To my surprise, there stood Mr. Claudino my former Skipper of Ship 12. Next to him was the timer.

"You Sea Scouts ready?" Mr. Claudino called to us.

"Yes Sir", we responded.

"Get on your mark, get set, and go", he hollers. I ran up to Skipper Claudino, he gave me a knot to tie which wasn't difficult. I tied the knot and dashed back to the starting line. I tagged our second contestant. He sprang forward and ran for his assigned knot. He completed the knot, returned and tagged Jim. Jim darted up to Skipper Claudino for his assigned knot. Claudino looked down at Jim's withered left hand. He took a second and called out the knot for Jim to tie. "Bowline", he said. This was the most difficult knot in the contest. Our team stood still. Jim did not appear shaken. He worked cautiously and with calmness. He held one end of the rope between his teeth and made a loop using his right hand. Jim held the loop against his chest with his fisted left hand. With his right hand he took the other end of the rope and slowly inserted it into the bottom of the loop. Jim held the knot in position with his left hand and chest and worked the end of the rope up from the loop, around the back of the rope held in his mouth, and back down into the loop. While holding the knot against his chest with his left hand and the loose end of the rope in his good right hand, he lifted his head quickly and the knot was tied. Jim reached for the rope held between his teeth and handed the bowline to Skipper Claudino. Jim ran back and tagged our forth contestant. What a great job Jim did! I didn't believe Mr. Claudino thought Jim could tie the knot. On finishing the event, the time keeper recorded our total time. We then walked back to camp.

On returning we sat around and chatted for a short while. We heard laughing as Jerry, Jay and two of our other scouts entered the camp. They were in near hysterics.

"What's going on?" we asked.

"We just got thrown out of the best-play contest for tonight's show."

"What happened?" a couple of us chimed up.

"Jerry dressed up as a girl and we stuffed a pillow under his dress and put on a play about getting a girl pregnant. We were told to get the heck out of there. The judges still gave us our ten points though. We're not going to have to put on a silly play for the parents." We congratulated the players for doing a good job.

Can't Survive Without A Leader!

About four in the afternoon our Skipper V.B. Bagert went to a Scout Leader's meeting at camporee headquarters. It was about a half hour later when Mr. Bagert returned. He was in an aggravated state. He told the District camporee staff he had an evening commitment and would not be with us during the night. The District leadership told Mr. Bagert he had to stay, and he could not leave us in camp by ourselves. He told them if he wasn't going to be in camp, he could guarantee we wouldn't be in camp, and walked out of the meeting. This sounded pretty good to us. The only problem was, with such short notice, we didn't have plans for the evening. The cooking crew made dinner and we all cleaned up the dishes.

Angels Appeared and Brought Us Salvation

Along about six thirty, Mr. Bagert took off for his evening commitment. We were still lacking a plan for the evening. Somebody mentioned that Bruce, the new candidate to become one of our scouts, was dropping by. Sure enough, five minutes later a panel truck with no side windows slowly pulled up next to our camp. The sign on the side panels read, "Broussard's Cleaners". Bruce stepped out from behind the wheel and said, "I have something for you." He went to the back of the truck, turned the handle and opened the rear doors. To our delight we heard female voices coming from the inside of the truck. Soon, one by one, several girls came bouncing out. Well, now we had the beginnings of a great evening. We introduced the girls around while a campfire was set. I didn't know any of the girls. They lived in a different area of the Gentilly section of the city from where I lived. For the next half hour we sat around the fire in coed fashion. As we were chatting something caught my eye in the distance. It was the stage two hundred and fifty feet away. It was lit up by lights. Sitting around the stage were scouts and their visiting families. I could barely make out the sound coming from stage. I soon recognized a song. It was one not played in public, "Annie Had a Baby". On the stage was a small group of senior scouts dressed as men and women. They were grinding and bumping away in a vulgar fashion to the lyrics, ".... _Annie had a baby. Ahumm! Ahumm! She can't work no more. A whore! A whore!_...." I turned to those sitting next to me and said,

"Another scout unit beat us to the punch."

"What do you mean, Johnny?"

"Take a look over there through the trees and listen to the music." While they watched in amazement the music quickly came to an end. Two men jumped onto the stage and grabbed a couple of the scouts who were a bumping and a grinding and hustled them off. One of our guys said, "We sure were upstaged this time!" The performers obviously put on a good play earlier in the day, got selected for the parents night show, and switched the play. I wondered if they got their ten points taken away.

Well, the music put us in a dancing mood. However, we had no music. The gals and guys started thinking. Where could we go to have a party? The girls finally came up with a solution. One of them decided her place was a good location. Her parents were out that night. Our response was, "Great". Some of us had to get out of our camping boots and into our dancing shoes. Someone mentioned that Bruce would have to make at least two trips from camp to the party to get us all there. One of the brighter ones in our group suggested we all pile into the delivery truck and do it in one trip. Neither male nor female complained and we all clambered in. There were hard-bodies and soft-bodies all stacked together. It made for a nice cushy ride to the party. When Bruce got us to the girl's house, he opened the rear doors to his father's truck, and one by one we slithered out.

The party went on into the wee hours of the morning. Most of us Sea Scouts had to have a drink " _to get over our shyness_ ". " _Some were shyer than others_ ". I can't remember if the 45 RPM record "Annie Had a Baby" was played, but I do remember the party was a success. By 1:30 a.m., the girl's parents returned home and it was time to return to camp. Bruce brought the girls home in his truck and returned to bring us back to camp. There was no doubt the Ship would vote to have Bruce join the unit. He joined on December 5, 1955.

When we arrived back on Scout Island in City Park it was two thirty in the morning. Bruce drove his truck quietly to our camping area. The night was dark and the smoke from campfires lingered in the air. Some of our scouts had a little difficulty in getting out of the truck and walking the short distance to our camp. Some headed to their bedrolls while others weren't ready to call it a night. A few couldn't even " _tell time_ " at this point. Someone suggested we start a fire. A fire was built. Then the suggestion came to make hot chocolate to " _help clear our heads_ ". I stood back from the fire and watched as a large pot of water was brought over and two guys started making the brew. I watched as the ingredients were flung into the pot by hand with no sense of proportion. The ladle moved from the pot to the dirt and back, time and again, as the hot chocolate was stirred. As this was going on, I noticed a figure standing just outside the edge of our camp. It was a man wearing a soft hat with a stiff bill and several points around the top. It was a cop. He was obviously hired to make sure everyone was safe and in bed at this early hour. I could see his face in the reflection of our fire. He had a big grin that went ear to ear. As long as we weren't a danger to ourselves and not making a ruckus, he wouldn't be bothering us. He hung around long enough to see that our fire was put out and we were " _no longer standing_ ". A couple of us were still awake at four thirty when Mr. Bagert returned to camp. Someone asked him where he had been. "I was at a poker game", he responded.

You Got Us Out of Bed For THIS!

Sunrise came much too early. By nine o'clock only two or three of us were willing to rise. After I set up the coffee pot I heard two of the camporee leaders talking while they were walking towards our camp. I heard one of them comment, it was the first time a scout unit achieved perfect scores in every event. They walked up to me and asked,

"Where is everybody?"

"They're still asleep" I answered.

"Well you better get them up. In a half hour a photographer from the paper will be here to take a picture of your unit. You have taken First Place." They turned and walked off. I woke up Mr. Bagert and a couple others. We then got the rest up and gave them the bad news.

"We've got to get dressed in our dress uniforms and assemble for a photograph in twenty five minutes." It was a struggle to get the unit looking bright-eyed and looking like winners.

"Alright, everybody stand straight and look at the camera", the photographer said, a little too loudly. Click! "I don't think that one took well. Let's do it again." Click! He wasn't going to get a third shot. A note in the "harbor log" of Ship 2's meeting on June 22, 1955 simply states, "We won first place at the camporee on June 12 & 13."

### Operation Sagebrush

The next Beauregard District camporee was an Explorer Scout (age 14 and older) event held at Camp Salmon August. We took our boat across the lake for the trip. On arrival our Ship was assigned to the large, stone cabin reserved for camp counselors during the summer. The District Headquarters had rewarded our unit for having won first place in the District camporee in June. The cabin had plenty of room, enough bunks to accommodate us all, and a central lounge area with a stone fireplace. To us, this was unexpected and maybe a little unwarranted for our style of "scouting". We gladly took it over. We settled in and enjoyed the accommodations.

No More Messing Around!

Since we had a reputation of not attending the evening main campfire programs, we were given mandatory instructions to show up at the campfire sing-along and scary story telling. We were going to be chaperoned to the event to assure our arrival. However, being forewarned was to our advantage. It gave us time to hatch a plan, and we did. After dinner we strolled around the camp, went to check on our boat, and returned to our cabin to await our escorts. As the sun began its dive below the trees and darkness approached, Skippers assembled the Sea Scout units and walked us over to the main camp fire ceremonial ring. The ring was partially surrounded by bleachers four rows high. We decided to be sociable and broke up into twos and threes and sat among the other senior scouts.

Messing Around

About twenty minutes into the evening's program the reflection from the campfire was the only light in the surrounding woods. It was a moonless night and black as pitch. We set our plan in motion. One by one our unit disappeared unnoticed into the darkness. Had we been sitting together "Section DD, rows two, three and four, Seats 5 through 9" would have been vacant. Not a good thing. Each of us took a slightly different route across the open general grounds, through the different unit camp areas, and into the woods. Each had to find the path leading to the old ceremonial council ring. One by one we reassembled our unit. Our plan worked great. We did get ourselves to the evening program. To stay through the program was not part of the agreement. We had obtained our goal, but what now? We were standing in the center of a large clearing which was devoid of leaves and all other debris. It was darker than hell and with only two flashlights we couldn't see much. "Let's make a fire," I said. I collected a few twigs and small dry branches that had fallen off the trees. I made a small pile of leaves and placed the tinder over it. With a match, I lit a fire almost as fast as using flint and steel. The little fire put off a little glow. We could now see our boots, legs and noses. Someone brought over a couple of small branches and placed them on the fire. In a couple of minutes we could see the rest of our bodies and part of the surrounding area. Joe decided he would start a second fire. With his fire we could now make out the structure surrounding the old ceremonial council ring. Long thin logs were nailed to trees making a railing in a 100 foot diameter circle. A foot high platform supported three chairs constructed of saplings. The center chair was larger than the two on either side. No doubt this site was once used as a location to perform Indian dances, tribal ceremonies and Order of the Arrow induction ceremonies. By now Joe's fire had gotten bigger than mine. In short order and without intent, we divided up into two teams trying to build the largest fire. Each team began to run out of firewood scavenged from outside the council ring. No team could gain the advantage. The same idea struck each team at the same time. We were 50 feet from all the wood that we needed. Soon the council ring railing began to be dismantled. Then part of the platform began to disappear. Each team had a fire big enough to see most of the surrounding woods. Someone then pointed out this was not such a good idea. No doubt, with all the light we could be located by those who, by now, have noticed our absent from the campfire program. We immediately declared neither team the winner and quickly worked to douse the fires. The remains were covered with dirt. We double checked to make sure there wasn't a single ember or ash glowing.

Our Motto: Nothing Ventured, Nothing Happens

"Now what are we going to do?" said a voice in the darkness.

"I don't know?" said another.

"Anybody have an idea?" The blackness allowed us to concentrate.

"Why don't we go to town?"

"You mean walk to town?" Town was Slidell, a very small town comprising the intersection of highways 11 and 190, one traffic light, a gas station, a grocery store, St. Joe's brick factory, a number of small wood frame homes, an icehouse, and maybe a church. Then a voice came out of the darkness.

"There's a liquor store." Now, we had a destination.

"It's too far to walk."

"Hey, we can do it." The voices in the dark continued.

"How far is it?"

"About five miles."

"That is a total of 10 miles."

"We can't walk on the road from camp to highway 190. The camp leaders will find us."

"We can walk through the woods a couple of hundred feet from the road."

There was a long pause.

"Well, let's do it!"

"OK. There is nothing else to do."

"I'm in."

"Better grab something to beat down the brush."

"Grab a walking stick." Off we went through the woods with two guys using flashlights to lead the way. After a couple of hundred yards someone calls out,

"Douse the lights! The men are driving down the road looking for us." Our surroundings return to pitch black. You could hardly make out where the brush and trees ended and the sky began.

"I can't see a thing."

"Which direction are we going?"

"Stop everyone! We're getting separated. Everybody group together." In short order we gathered in one spot.

"Without the flashlights, we are going to have to hold hands."

"You got to be kidding. Are you queer?" We finally had to suppress our homophobic tendencies and hold hands to make it to the highway together. We each gathered a hand or two, not too firmly, and continued on. We were walking abreast to one another when all of the sudden cries rang out all along the line.

"Damn it! I'm in a swamp."

"What the hell is this?"

"I'm in water up to my knees." Except for a couple of guys, we found ourselves thigh-deep in a canal or irrigation ditch half full of water. It took us only a minute to get out of the water and collect ourselves. We made sure everyone was accounted for, via voice count. We could see the men had driven to the highway, turned around, and now headed back down the road looking for us.

"Keep the flashlights off", someone mumbled. We stood and watched the car pass us.

"OK let's go", said a voice.

"Oh! No!"

"What the Hell!" Four of our excursion party got turned around and had re-entered the water. We had a brief laugh and continued through the field and woods towards highway 190.

When we exited the brush and stepped onto the highway, we felt clever. We had not been caught. Our boots, shoes, and pants were wet and needed drying out. We took a right and proceeded east down highway 190 walking along the shoulder of the oncoming lane. Now and then a car or pickup truck would pass us. After fifteen minutes or so, a vehicle approached us from behind and stayed in the opposite lane headed towards town. It slowed to our pace and remained behind us. With its lights shining on us, I could see a couple of guys still had their heavy sticks used to beat the brush. I then saw a three foot chain draped over the shoulder of one of our scouts. None of us were wearing our scouting outfits. I turned to take a look at the vehicle. It was a small, square in shape, and had two round headlights close together. When I saw part of its grill I knew it was a Jeep. I then saw two MPs in the Jeep. Our group of 10 ignored them and continued on. They continued to follow at our pace.

"These guys must be part of the Army maneuvers that have been going on over here," Pat called out.

"They must think we went AWOL and are headed to town."

"I don't think so. Their troops wouldn't be carrying a chain and walking sticks."

"Maybe they want to make sure we don't bother their soldiers while they sleep." Unknowingly we had bumped up against the Army's largest peacetime maneuvers, Operation Sagebrush. We walked on another mile. The Jeep didn't bother us and we didn't bother it. We noticed a car coming toward us. It was the cops. It passed us, made a "U" turn, and took the place of the Jeep as it departed. Obviously we had crossed the town line. After we walked another mile and a half we crossed the railroad tracks and reached the epicenter of Slidell. We stood at the traffic light until it turned green. By this time it was 10:30 and we were getting tired. There was nothing to do in this town and the cop was still with us. As we strolled a short distance we discovered the liquor store. It was the only thing open except the gas station. We decided to go in and see what it had to offer. All ten of us entered the store and milled around. I overheard two of our guys quietly conversing.

"I can take this off the shelf and easily tuck it under my jacket."

"Are you crazy? You can't be stealing liquor. You will be caught and get us all in trouble. The cop is still parked in front of the store." A couple of us walked over and told the perpetrator to put the bottle back on the shelf and kept an eye on him. We exited the liquor store much to the relief of the clerk. The cop wasn't around. It was past eleven and his shift probably ended.

Now we've Gone Too Far

None of us were looking forward to the long hike back to camp. We decided to call a cab. Steve walked back into the liquor store and arranged for a cab. By the time it arrived it was midnight. It pulled off the road and into the parking area. It was a black and white 1955 Buick hardtop.

"You boys call a cab?" said the driver.

"Yep", we replied.

"Where are you going?"

"Camp Salmon. How much will it cost?"

"For that distance it will be six dollars. I'll have to make two trips to get all of you there." We each reached into our pockets to see how much money we had. The total was just short of six bucks.

"We only have about six bucks."

"Can't do it."

"What if we all could fit into your car and you make one trip?"

"Nope I can't do that either? That would be giving a ride for half price." We huddled up and talked the situation over. We just didn't want to walk that far. We pondered the circumstance we were in and continued the negotiations.

"What if we all could fit into your car and you drove us half way?"

The cab driver thought for a moment and said, "OK, get in." Fortunately there were no hands or feet left dragging on the ground after we piled in. The driver made a right turn onto the road and then a left at the light and entered highway190 heading towards camp. His cab was really dragging with the load. I think his springs were over stretched by the time we reached the drop off point. The ten of us crawled out and began walking. It wasn't long before the Jeep showed up. We left the MPs as we turned left onto the dirt road leading to Camp Salmon.

"It sure would be nice if the leaders caught us now. They could give us a ride."

"They probably wouldn't offer us one," was the response.

Bedtime Entertainment

By the time we got back to our "award winning accommodations" it was getting unusually cold. It was too late to start a fire in the stone fireplace. We began setting up our bunks for the night. As we were doing so, a friendly wager had developed between Jay and Jerry. One bet the other that a hatchet was a better fighting weapon than a machete. To the aggravation to some, they began to demonstrate their skills in slow motion.

"Hey guys, cut this crap out. Someone is going to get hurt." said one of our scouts. They continued their snake like dance with slow mocking blows. Another plea to put those things down rang out. Jerry and Jay ignored the call for common sense. Each was getting annoyed because the other would not yield. Jay's machete took a large bite out of Jerry's ax handle. This ticked Jerry off. He swung his ax at Jay's machete. Jay moved it into a defensive position. This was enough to offset Jerry's move. This put Jerry's grip on the ax in line with the blade of the machete. Jerry didn't make much of a sound but we knew he got cut. The challenge immediately stopped. Jerry took a close look at his hand. He had a deep gash in a finger and it began bleeding badly. Jerry was put in a chair and told to raise his hand. The first aid kit was quickly found and the wound bound to stop the bleeding. This was an emergency room situation. One of our scouts had already left the cabin to inform our Skipper and get transportation to the nearest hospital. Jerry was assisted to a car and he was taken to get medical attention.

As We Were Leaving the Scene

The excitement of the duel distracted us from noticing the steep drop in the temperature. Our stone cabin was not insulated and air leaks around the door and windows were numerous. The single military, brown, wool blankets given to us did not provide enough warmth to allow us to sleep. It got so cold someone suggested we double up in bunks and cover up with two blankets. Not me, and you think I'm queer, were retorts to such a suggestion. An hour later the suggestion was raised again. We gave it an OK, but proceeded with caution. So, two-by-two and with the setting of strict rules the unit got closer than ever before. My buddy Hank and I shared a bed and two blankets. We slept with our backs to each other and monitored the other's movement to detect the slightest sign the other may not be homophobic. Jerry was returned to our cabin in the early hours of the morning. When daylight came we cleaned up, got dressed, and headed off to breakfast in the camp cafeteria. On the way out of the cabin someone threw a firecracker into the fireplace as the door was closed. We heard a soft bang and ignored it. That was a mistake. An hour later we looked over towards the cabin and saw smoke coming from the open door. We then noticed a camp leader toting a smoldering mattress out the door and dumping it onto the ground. The firecracker had flung a rogue ember onto the cotton mattress. It had taken a while for the mattress to smolder enough to gain attention. No doubt, no matter how good our skills and our winning first place in a future camporee, the District Headquarters would be more restrictive in the type of award given to Ship 2.

The Jamboree

Every four years the international committee of the Boy Scouts holds a Jamboree for all scouts throughout the world. Canada was selected to host the World Jamboree in 1955. It was the Eighth World Jamboree, and it was the first one to be held outside Europe. It was going to be held in Niagara-On-The-Lake, Ontario, Canada from August 18 to August 28. I was 17 years old at the time. In June 1955 the New Orleans District of the Boy Scouts of America placed an announcement in the local papers notifying all scouts it was accepting applications to attend the event. Only five applications from Explorer Scouts (ages 14 to 18) would be accepted from the entire New Orleans District. Those scouts would have all their expenses paid. The same day the notice was placed in the paper, I jumped on a bus and headed to the District office downtown. I filled out an application and headed back home. I didn't think my chances were good in being selected. This was due to the fact that, when I was a regular scout (age 9 to 13), I had not attained the level of Eagle Scout. I reached the level of Life and was short of Eagle by two merit badges. Two weeks after I filed my application I received a notice in the mail that I was selected to go to Canada. I was excited. My excitement was catching. My dad got excited and wondered if he could get to go. He contacted the District office to see if they had selected Scoutmasters for Scout Troop 18, the Troop to be formed with scouts from Louisiana and several other southern states. He got selected as an Assistant Scoutmaster of Troop 18. He deserved it. Dad was Scoutmaster of three different Scout Troops. He had started two of them. He was also a merit badge counselor for three tough merit badges and he was well known throughout New Orleans for his work with the Boy Scouts. I was the only Sea Scout of the five going to the Jamboree. The National Headquarters of the Boy Scouts of America decided all U.S. scouts going to the Jamboree must wear the Explorer Scout uniforms. This required me to purchase two complete new uniforms with badges. I didn't get to wear my sailor uniform. The District office had a group picture taken for the selection announcement. Three of the scouts didn't make it to the shooting. A news article was printed in the New Orleans States paper on August 14.

The two scouts on either side of me in the photograph have the rank of star on their left shirt pockets. This rank was carried over from the Boy Scouts to the (senior) Explorer Scouts. I wonder if any Eagle Scouts made the cut. On my left pocket is a badge signifying my rank in the Sea Scouts. You will notice it has an anchor. It was unknown to the Explorers. I teased them about my "high" ranking and how significant it was. I had to get them back for making me wear their uniform.

Shortly after the photo was taken the six of us packed our gear and headed by bus for Jackson Mississippi. This was the rendezvous location for Troop 18, the scouts from the South. We stayed overnight at the Robert E. Lee Hotel. It was an old established hotel in the heart of the city. All of the adults staying there were dressed in fine clothes. The next morning Troop 18 had breakfast and assembled in the lobby to board our Greyhound buses for the long trip north. As I stood waiting for the call to board the bus, I noticed a six foot tall soft drink machine right in the center of the lobby. I decided to get a RC Cola and walked over to it. It was odd for a soft drink machine. A slot for coins was the only resemblance to a soft drink machine. There was no opening to dispense bottles. It did have folded paper cups, but they had a half inch hole cut in the bottom of them. This machine had my interest. In looking it over, I found a hose attached to the front of the machine. On the end of the hose was a metal cone. Something was supposed to come out of the machine, thru the hose, and into the bottom of the metal cone, but what? When in doubt, always read the directions. The directions said, place a quarter in the slot, put the paper cone in the metal cone, and hold the cone over your nose and mouth, and breath-in for five minutes. Well I'll be. This must be for the old folks. This was Mississippi's version of a resuscitator or a means of recovering from an exhausting night in the hotel. Ship 2 could use one of these for camporees back home. This was the only time I had ever seen one of these neat machines.

We stowed our gear aboard the bus and the three buses of Troop 18 began their caravan to Canada. It took three or four days to reach our destination. We stayed at good hotels and were served good food everywhere we ate. The second night of our travels we were to arrive 10:00 p.m. at a downtown hotel in Columbus, Ohio. By the time we entered the city the downtown area was without traffic or people on the street. I was sitting in the first row of seats. As we proceeded toward our hotel, a person threw a brick at the windshield of our bus. The brick shattered the glass and put a three inch hole right in front of the driver. All three buses came to a stop and the police were called. This delayed our arrival until 11:30 PM. The hotel restaurant staff stayed late to provide us with a wonderful meal. I felt sorry for the long night they had. However, they were pleasant and did not rush us through our meal. I admired them for their kindness to us.

The next day our bus was replaced and we headed to Dearborn, Michigan. On the way the buses drove us to the shore of Lake Michigan. To our amazement we were told this was a stop to go swimming. The beach was nothing like the ones we were use to. There before us was a waterline with nothing but large gravel. We changed into bathing suits and ventured in. The water was very cold and the gravel was difficult to walk on. I don't know whose idea this was. I bet it wasn't someone local. This was a very short stop.

After breakfast the next day we toured the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn. What a wonderful place. The antique cars, engines, video displays, and facilities captured my imagination. After lunch we boarded the buses and headed for Detroit. We took the Winsor Tunnel and crossed into Canada. It wasn't long before we reached our destination, Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario, Canada.

The camp sites for each nation and its troops were marked and cordoned off. Our troop was assembled and we were led to our campsite in the Hudson Bay sub-camp. The campsite was on a slight incline having a few trees. Here is our troop at Hudson Bay sub-camp at the World Jamboree.

Troop 18 consisted of 37 members, which included a Scout Master, two Assistant Scoutmasters, and a Senior Patrol Leader. My dad was one of the Assistant Scoutmasters. The troop was divided up into four patrols, Fox, Beaver, Bob White and Eagle Patrol. Each patrol had eight senior scouts, with the exception of Bob White which had nine. I was Patrol Leader of the Eagle Patrol. After receiving our assigned positions and patrols, we departed to the Quartermaster site and drew our tents and camp supplies. On return we paired up with another scout and pitched our two-manned tents. The tents were made of pale aqua, medium weight cotton. They were eight by eight square at the bottom and rose to a four by four square at about six feet and had a shallow pyramid top. There was a single large door that was closed by a flap. Once my patrol finished putting up their tents, we set up a kitchen fly and established a place for our camp provisions. Each patrol was given tickets to exchange for a week's supply of food. Each morning a group from the patrol was sent to a sub-camp supply center and acquired the day's provisions. Temporary shower facilities were made of plywood walls mounted on wood flooring raised a foot above the ground. There was no hot running water, but being summer, cold water was preferred anyway. A total of 10,866 scouts from 71 countries attended the Eighth World Jamboree. 1,552 of them were from the United States. Each scout consumed 31 meals over the ten day event. Over 800,000 lbs. of food was shipped in to feed the attendees. At the entrance to our troop encampment there was a very large, professionally made banner showing the five southern states from which we came. In this picture, I'm second from left in the top row.

Each scout unit constructed banners and placed objects at their camp entrance identifying the country and area of the world they were from. The Dutch created a tall windmill; British Columbia Canada erected an elaborate scouting theme totem pole; an African nation built traditional grass-roofed circular huts; and French Canadians built a substantial tree house. Many more exhibits were just as impressive. Some nations brought samples of their own culinary fare. Cuban scouts prepared an open pig roast for their guests. A troop from New England served a Thanksgiving dinner while dressed as Pilgrims. The uniforms of many nations were very interesting and unique. Scouts from India wore their turbans, Egyptians wore their traditional head cover, Scottish scouts wore pleated kilts, and German scouts wore leather lederhosen, to mention only a few of the many colorful uniforms.

To my surprise, there were no mandatory meetings, discussions or competitions. However, there was a lot of camaraderie and swapping of objects unique to the nations attending. To the surprise of the German scouts, their lederhosen became the top sought after item. Any extra lederhosen went for big bucks or a costly swap. Their leaders saw the opportunity for developing friendships following their world war. They arranged for an air shipment of lederhosen to arrive halfway through the Jamboree. The volume of the shipment didn't lower the cost of a swap. You'd think the pants would be uncomfortable and the seams would irritate the skin. However, they were quite supple and soft. We were not made aware of the intense interest of swapping that goes on at World Jamborees prior to our leaving New Orleans. I also did not have the financial means to purchase such items. I did collect experiences and memories that were far more valuable than objects.

Troops from all nations held demonstrations for scouts and visitors alike. Some were spontaneous while others were scheduled events. Danish scouts played ancient bull-calling horns. The Japanese performed lion dances. A U.S. troop did an Indian tribal dance in full Indian war dress. Texans showed us how to crack whips. An African nation performed dances in traditional dress. Rumba music was played by the Cuban scouts. Not to be out done, the scouts from Trinidad had a steel drum band. An interesting band was made up of Jewish scouts playing Moroccan music. Of course the Scotts had their bagpipes which many of us enjoyed.

I don't remember if Troop 18 provided demonstrations for some of the 180,000 visitors who arrived during the ten days of the Jamboree. However, our troop did have many visitors, scouts and the public. One afternoon I was manning the entrance to our encampment when two girl Sea Scouts dressed in their sharp uniforms and flat white covers (hats) strolled up and asked if they could visit our camp. They were from Canada. I introduced myself and told them I would be glad to show them around. Midway through the tour they mentioned our tents were a little unusual. They asked if they could see one up close. The only one I had access to was mine. So off we went. In short order I found myself in my tent with two of the best looking Sea Scouts I have seen. I noticed one of the Scoutmasters glance our way as we entered the tent and then head to the troop headquarter tent. After the tent demo, we exited and finished the tour of the camp.

One of the Sea Scouts caught my eye. Her name was Isabel George. I offered to stroll along with her and her friend, and visit troop encampments of other nations. She took up my offer and the three of us spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying the international atmosphere of the World Jamboree. When it came time for dinner, all outside visitors had to leave the Jamboree. At that point we swapped addresses and said we would write to one another. I looked at Isabel's address, 63 Saint Ann Road, Toronto, Ontario, and tucked it into my pocket. When I returned to Troop 18 my dad came over to my tent. He said he missed seeing the two Canadian Sea Scouts. My dad said, Woody Johnson, the other Assistant Scoutmaster, told him he ought to have seen what I brought into my tent, two good looking Canadian girl scouts. I mentioned I had spent the afternoon with them. Up to now, my life was filled with schooling, maintaining my parent's property, house work, ironing our clothes, holding down summer jobs, sports, hunting, and interesting adventures. I had not considered putting aside time to accommodate the opposite sex. This Canadian contact seemed to have suggested I should make room in my life for a more sensitive adventure, girls.

Eggs and Bacon, Flint and Steel

One afternoon I was summoned to our Scoutmaster's quarters. I was told I will be demonstrating the skill of starting a fire by flint and steel. The demonstration would take place the next morning, and it would be televised. Lucky for me, I had brought along my fire starting kit from New Orleans. The kit included my specially prepared tinder which would ignite very easily. I could do a spark to flame in four seconds.

The next morning I was informed where the demonstration would take place. On my arrival I discovered a collection of other scouts from around the world surrounded by a TV crew and staff. The crew was from NBC's TODAY SHOW with Dave Garroway. I was introduced to two other scouts from different areas of the United States. We were to be a trio in a demonstration on cooking along with other scouts from around the world. There was an added wrinkle to our demonstration. While the other scouts started their cooking fires with matches the normal way, we were to start ours by means of flint and steel. Each nation represented was to cook a food item associated with their nationality. Ours would be bacon and eggs, the great American breakfast. All of the cooks were assembled in a large semi-circle. We were told we would be given a signal to begin starting the fire as the interview of the preceding nation of cooks ended. That way, all America could see the flint and steel demo and the cooking of the eggs and bacon. Soon, Dave Garroway appeared and the cameras began rolling. One of our trio insisted he should be the one to start the fire. After a number of interviews with the international cooking teams, our turn approached. The camera crew signaled us to get started as the interview was ending next to us. As the camera swung our way, our fire starter began his effort with the flint and steel. Dave interviewed us as the strokes of steel on flint continued. The bacon and eggs were waiting for their cooking. Dave continued his interview as long as he could, while hoping we could start the fire. This didn't happen, and Dave had to move on to the next nation of cooks. When this segment of the show ended we were informed that we were to return at the start of the next hour for a second cooking demonstration. Obviously, this was for the central time zone portion of the show.

On our return to the TODAY SHOW grounds, the second scout kept insisting he be the fire starter for the demonstration. The camera crew, now knowing our difficulty in starting fires, gave us an early signal to get started with the flint and steel. Well things didn't go well again. The fire wouldn't start. Dave kept an eye on us as he interviewed the cooks before us. Seeing we were struggling with the flint and steel, he extended his interview hoping additional time would solve the problem. Never happened! Again, we were interviewed with our raw eggs and bacon. After that show we were told to return for a final show at the start of the hour.

Well, as the time approached for the last show, the other two scouts decided their debuts on the TODAY SHOW were not their best and no longer insisted they be the fire starters. That left it open for me. Once again, as the camera crew came our way, we were given a very early start signal to begin the flint and steel fire. I had confidence in my specially prepared tinder from a Louisiana swamp and held off the flint and steel. This seemed to irritate the camera crew. America could not be humiliated a third time. On the crew's insistence, I had to begin the flint and steel process early in the interview preceding ours. The fire started immediately. The eggs and bacon were put on the fire. By the time Dave got to us, we had nothing to demonstrate except to view the cooked eggs and bacon. The NBC film of this show would be worth viewing.

Trains, Scales, and Shoe Polish

The Jamboree's participants were given the opportunity to go to Toronto and take part in the World Jamboree parade and spend the day at a fair along the city's boardwalk. 9,000 scouts traveled in many, many buses and on three trains for the hour and a half ride to Toronto. My friends and I rode the train. Once there we were grouped by nation and walked the parade route behind national banners. Some units played drums, bagpipes, and other musical instruments. It must have been a wonderful site for those lining the streets to view such an international scene of goodwill and friendship.

Following the parade we scouts scattered to all corners of the fair and other local places of interest. I and two of my buddies strolled along together and enjoyed the fair's activities. Luck was with me that day. I was able to win a few prizes at some of the contest booths. I knocked down enough Indian dolls to collect a stuffed toy or two. One contest I was good at was looking lightweight. One hawker wanted people to take a double or nothing chance he would correctly guess their weight. If he guessed within three pounds of your weight you lost the quarter you put up for the challenge. If your weight was outside the six pound range, you received fifty cents. We stood and watched a few contestants lose their quarters. I decided to give it a try. I paid the hawker a quarter and stepped forward. The hawker circled me and gave me a good looking over. He took a few seconds and then said your weight is 119 pounds. He then instructed me to get up on the scale. And the scale said, 125 pounds. He had a puzzled look on his face. He then reached into his pocket and handed me fifty cents. I thought, gee that was easy. One of my buddies decided to try and ended up 25 cents lighter in the pocket. We then walked away from the booths and onto the main thoroughfare.

As we strolled along I happened to glance straight ahead. Coming toward us from about two hundred feet away were two female Canadian Sea Scouts. They were looking straight at us. It was Isabel and her friend. Both of us were pleasantly surprised to see one another. I had forgotten Isabel's address was Toronto. Well this was going to be a day more pleasant than expected. My two scout friends, me and Isabel and her friend spent the afternoon together. While strolling through the fair I found a second hawker guessing people's weight for double or nothing. I took a chance and won another quarter. This hawker guessed my weight within four pounds. Time to cut this out, they were getting closer. We all had a late lunch together and sat in the park to chat for a while. We then returned to the fair grounds.

The clouds had slowly turned to gray undefined patches. We found ourselves next to the Ferris wheel. I suggested we take a ride and see the city from the top of the Ferris wheel. Isabel seemed hesitant and seemed reluctant to ride with just the two of us in the seat of the car. I sensed her apprehension and suggested that she, I, and one of my friends go together. She felt better about the situation and the three of us got into the seat with Isabel in the center. The Ferris wheel rose a short distance and stopped to exchange passengers. This went on until new passengers filled all the cars. Finally the Ferris wheel began its full circle ride. The view from the top was enjoyable. The lights from the city and the boardwalk made a beautiful picture. As we enjoyed this view we noticed the clouds were darkening the sky. We heard thunder in the distance. At that point we had just passed the passenger off ramp when the Ferris wheel came to a stop and the operator told the passengers in the car in front of us the ride was closing due to the weather. He skipped the next car and released the passengers in the following car. This went on until our car reached the apex of the ride. There we waited for the car to move again to release a carload of passengers at the very bottom of the wheel. The wheel failed to move. After a few minutes it became clear the Ferris wheel had broken down. Our concerned increased, as we could see lightening strikes in the distance and the wind began to pick up. At this point the slightest swing of the car gave us an uneasy feeling. We two American scouts maintained an air of confidence by pretending to ignore our circumstance and making small talk about the beauty of the city and other topics of distraction. Isabel became quiet. Then it began to sprinkle. As we began to get a little wet I looked towards Isabel to see how she was doing. I noticed white liquid beginning to run slowly down from her flat sailor cap. The liquid dribbled down the black band that circled the cap resting on her head. As the rain continued to drizzle, the liquid passed through her black hair and onto her forehead. She was a little embarrassed. With a kind tone I asked her why had the rainwater turned white. Isabel gave a sheepish look and said, "It was from the shoe polish. We use white shoe polish to keep the cap bright white." I'm sure I gave a smile, but I didn't want her to become more embarrassed by giving a chuckle. A few minutes later our car gave a jolt and started to move. Again it jolted to a stop after a short downward movement. While this was unsettling, we quickly realized the ride was operating again. We were stuck at the top of the Ferris wheel for about twenty minutes. Ten of it was during the light rain. It finally came our turn to escape this contraption and we felt relieved to be on the ground again. It was now time to head for our transportation and return to the Jamboree at Niagara-on-the-Lake. We said our polite good-bye and again promised to write.

The next morning appeared normal with the exception of missing a few of our troop. Our inquiries were met with the news that they were in sickbay. So many scouts had become ill while in Toronto, one of the three trains was used exclusively to transport the sick. During that afternoon, one of my Mississippi friends got severe chills despite the 90 degree temperature. We wrapped him in blankets and put him in a chair in the sun. This had no effect on his shivering. We brought him to sickbay where he was given medication. He was returned to our camp within the hour. There was no additional space for new cases in sickbay. Two days later he was about 80 percent well. A significant number of scouts had contracted the flu, but lucky for us all, it was short lived.

We're All Whipped Up

One morning while strolling through the Jamboree we heard what appeared to be the cracking of whips. We walked up to a small crowd watching a demonstration. A group of scouts from Texas were in the center of an open area showing the viewers how to swing and crack, a nine foot cattle whip. They invited the viewers to try their skill after giving their guest some instruction. This was quite entertaining to say the least. The bystanders had to be careful they were not mistaken as cattle. The guest whip-cracker had to be careful he did not become his own cow and hit himself. Some scouts got the hang of it and some never did. It was fun to watch. I had a try at it and did quite well. Then the challenge was raised up a notch, double cracking. This required one to crack the whip in one direction, continue through the crack, and crack the whip in the opposite direction. Some contestants had to drop out after a few tries. I caught on to the double crack technique. Three of us could continue reversing the whip making a long series of cracks. Soon another Texan strolled up with the mother of all whips, an eighteen-footer. After a short demonstration on cracking it the Texan offered a try to the Texans who had brought the nine foot whip. They soon discovered getting the whip off the ground and into the air wasn't so easy. On their first couple of tries they barely missed hitting their faces with the whip's tail. Eventually one or two scouts could get the whip to crack. I gave it a try. To get the whip off the ground I laid it out on the edge of a circle, in the shape of a shallow "C". With my arms straight out and two hands on the handle, I pull the whip sideways while turning in a circle. Once the whip was airborne to about shoulder height I quickly reverse the circle. The tail of the whip reversed at high speed making a heck of a bang. The problem was the bang and tail were six inches from my ear. I wasn't sure my ear would be in one piece after each attempt. When the interest in trying the eighteen foot whip died down, a few of us wondered if we could double crack the giant. We eventually did. However, the energy it took to do so drained us to a point that a series of three cracks was not possible. Besides, we were risking slicing both of our ears.

Dousing the Campfires

Towards the end of the Eighth World Jamboree I had the feeling the world was a little smaller. I had shared a great experience with fellow scouts from around the world, enjoyed the differences in our cultures, and found we were not as different as I had initially assumed. The 50 year reunion of the event was held at Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario September 16 – 18, 2005. Had I known of the celebration I would have attended it. As part of the reunion, a DVD of the Canadian Broadcasting Company's filming of the World Jamboree was made. I purchased it during the time I wrote this chapter in July 2008. I enjoyed seeing all the sights and sounds again. There was even a short clip of scouts getting on the Ferris wheel in Toronto.

I had the opportunity during two business trips, once in the 1970s and once in the 1980s, to visit Niagara-on-the-Lake and the location of the site of the Jamboree. The landscape at the site was returned to its original natural state following the Jamboree in 1955. I was able to locate the very spot where I had pitched my tent. The beautiful small Victorian village of Niagara-on-the-Lake appeared unchanged since I first saw it in 1955.

As for Isabel and me, we corresponded for several months following the Jamboree. In a letter she wrote in October 1955, Isabel invited me to Toronto for a visit. I knew this took guts on her part. I was disappointed I had to turn down her kind gesture. I didn't have the means to make the trip and my parents had no interest in me pursuing it.

Chapter Three - Private 1543868

Photograph of Private 1543868 taken in September 1956 at the Marine Corps' Infantry Combat Training School Camp Geiger, North Carolina.

### Marine Fighter Squadron VMF 143

From September 1955 to May 1956 I was in my junior year (eleventh grade) at Cor Jesu High School. Cor Jesu was an all boy Catholic high school run by the Brothers of the Sacred Heart in New Orleans. Early in the school year, my home room teacher selected six students he decided to flunk. I was one of the six. 74 was a failing grade. The teacher gave me this grade in a Religion course which caused my failure to advance to the senior year.

Towards the very end of my junior year, I learned the U.S. Navy began a new enlistment program where a sailor or Marine would serve six months on active duty and then serve seven and a half years in the active reserves. They could be called to full-time active duty any time during the eight year commitment in the event of a national crisis. There was one catch to the program. You had to enlist before the age of eighteen and a half. I was already eighteen. On my own I negotiated with the school's principal on how I would repeat the junior year. I suggested I enlist in the Marine Corps Reserve Program and, on my return from six month active duty, repeat the grade in the last five months of the school year. This was acceptable to both of us. Therefore, on May 6, 1956, I enlisted in the US Marine Corps Reserve and joined VMF 143, the Ragin Cajuns. VMF 143 was a Marine Fighter Squadron stationed at Naval Air Station New Orleans on Lake Pontchartrain. As you entered the front gate of the Naval Air Station you passed under a large sign proclaiming, The Home of the Ragin Cajuns. The air base was located one and a half miles from my home.

Since I would be going off to boot camp in a few weeks, I was assigned jobs requiring short learning curves. One of those jobs was conducting aircraft preflight checks and engine tests while our pilots attended briefings in the ready room. The aircraft of VMF 143 was the famous F4U Corsair of WWII in the Pacific. It also served with distinction in Korea. The fun part for us mechanics was strapping into the pilot seat and starting up the massive engine. Once warmed up we put the engine through its paces and conducted tests to check the engine's condition. We checked oil and hydraulic pressures, instrument readings, and placed a load on the engine by increasing the pitch of the prop under increasing levels of RPMs. Once we completed our check out and shut down, the Corsair was ready for its pilot. I'm sure we had a swagger in our walk as we returned to the flight shack.

Paris is on an Island?

Six other Marines and I were new enlistees in Marine Corps Fighter Squadron VMF 143. On June 19, 1956 we began our six months of active duty. We traveled by train from New Orleans, Louisiana to Yemassee, South Carolina. By the time we reached South Carolina the train was filled with many recruits. We arrived at the remote station in Yemassee on June 21, 1956. As we stepped off the train onto the platform we noticed a group of about nine young men dressed in very strange colored clothing. They were wearing either all pink or all yellow suit coats and trousers, khaki shirts and boots. Obviously they were Marine Corps rejects being sent home to their families in disgrace. On seeing the young men, my buddy Joe Prange thought to himself, " _Man what have we got ourselves into"_. We were put on buses for the ride to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island.

On arrival, sergeants began yelling at us before the door of the bus opened. The recruits were split into platoons of 72 men each. Two of our seven from New Orleans, John Bartucci and Imes, wound up in Platoon 181. The other five, Leo De Jesus, Arthur Sauve, Joe Prange, Herman Hartman, and I, were assigned to Platoon 180, Company "A", Second Battalion.

The Commanding Officer of the Second Battalion was Lt. Col. O. T. Jensen, Jr. Commanding Officer of Company A was Capt. B. S. Pickett. The Chief D.I. of the Recruit Depot was M/Sergeant J. A. Moon. The Senior D.I. for Platoon 180 was S/Sergeant J. E. Lyvere. Junior Drill Instructors were Sergeant W. J. Zajkowski, Sergeant C. E. Long, and Sergeant B. F. Barney. Platoon 180 was formed on 28 June 1956, and its graduation date was scheduled for 21 September 1956. The platoon was comprised of 67 recruits from northern states and five of us from New Orleans.

We spent a total of 13 weeks and two days on Parris Island. The first two days involved: orientation, medical exams, issuing clothing and equipment, assignment of a rifle, and IQ and aptitude testing. Weeks one through six were discipline and physical training, drill instruction, and field living and survival training. Weeks seven, eight, and nine were on the rifle range. Mess duty filled in weeks ten and eleven. During week twelve we were measured for our summer and winter uniforms, and we were assigned guard duty. Week thirteen had us preparing for final field inspection and graduation.

In 1956, the temperatures in the middle of the summer were normally in the 90s. Often it would approach 100 and at times it reached between 105 and 110. If the temperature got to 95 degrees, yellow flags were raised in all training areas and recruits within their first three weeks of training had to cease physical activities outdoors. If the temperature got above 100 degrees a red flag was raised and all recruits were to cease physical exercise outdoors. When the temperature got above 105 degrees, two red flags were raised and all physical exercise was cancelled, indoors and out. On about three occasions the temperature was so high we were ordered to strip to our skivvies (underwear) and lay on the wood floors of our barracks for hours. Our recruit uniform was designed to reduce some of the heat buildup on our bodies. We wore summer weight fatigue trousers, a tan long-sleeve cotton shirt and a silver painted fiberglass helmet liner for head protection. We still had to wear the seven inch high leather boots which soaked up the heat from the drill field. While marching on the drill field our shirts would become drenched with perspiration. A few times the recruit in front of me would perspire so profusely it would pool and sway back and forth in the sag of his shirt above his belt.

Life as a recruit was much the same as it would be for any Marine recruit, with the yelling, standing all night, the tough training schedules, etcetera. This life has been portrayed in many movies and documentaries on Marine Corps boot camps. We expected the tough discipline and physical difficulties shown in the media. We experienced all of it and more. All but a few in our platoon were able to deal with it and succeed in getting through it. The part of Platoon 180's experience which was unusual was the level of brutality imposed on it by its drill instructors, D.I.s. Here is a short list of some of the extra discipline I received: D.I.s stole from my food packages sent from home; for entertainment and no apparent reason, D.I.s would punch me in the stomach as hard as they could while I stood at attention in their office; I was required to iron a sergeant's shirts and pants several times a week; and, while training at Elliot's Beach, the D.I.s used a tree branch like a bat to hit large sticks into our ranks while we were forced to stand at attention.

While I was at Parris Island, I received letters from my family, girlfriend, and many friends back home. I was blessed with a lot of letters. I wrote back as much as I received and a little more. All of my correspondence included descriptions of those situations and incidences which were funny, strange in a funny way, and descriptions of the general routine of our training. I never mentioned the dark side of our lives as recruits, or about the suicides and suicide attempts which went on around us.

How Capable Are You?

The Marine Corps wants to know if you are capable of doing those things the Corps needs to get done. So they test each and every recruit. Two days after arriving at Parris Island, we had not one decent night of sleep in four days. We left New Orleans on the 19th. We dozed in coach on the train. We arrived at Parris Island during the night on the 21st. and we stood at attention next to our bunks all night. We got our heads shaved on the 22nd. We took the Marine Corps Classification, Aptitude, and Trade Test on June 23. We were so exhausted some of our recruits fell asleep at their desks while trying to complete their tests. One of our drill instructors found sleeping recruits a temptation he could not pass up. He quietly filled up a recruit's helmet with ice cold water from the water fountain. He then snuck up on the recruit and dumped the chilling water all over him and his test forms. This may sound bad, but this was a good thing. The wet recruit was more alert after his cold shower than the rest of us who struggled to keep awake. I suspect the D.I.s wanted to minimize the chance any one of us would qualify for Officer Candidate School. One of the categories on the Classification, Aptitude, and Trade Test score sheet was PA. PA may be Pattern Analysis, a term used in IQ Testing. My score was I-155, a perfect score. Whatever PA is, I must be able to do its function quite well while sleeping.

The North / South Skirmish

One evening at about 2100 (9:00 PM) a group of eight recruits from northern states suddenly appeared before me in the barracks. As I stood up, they placed Clarence Edwards, a large black northern recruit, in front of me. They wanted the two of us to fight one another. They circled us and tried to entice me to fight. Edwards stared at me trying to intimidate me. I had no interest in their venture. I held my ground and stared back at Edwards. I tried to figure out how I could tell him: Let's the two of us just turn around and whip the hell out of the group. I couldn't find a way of doing this while catching the Yankees by surprise. I just watched every movement around me and waited. The mob of nine finally got tired of waiting and giving nasty slurs, and wandered off.

The only thing I could connect to this event was it might have been in response to a comment I made involving the only loss we incurred in a platoon tug-of-war. In the tug-of-war two platoons of 72 recruits each face off grabbing each half of a very, very long two-inch thick rope. A rag is tied in the middle of the rope. Each platoon struggles to pull the other platoon a distance of about 15 feet from where the rag originally started. Platoon 180 had won two tug-of-wars. On the third tug-of-war we went up against a platoon made up of all Southerners. Their platoon guidon flag had a rebel flag sewn onto it. The contest was quite a struggle, and somehow we lost. When we got back to the barracks, a few northern recruits began harassing us New Orleans boys accusing us of throwing the match. I told them we lost because we had fewer southerners on our team. This may have ticked them off and given them the desire to start a racial fight between Edwards and I. However, when I read the book _See Parris and Die_ , I learned drill instructors ordered blanket parties (arranged night beatings of a single individual by a small gang) and initiated fights among recruits in the barracks. I now realize this racial incident was the workings of our D.I. It was to appear that a Southern boy created a racial incident and got the hell beat out of him. There would be witnesses and all. At our platoon graduation ceremony, one of the main Yankee instigators of the fight was promoted to Private First Class on the recommendation of our drill instructors. I saw nothing beyond this racial episode that "warranted" such a commendation from our D.I.s to this individual.

In an ironic twist of fate, the Yanks beat the hell out of Edwards. During bayonet practice, the first item of business is to learn how to use a pugil stick in simulating fighting with your M1 rifle. A pugil stick is a five-foot, 12-pound stick with cushions around each end. You are taught all the defensive and offensive moves to kill the enemy with a rifle. Once this was learned, we were assigned opponents. We were to use the pugil stick to fight, giving no quarter to our opponent. Well, during a pugil stick fight, Edwards would slide his two hands down to the bottom of the pugil stick and use it as a club. You can't do this with an M1 rifle. So, the instructor would yell at Edwards and correct him. Edwards's hands slid down and the "rifle" again became a club. This drove the instructor nuts. He brought in a fresh recruit for Edwards to fight. The same thing happened. Edwards began to tire. The instructor went bananas. Edwards became so exhausted he could hardly stand. He still tried to use the pugil stick as a club. The instructor called in a third fresh recruit. The instructor told Edwards, this will go on until you hold the pugil stick like a rifle. Edwards became too exhausted to use the pugil stick. He held it as a rifle at port-arms, diagonally across his chest, and fell to the ground face up. His opponent was ordered to continue the fight. Edwards lay on the ground at port arms, badly beaten and bleeding from the mouth. The instructor stopped the beating and told Edwards, "Get up. You finally learned to hold the pugil stick like a rifle". With difficulty, he crawled away and got to his feet. Edwards was finally freed from this ordeal. All three of his opponents were Yankees. This situation was identical to one which led to the death of recruit Private Lynn E. McClure on March 20, 1976. The story of his death was reported in the July 12, 1976 issue of TIME magazine.

Home on the Range

Two weeks before our platoon was scheduled to begin training at the rifle range, we learned a recruit, living in a Quonset hut at the range, woke up his close friend at 2:00 AM, told him goodbye, and shot himself in the mouth with his M1 rifle. The recruit was Private Sidney G. Zwaigenbaum. The story of his death was published in July 13, 1956 issue of The Parris Island BOOT. We heard of other suicides which occurred in the area of our barracks, but none were done in this fashion.

One of the curiosities we had in going to the rifle range was the question of our being able to see where six recruits were drowned by their drill instructor. The drowning of the Marines happened at 2000 hours (10 PM) on April 8, 1956, only two and a half months prior to my arrival at Parris Island. The D.I. had his platoon fully dressed and wearing their packs loaded with gear. The platoon was marched across the rifle range, past the target pits, and into Ribbon Creek. The creek was wide and over six feet deep. The creek emptied into the Atlantic Ocean not far from where they entered the water. The creek was subject to extreme tidal conditions. It had fast moving currents during tidal direction changes. Most Marine recruits cannot swim. Eighty percent of them come from inland-states and states with bodies of water which are too cold for swimming. Sergeant McKeon was the D.I. responsible for drowning the recruits. His defense was, in general, it was a common practice for D.I.s to march recruits into the creek after dark to teach them discipline. He was court-martialed and went to trial. On August 4, 1956, the Military Court acquitted Sergeant McKeon of manslaughter and oppression of troops. He was found guilty of negligent homicide and drinking while on duty. He was fined $270 and sentenced to nine months of confinement at hard labor, demoted to private, and was to be given a bad-conduct discharge. At his trial, Lieutenant General Lewis B. Puller testified on behalf of Staff Sergeant McKeon. In his obituary by the Associated Press published on October 11, 1971 the General is described as the most decorated member of the Marine Corps. It further states he was a blunt, profane, cigar-chewing officer who had a fierce contempt for weakness in men. The article also said the General's testimony, that the tough training march was not oppression, was regarded as a strong factor in acquitting Staff Sergeant McKeon of the charges of manslaughter, oppression of troops, and conduct detrimental to the service. The Secretary of the Navy reduced Staff Sergeant McKeon's sentence to three months hard labor and a reduction to the rank of private. He set aside Sergeant McKeon's discharge, had him released for timed served, and he remitted his fine. He was released from custody on October 16, 1956. I met Matthew C. McKeon in the summer of 1957 while on two weeks training with VMF 143, my Marine Corps Air Reserve Squadron. Our Squadron was flying AD 4 Skyraiders out of Cherry Point Marine Corps Base. He was working in a Marine Corps restaurant on Camp LeJeune Marine Corps Base in North Carolina, not far from Cherry Point. McKeon had already gained back his rank of sergeant.

The day finally came for us to march a couple of miles to our living quarters at the rifle range. After breakfast we tidied up the barracks and went about packing our gear for the march. We brought everything we needed to live life in the field. We packed it all in our haversacks and tied our blanket across the top of our packs. After barrack inspection the platoon was ordered into formation with our full packs, canteens, bayonets, and rifles. We marched a few blocks and formed ranks on a grassy area not far from the mess hall. We had one final inspection before lunch. I was chosen for platoon gear guard duty and ordered off to a quick, early lunch. On my return, I stood guard over the gear while the platoon marched off to the mess hall. No one was interested in stealing our gear, so I had an uneventful guard duty. After the platoon returned, I said to Sergeant Tryndle,

"Sir, Private Hornung requests permission to go to the head, Sir."

"You can use the head in the empty barracks right next to us."

"Aye, Aye, Sir!" With that I hustled off to the barracks. As I entered the center hall I could see that no recruits were living in the two story barracks. I went toward the entrance door to the head. As I began to open the door, a sergeant, unknown to me, pushed the door open from inside the head. I did my required jump backwards, came to attention, and said,

"Sir, I beg the sergeant's pardon, Sir!" Instead of walking past me the sergeant slowly walked up to me and said,

"Are you queer for me boy?!"

"No Sir!"

He punched me as hard as he could in the stomach as I stood at attention. Then he quickly left by a back door. I didn't understand why he was in this empty barracks. I guess I disrupted him when he heard me enter the building. I recovered from the blow, went about my business, and returned to the platoon. I mentioned the incident to Sergeant Tryndle. He looked puzzled. He could not figure out how to respond to the incident. We gathered our gear and marched off to the rifle range.

On arriving at the rifle range, we learned we would be living in eight-man tents of Korean War vintage. The Quonset huts were filled. Parris Island was experiencing the largest number of recruits since World War II. After receiving our tent assignments, we went about cleaning the wood plank floors, setting up our cots with mosquito netting, and stowing our gear.

At revelry each morning, we exited our tents and stood at attention with our bare feet in the dirt. We then quickly got dressed and put our dirty feet into clean socks. I decided to remedy this situation by scrounging around for large rocks and planks of old wood to stand on. This got the attention of the D.I.s. To them the situation offended their sensitivity of the camp's appearance. One morning while we were standing at attention on our tent's new porch, the D.I. said,

"There must be uniformity in the exterior design of all tents. The occupants of each tent will have to scrounge around for old planks of wood and build a porch or there will be no porches. Do you understand me?"

"Yes Sir!"

The rest of the platoon assessed the situation. A little work and hunting for planks was too much. Our tent was out voted and we had to take down our porch. These guys must have liked dirty feet in clean socks or didn't clean their socks.

On Sunday afternoons we were given a little time to ourselves. On one such afternoon, a few of us meandered behind our tent encampment to a small creek. A few of our recruits were picking up large rocks and small boulders. They were not looking too closely at what they were doing. As one recruit began moving a large rock, I spied a snake coiled next to it. I yelled for him to jump away from the rock, there is a snake next to it. After he got away a few "brave" souls decided to investigate the snake. It was a copperhead. They and three other recruits from another platoon wanted to show us the extent of their "courage". They challenged themselves to uncover more snakes. This went on for a short while until one recruit displayed the highest level of "bravery". He got bitten. Off to sickbay and at least two more weeks of boot camp. He was not a member of our platoon.

Down to Business

During the first week of our three week stay at the range we learned how to strip our rifles and put them back together in a very short amount of time. We practiced aiming and shooting techniques for the standing, kneeling, prone, and sitting positions. We learned how to strip and assemble a 45. And, we studied and practiced firearms safety, firearms safety, and firearms safety. All of our rifle training, which involved shooting positions, aiming, and squeezing the trigger, was done under the close supervision of a firing range specialist known as a ranger. The ranger insisted we were NEVER to take our sight systems apart for cleaning. If needed, this would be done only by a specialists trained in the procedure.

Our training also included the operation of pulling butts. This is different than what you are thinking. Pulling butts is operating and tagging targets for other shooters. A butt is the work area where target maintenance and scoring operation takes place. They are protected by earthen mounds directly in front of them. Groupings of 50 targets each run the full length of the back of the extensive rifle range. There are openings in the earthen mounds between each 50-target group which allow target crews access to target butts. A platoon would either pull butts or fire at 25 targets at a time. Each target had a large sign in front of the protective earthen ridge identifying its number to the shooter. Target operations had its share of safety training procedures to keep target crews out of the line of fire and safe from flying debris.

On our first day out to our assigned butts, we were marched to their access between two large series of butt groups. As we turned right and behind the protective earthen walls, I noticed several large stakes with red ribbons on top of them. The stakes were to either side of an area about 10 feet wide. This area led directly to a creek which had mud banks on either side of it. This is the location where the recruits had been marched into Ribbon creek and six of them met their death. The stakes marked the area for use in the investigation into the matter. I felt a moment of sadness each time I passed the stakes on our way to and from target detail.

The day of actual firing finally came at the beginning of the second week. We were to take our first shots in the prone position three hundred feet from the target. I was in the group to fire first. We were given the order, "All ready on the left. All ready on the right. All ready on the firing line. Commence firing." As I took aim at the target, I was wondering just what this experience of firing the high-powered M1 was going to be like. While I was slowly pulling the trigger I heard a large explosion to my left. The pressure from the blast felt like it moved my body six inches to the right. Holy cow, I thought. This is going to be fun. At that point I fired my first shot, and what a kick from the rifle butt I got. I now understood why we trained over and over to keep the rifle butt firmly against our shoulder. If it was held loosely you could badly bruise your shoulder or break a collar bone. After this initial excitement I quickly took shooting targets in stride and became pretty good at it.

During the first week at the range we fired a shortened version of the course requirements. Rangers were at our side to help us learn all the fine details of getting the shot right. Each day after completing our firing, we were individually searched for any leftover rounds. This was a precaution being taken with all recruits on the range since the suicide which occurred in the Quonset hut three weeks earlier. I believe this search is standard practice today, 54 years later. By the third week we were in full stride. Each day we fired 50 rounds from six positions with a possible total score of 250. The first position was standing, firing 10 rounds, slow fire from 200 yards. The second was firing 5 rounds, sitting, slow fire from 300 yards. The third was firing 5 rounds kneeling, slow fire from 300 yards. The fourth was 10 rounds, prone position, rapid-fire from 300 yards. The fifth was 10 rounds, prone, slow-fire from 500 yards. And, the sixth position was 10 rounds, sitting, rapid-fire from 200 yards. I really enjoyed the firing range.

A Daylight Requisition

One day I was sitting on a bench at the firing range next to a New Orleans buddy of mine, Arthur Sauve. We were waiting for others to finish their firing in the standing position at the 200 yard firing line. I turned to the right and noticed Sergeant Tryndle talking to Lieutenant Swift, our Company Commander. After their conversation ended the sergeant sat down next to Arthur. He began talking to himself while looking straight ahead at the targets. "The captain said the Battalion had a field sprinkler stolen and he believes the firing range staff is responsible. He sure would like to get it back." Now I wondered why he chose the two of us to "discuss" this with him. What does he think about us recruits from New Orleans? It didn't take but a moment to realize this was not a direct order, but a firm request. I looked around and saw two large field sprinklers attached to very long hoses between the three and five hundred yard firing lines. These sprinklers had a shower radius of over one hundred feet. They were turned off. How could we (I) be able to get a sprinkler of this size off the giant hose in the wide open and not get caught. The challenge began to interest me. My buddy Arthur said, "I'm not doing it." I again looked back at the open area between the firing lines. I noticed there was a slight depression between the two long ridges that made up each firing line. The depression was about two feet deep and spanned 200 yards. The area was still in the wide open. I believed I figured it out. Luck would have to play a big part. This picture shows the exposure I faced. I took the picture in 2007 when I visited Parris Island 54 years after I left.

Our tents were located a hundred yards in the opposite direction from this view.

When the platoon moved back to the 300-yard firing line, I got into the kneeling position and quickly fired all my allotted rounds. After the target was raised and my score recorded, I got up and immediately began walking back to the 500-yard firing-position. As I got half way there, I knelt down on one knee next to a sprinkler. Damn! It was too big to put under my firing jacket. The only way it would fit was to disassemble it. I had to figure out how to do this in a hurry. I took the sprinkler off the hose and began taking it apart. By now I expected to be seen by one of our rangers or the firing-line maintenance staff. I continued my work until I had the sprinkler in small enough parts to fit under my jacket. I stood up and calmly walked off the firing range. I crossed the main road, passed the Quonset huts, and into our tent camp. I strolled into my squad's tent and tucked the parts under my pillow. I then walked back to the firing line. The platoon was already firing away on the 500-yard firing line. I took my firing position and completed my firing. I then located Sergeant Tryndle and sat down next to him. I stared straight ahead looking at the targets and said,

"Sir, I have the sprinkler, Sir." I thought he was going to have a heart attack.

"What the f---! Hornung! God damn it; get the f--- away from me. I don't want to get caught with it."

"Sir, I don't have it on me, Sir"

"Where the hell is it?"

"Sir, I have it back at camp, Sir!" The sergeant quickly got up and sat down about twenty feet away. Slowly, the coloring on his face returned to normal.

After the 500-yard prone firing was completed, we returned to the 200-yard firing line and finished ten rounds in the sitting position. The rangers searched us for rounds before we left the range. We then marched back to our camp. I waited for a couple of hours thinking I would get a call to approach the drill instructor's tent. I got no such call. At this point I figured I better find out what the sergeant wanted me to do with his new sprinkler. I marched off to his tent. Standing aside his front door, I gave it three strong raps and said.

"Sir, Private Hornung requests permission to speak to the drill instructor, Sir".

"Hornung, get in here!"

"Yes Sir!"

"What do you want, private?"

"Sir, it's about the sprinkler, Sir!"

"Keep your voice down damn it. Where is it?"

"Sir, it's under my pillow, Sir."

"How in the hell did you get it there, private?"

"Sir, I took it apart, hid it under my jacket, and walked it back to camp, Sir"

"You're sh---ing me, aren't you?"

"No Sir!"

"I told you to keep your f---ing voice down. I'll tell the captain about it, and get back to you tomorrow. In the meantime keep this to yourself."

"Yes Sir."

"Now get the hell out of my tent."

"Aye, Aye Sir!"

The next day the captain gave Sergeant Tryndle the OK and I snuck the sprinkler parts over to his tent.

Almost Top Gun

It was Monday of the third week of our training. This coming Friday was Record Day. On that day your score counted towards qualifying as a rifleman and medals for Marksman (190 points out of 250), Sharpshooter (210 points), and Expert (220 points or better). Heaven forbid, if you did not qualify as a rifleman. Each day we had the difficult task of snapping-in. Snapping-in is the practice of getting into each of the firing positions and holding the position for what seemed to be a long time. With exception of the prone position, each snap-in made you feel like you were a contortionist. This training was critical for providing a firm, steady platform which provided a steady aim. It was not fun. To encourage each of us to do better, Sergeant Carter, our junior D.I., added a contest to our marksmanship training. Whoever shot the best score of the day would not have to do snap-ins the next day. In addition, those who had the five top scores on Record Day would be assigned to the Officer's mess hall during the two weeks of mess duty. Recruits on officer mess hall duty were able to sleep an extra two hours in the morning, served far fewer men (officers), had a much more appealing work environment and casual weekends, and could see and hear the drive-in movie theater not far away. This detail was highly sought after. I had the top score on Monday, so Tuesday I chose to performed snap-ins at my leisure. Tuesday I had the high score again, so I snapped-in as much as I liked on Wednesday. Wednesday I slipped a little and was snapping-in a lot on Thursday. Thursday I returned to having the top score. That afternoon we cleaned our rifles meticulously for tomorrow would be the big day. Our scores would be recorded for all time and medals would be given to the deserving.

As we were diligently doing our work, Sergeant Carter climbed up onto the long rifle-cleaning rack and announced we will be cleaning our sight systems. This was going to be interesting. Not only were we not instructed on the proper method of disassembling and assembling it, we had it drilled into us by our rangers, we were never to do this. We wouldn't know if the sight system was assembled correctly until after our firing on Record day, tomorrow. At this point Sergeant Carter began to give us instructions on how to take the sight system apart, clean it, and put it back together again. I took mine apart, cleaned it, and put it back together again. We went to bed a little earlier to make sure we were well rested and had a steady trigger finger the next morning. I was hoping my firing accuracy would hold up, I would get an expert medal, and I would end up being in the top five shooters, so I could be assigned to the Officers' mess hall. Friday morning I rolled out of my cot, got dressed, and set off with the platoon for breakfast. After breakfast we returned to our tents and donned our rifle jackets, gathered our M1 rifles, and marched off to the rifle range. Many of us were pensive and quiet. Were we going to hold up to the pressure of competition, embrace it, screw up, or go through the motions and get it over with?

I had mastered the technique of sighting the target, ranging it by adjusting the sight the exact number of up and down clicks to compensate for the target's distance, and moving the sight left or right the necessary clicks to offset the wind's speed over the distance to the target. I had developed my technique for delicately squeezing the trigger while relaxing my cheek against the rifle stock. The one thing I had to avoid was concentrating on how I was doing during the shooting match.

This is critical in all sports when competing at the highest levels. Ice skaters, professional football players, slalom ski racers, etc. have to concentrate on the now and what's next. If you mess up, you immediately forget it and continue on. If you don't, your next move can be affected in a negative way. I had discovered this in reverse fashion only three days earlier. I was shooting ten rounds, slow fire, in the prone position from five hundred yards. As usual, the ranger was entering the results of my firing into my scoring book. I wasn't paying any attention to the results. After the eighth shot I became conscious of a long series of bull's-eye shots. I said to the ranger,

"My goodness, I think I have eight straight bull's eyes."

"Just pay attention to your shooting Hornung", the ranger responded.

Then it happened. Shot nine was just off the bull's eye. I concentrated harder on the next shot. Number ten, just off the bull's eye. There it was. Too much concentration, too much trying, and the knowledge of how well I was doing combined to mess up my accuracy. This would be my main challenge during the match.

When we arrived at our first shooting position, I prepared myself by disengaging the analytical part of my brain and letting skill take control of me. During each of the firing positions I ignored my scoring. After firing ten rounds, prone position from five hundred yards, we moved up to the last firing position, three hundred yards, rapid fire, sitting position. This firing position was the easiest for me. I unclipped the rifle sling from the butt of the stock and made an arm sling with the lose end. I then put my left arm into the arm-sling. I adjusted the sling's length for steadying my left arm and got in the sitting firing position. I commenced zeroing in my sight. I turned the sight system range knob all the way down, lowering my sight to the zero position. I centered the left-right windage knob. Then I turned the range knob three clicks in the up position and turned the windage knob one click right to compensate for the wind coming from the left. This was my sight setting for 300 yards. All of the 25 targets rose at once with a three second long rolling sound. We had 60 seconds to get off ten shots. Over the speaker system, came the call, "All ready on the left. All ready on the right. All ready on the firing line. Commence firing." With my brain "detached" I began firing. After the recoil from each shot, I reset my stance and took aim again. The cease-firing signal sounded. I had my ten shots within the 60 seconds. The target disappeared below the earthen barrier in front of the butts. I then became aware of Sergeant Carter and Lieutenant Swift standing next to me. Sergeant Carter asked,

"How you think you did Hornung?"

"Sir, I think I did pretty well, Sir."

A few moments later my target reappeared with each of the ten shots marked. I was shocked. All of the rounds were in a nice tight pattern below the bull's eye in the second outer ring. Each shot was only worth 3 points for a total of 30 points. Ten bull eyes at five points each would have given me 50 points. I had lost 20 points. All of the sudden Sergeant Carter yelled at me,

"What the f--- happened Hornung?"

"I don't know, Sir!"

While I was sitting on the ground he ripped my rifle out of my hand and began looking at the sight. To make sure I had sighted my rifle correctly he turned the range knob down and counts the clicks. No clicks, the sight was already all the way down in the start position for the sighting procedure. He then curses at me for not properly sighting the rifle before shooting. This I couldn't believe. Sergeant Carter turned the range knob a few clicks to raise the eyepiece. The sight eyepiece was not responding to click-turns of the range knob. I then panicked. How many of the firing positions has this been happening? Meantime Sergeant Carter went into a rage. He slammed my rifle into the dirt. Then he and the captain walked off. I was totally puzzled as to what this condemnation of my marksmanship was all about.

I really did a complete job of being thoughtless during my firing. I had no idea of my scoring. After the ranger entered my total score and officially signed my record book, he handed it to me. I quickly looked at the scores for each of the shooting positions to determine if the sight system problem affected other firing positions. I had very high scores at each shooting position. My total score was 217 three points shy of the top medal, Expert. I had earned a Sharpshooter medal. My score could have been a 237 out of a possible 250.

The presence of Lieutenant Swift at my last firing position was extraordinary. They must have been keeping track of my scoring. It indicated I had a good chance of being the best shooter in the Second Battalion as well as Platoon 180. I was very disappointed. I recalled our chief range instructor telling us emphatically to never breakdown our sight systems. Sergeant Carter had done me in when he made us breakdown our sight systems. Somehow a gear inside the system became disengaged prior to the start of my sighting sequence on the last firing position. When all of the scores were posted that afternoon, I received some good news. I was in the top five shooters of the platoon. I would be going to serve in the Officer's mess hall during our two weeks of mess duty. This was a nice reward.

In doing research on this subject, I reviewed several issues of "The Parris Island BOOT", a weekly paper published during the time I was a recruit at Parris Island. The issue published after our platoon's graduation had an article on the top shooters from each of the three Battalions that graduated on September 21, 1956. The top recruit score of all three Battalions was from the "rebel" platoon. His score was 235 out of 250. Had my sight system not failed, I could have beaten that score.

The Visitation

After lunch we packed all our gear and returned our firing jackets. We were called to fall-in at attention and began our march back to our home barracks in Second Battalion. We were fully loaded with our packs, canteens, bayonets, and rifles. A pack consisted of a haversack, knapsack, ammo belt, suspenders, and blanket roll. A platoon marches four abreast in a long column. Three rows of four men make up a squad. With six squads, Platoon 180 comprised 18 rows. The amount of drill instruction and practice it took to orchestrate precision in the movement and direction of the squads and the platoon was extensive. After the many weeks of hard work we had reached almost perfection in executing drill maneuvers. With the rifle range behind us, we were no longer raw recruits.

Coming down the road, with our platoon flag fluttering in the breeze was quite a sight to raw recruits and visitors. I was positioned on the outside, left column of the platoon. I could see the oncoming traffic, what little there was. After 10 minutes of marching, I noticed a Ford station wagon coming toward us. When it approached the platoon it began to slow down. I could see a sergeant in the driver's seat and a family that filled the car. When the car began to pass me, I heard, "There he is, there he is, hey Johnny!" I looked straight ahead and ignored the call. To my complete surprise I realized it was my family. What the heck were they doing here on Parris Island? Man, am I going to catch hell. The car passed the platoon. In seconds it was back, driving at my side with my brothers all trying to get my attention. I wouldn't dare look at them or respond in any way. "Hey Johnny! It's Mike. Why won't you talk to us? We dropped by to see you." I marched on not batting an eye. Our D.I.s drummed into us to dislike the civilian life we left behind and civilians in general. Now I had a carload of them wanting to visit me on this, of all military bases. I didn't know what to expect or what tragedy this visit would bring. We got back to our barracks, stowed our gear and relaxed before chow time.

"Hornung, the drill instructor wants you right away", someone yelled. Off I went. I was informed I was to visit with my family after chow and during the day on Saturday. I was instructed as to where my family would be waiting for me. My family and I were glad to see one another. They had plenty of questions about my training and life as a Marine recruit. I had one big question for them. Why did they come to visit me? The answer was a good one. They decided to come by and visit me on their way to camping in the Smokey Mountains. It was a family ritual to go camping for two weeks in the Smokey Mountains every summer. The visit went well. Saturday afternoon I said goodbye and off they went.

Penalty Box, Bad Call

On Sunday we were called to order and given our mess duty assignments for the next two weeks. Although I was one of the top five shooters in the platoon, I was not to be assigned to the Officer's mess hall as promised. I was going to the recruit mess hall. Now I knew I was in the penalty box for the visit from my family.

Monday morning we were awakened by the loud racket of a coke bottle being rolled in a circle against the inside of a large, corrugated steel trashcan. This was our alarm clock. It went off at 0330 instead of 0530. We quickly shaved, showered and dressed. The lucky five shooters were living close to the Officer's mess and wouldn't be awakened until 0500. The order was given to fall in on the road in front of the barracks. We lined up in our squad positions and formed three lines of 24 men.

"Platoon! Squads-left, Huw!" growled the D.I. And, off we marched.

It was two blocks to the mess hall. We entered the mess hall and were given our assigned workstations. I was given a special workstation. It was the garbage shack. This was the lowest of all assignments. The garbage shack was located 45 feet behind the mess hall. It was a 15-foot by 15 foot isolated building with a hip roof which had a two-foot overhang. It was supported by four steel corner posts and posts on either side of its single door. The walls of the building were made of horizontal steel straps 3/4 inches wide and an eighth of an inch thick. There were 1.5-inch gaps between the straps. Air and sight could easily enter and pass through the garbage shack. A large single door was made of chain-link fencing. It hung on the wall furthest from the back dock of the mess hall. The door had a chain and lock to secure it. The inside of the rear and side walls were lined by a single support shelf. The shelf was made of two-inch steel pipes and the same steel strapping that was on the walls. The shelf was one and a half feet off the floor and two and a half feet wide. On the shelf were stacks of large, well used corrugated, galvanized steel garbage cans. A large drain covered with a steel grate was in the center of the shack. The place looked like a torture chamber. Just outside the building stood a vertical pipe which had a long, thick, black hose attached to it. On the end of the hose was a nozzle with a handgrip which controlled high-pressure steam. The steam-hose was used to sterilize the garbage cans once they were emptied into a garbage truck or pig-slop wagon. The place was filthy and had a stench that could only make a pig happy. This was to be my work location for the next fourteen days. Somehow I must have severely ruffled the delicate feathers of my drill instructors. I figured I was paying a heavy price for my family's surprise visit.

Life in the garbage shack was difficult in many ways. In the afternoons the temperatures would get up to 95 or even 105 degrees. The pavement surrounding the area created additional heat. I was not allowed in the mess hall except to eat meals, go to the bathroom, and get a drink of water. My job was to collect the garbage cans from the exit doors of the mess hall. They were filled with a soupy, smelly sludge. Two of us had to carry them from the mess hall all the way back to the garbage shack. The cans were extremely heavy. I made sure they were placed as far away from the shack as it was allowed. The sludge filled cans were for the pig farmers. Cans filled with trash, coffee grounds, and the like, were set aside for the garbage truck. Two of us had to lift the sludge cans up onto the back of the pig farmer's wagons. After the cans were emptied, I sterilized them with the steam hose. To reduce the pungent odors drifting in and out of my workstation, I would have to make the garbage shack as clean as possible. I emptied the shack of all the many cans and lids. I took the steam hose and sterilized the rafters, the inside and outside walls, the steel shelf, the concrete floor, and the concrete surrounding the shack. I then steamed cleaned every can and lid, inside and out. When the cans dried, I stacked them and the lids back on the shelf. I had the place spic and span and without any odor.

With the intense heat I was burning up additional calories and trying to survive. Hunger was my companion. Now and then while our troops were serving recruits in the mess hall, I would get a call from the hall loading dock, "Garbage man". I would then go to the dock and retrieve trash, milk cartons, boxes, etc. One day when one of my buddies came to the dock and yelled for garbage pickup I got there before he could disappear back inside the mess hall. I asked if he could leave some milk in a milk carton, once in a while. He thought I was crazy.

"You know what would happen if I got caught," he said.

"I don't think anyone would know if there was milk left in a carton on its way to the garbage."

"Hornung, you could get us both in trouble." He turned and walked off the dock.

The next day I answered one of the calls, "Garbage man". I got out of the shack and went over to the dock. No one was on the dock. When I picked up the milk cartons, I could feel one was heavier than the other. My buddy had taken the risk. From that day on I would get treated twice a day to extra milk. A couple of other friends were pitching in to help.

By the beginning of the second week of garbage duty, I had figured out the routine of the bakery trucks. During the early morning and before dinner, a bakery truck would pull up and roll off six-foot-tall racks of baked goods. Well, maybe there is another opportunity here? I took two garbage cans and sterilized them twice. I determined there was too much activity around the dock during the morning delivery to take the risk of getting a sample of baked goods. The racks were rolled off the dock into the mess hall too quickly. My opportunity would be before dinner. I studied the timing of the delivery, the delay of the racks on the dock, and the habits of the mess hall senior staff. After a delivery, I went up the steps to the dock and casually looked around. I saw cookies, cakes, and fresh bread. This was too much temptation for me. I strolled inside and went to the head. I returned to my shack. The risk had diminished to a point where the reward outweighed the chance of consequences of relieving my hunger. I would try the heist tomorrow.

Along about 1030, I was laying on the steel shelf resting from the intense heat. I was hidden by the stacks of garbage cans. I sensed someone approaching the shack. It was one of our drill instructors. I was sitting on the shelf when he peered into the shack. Nothing was said and he moved on. By 1500 I was full of anticipation. The delivery truck was due at 1530. When it arrived, I watched from my shack as it was being unloaded. The racks were rolled onto the dock and the empty ones from the morning's delivery rolled on to the truck. The truck drove away. I waited ten minutes for things to settle down and to make sure the racks were being left alone. I nonchalantly walked out of the shack, up the steps, and onto the dock. I collected two pieces of cake and two servings of cookies from trays stored in different bakery racks. I calmly walked down the steps and into my garbage shack. I quickly separated the two cans I had specially cleaned, placed the goodies in the bottom of one and placed the second can into it. The stacking allowed enough separation between the cans for storage. This went pretty well. I didn't go hungry for the rest of the week!

One day a D.I. came to check up on me. He entered the shack and inspected the place. He looked down into each of the stacks of garbage cans. He didn't un-stack any of the cans. I didn't know if this was a normal inspection or if the mess hall senior staff noticed a few missing bakery items. I know he must have been impressed as to the cleanliness of the place. I survived the rest of the second week of solitude. My back was sore from lifting and carrying the heavy garbage cans. My hands were so swollen I could only bend them in a shallow arc. My face and lips were swollen from the sun and intense heat. You can notice this while looking at my photo taken just after mess duty. You also can barely see a vertical one inch scar between my eyebrows, the result from being intentionally hit by the hook on the zip wire used in our training in the swimming pool.

No Way to Treat a Top Gun

It wasn't until 30 years after my experience at Parris Island that I learned why I was punished so harshly with the garbage shack detail. When I worked at Headquarters U.S. Customs Service in Washington, D.C., I discovered the manager of the Customs Service Data Center was a former D.I. He served as a D.I. at Parris Island the year before I arrived there. During our conversation he mentioned D.I.s from different Companies and Battalions would place bets on their Platoons. One of the bets was who had the best Top Gun at the rifle range. There it was. My sergeants and Company officers must have placed a wad of money on their Top Gun, me, only to have it screwed up by Sergeant Carter insisting we strip, clean and reassemble our M1 sight system. Now, I understood Sergeant Carter's rage when I scored badly on the very last target on Record Day. The gambling on Platoons was also confirmed in discussions I've had with officers who served in Marine Corps Boot Camps. My belief, that I was badly mistreated because my family surprised me with a visit at Parris Island, was misplaced. I'm glad I never told my family about what happened to me after they were kind enough to visit.

Double or Nothing

On the Saturday, after returning from mess duty, we were told to fall-in in front of our barracks. We were marched over to an obstacle-course located in First Battalion. These courses are used to test physical endurance. We were quite familiar with this type of course. Soon a second platoon from First Battalion showed up. Sergeant Carter announced that the two Platoons were to compete in a relay to see which platoon was the best in the obstacle-course. Their 10 best men will be against our 10 best men. He then read out the names of our ten competitors. I was number four. Had I figured out I was severely punished because of a major screw-up caused by Sergeant Carter when betting on me at the rifle range, I would have taken to the obstacle-course like an 84 year old woman on crutches. This was not the case. I was naive to what went on and was still in boot-camp survival mode. "On your mark, get set, go!" one sergeant hollered. The first recruit from each team took off running. They hit the first obstacle. Each platoon cheered as loud as it could. Our man got the lead by the second obstacle. He finished all ten obstacles just as the First Battalion man got to the third obstacle. Our second man was tagged and off he went. He over took our opponent's first man and completed the ten obstacles by the time the First Battalion man got to the sixth obstacle. Our third man was tagged and went like hell through the course. He entered his tenth obstacle just as their first man completed his tenth obstacle. Our number-three man then tagged me and I bolted. When I completed my round of obstacles, we were so far ahead our platoon's cheering began to die down. The cheering soon turned to cackles and snide remarks heaped at our opposition. Our D.I.s won this bet, assuming they bet on us. It was no contest. We marched back to our barracks wondering what kind of exercise program was being used at First Battalion.

Starving Time

My first military medical exam took place nine days before I arrived at Parris Island. My weight was recorded on June 10, 1956 as 138 lbs. My height was recorded as 5 feet 9 1/2 inches. When I headed off to Marine Corps Boot Camp on June 19, 1956, I was as lean as one could be without being medically rejected for not weighing enough. I seemed to be hungry most of the time I was on Parris Island. No doubt it was due to the calories burned during the extensive physical training, the intense heat, and the constant mind games we were subjected to. We were given only one average size serving for each of our daily three meals by the chow hall staff. We had no access to snacks or drinks with the exception of water. Almost all recruits lost weight during boot camp. I was often plagued with hunger pains. I had to figure out how I could obtain additional food to lessen the amount of pain. I found three additional ways to do this while "enjoying" my stay on the island.

On Sundays we were allowed to attend church services. Services were held at different times in the morning depending on your choice of religion. I was one of only six Catholics in our platoon. A half hour before early Mass, the few Catholics would form up in front of the barracks. We would march ourselves off to church which was a few blocks away. On the way back to our Battalion we would go the mess hall for breakfast. When we arrived at the hall, we individually approached the D.I. which had the last platoon waiting in line. We would say,

"Sir! This recruit requests permission to go to the end of the platoon, Sir!"

"Permission granted."

"Aye, Aye Sir!"

We would then go to the rear of the platoon and wait with the platoon to enter the mess hall. After entering the mess hall, I would keep my head lowered so the servers wouldn't notice me. I would eat eggs, bacon, grits, toast, etc. as fast as I could. Then I would go out an exit in a manner such that the Platoons waiting outside the chow hall couldn't see me leaving. I would then approach their D.I. and say,

"Sir! This recruit requests permission to go to the end of the platoon, Sir!"

"Permission granted."

"Aye, Aye Sir!"

On my second trip through the chow line I would hit the SOS, bananas, more coffee, and other selections I missed on the first visit. I left the mess hall a contented man. Sometimes, when I got back to my barracks, I would get the question from my fellow Catholics; How come it takes you so long to leave the mess hall? I told them my mother told me to chew my food slowly, or made up another excuse.

Another, but infrequent, chow line trick I used was to walk along the line slowly with my tray barely above the food. As a server was looking away, I would use my fingers which were under the tray to lift food off the serving line. Held tightly under the bottom of the food tray, the food could not be detected. When I got to the table I would drop it in my lap or scoot it onto the tray.

I already mentioned the acquisition of milk and bakery items while in the garbage shack. The third effort to obtain adequate nourishment appeared unexpectedly. One of my assignments while on guard duty was the Telephone Center. The center was located in the bottom floor of a two story, wooden, white building. The inside of the center was plain and simple. The room was 30 feet by 40 feet. It had an information area manned by a clerk and five telephone booths. Also in the center were a soda vending machine and a candy vending machine. I was to make sure nothing went wrong in the Telephone Center. This was my first opportunity to exercise authority as a Marine. The phone booths had double folding doors which, when closed, made it hard to hear what was said. I assumed the few people who entered the booths were saying what they were supposed to say, so my job was pretty boring. Now you really shouldn't put a hungry recruit, who has not seen candy or soft drinks for 11 weeks, and these two vending machines in the same place. But, here we were. Now the challenge was how to get us together without being caught. There were long periods of time when there were no customers visiting the Telephone Center. I figured opportunity has again raised its beautiful head. So, as I stood at ease, I reached into my pocket to retrieve some change. To my surprise, there was no change. Then, reality set in. I never carried cash. Damn! What a loss. My guard duty shift ended at 2100 and I returned to my barracks very disappointed. The next morning I went to the D.I.'s hallway and read the posting of guard stations for that day. Bingo! I couldn't believe my eyes. I had another boring station assignment, the Telephone Center from 1700 to 2100. My! My! Opportunity knocks twice. This time I'm going to be prepared. I went to my foot locker. I dialed the combination, pulled the lock, and lifted the lid. I made a cash withdraw, all coins, then closed and locked the foot locker. I had an early dinner at the mess hall, returned to my barracks, put on my guard gear, and left for the Telephone Center with my M1 rifle.

On my arrival at the center, I met the standing guard, a recruit from another platoon. We did the official transfer of the post and he left. I was all alone but for the telephone clerk. I stood at ease for an hour or so. Only three customers came and went. I would casually walk across the center, now and then, just to keep my back from hurting. When I passed the candy vending machine, it seemed to say, here I am, take me. That was too much. I got my change ready for the next pass. I waited a short while and started my move in the direction of the vending machine. When I came up to it I pulled the change from my pocket. As I began eyeing the selection of candy, the front door of the center opened abruptly. It was a sergeant. This was a trap. They caught me. I froze. Then, I casually looked away from the candy machine. I put on my guard duty persona and walked to the door and stood there with my M1. I was the only one who noticed me. That was luck. A second try was in order. After of short period of no phone customers, I checked the clerk. He was ignoring me and seemed occupied reading a book. I casually strolled up to the candy machine took out a few coins and purchased four candy bars. I slipped the bars into my shirt and walked across the room. Wow! Got that over with! The Telephone Center had a window air conditioner. The place was cool, a real treat for me. The cool temperature kept the candy bars from melting under my shirt.

After another hour of standing I was bored and getting sore. I had another hour and a half at my post. Finally, my brain began to wake up.

" _How about a soda?" it said._

" _How in the hell am I going to drink a soda while standing here on guard duty," I responded._

" _Well, you have a canteen don't you?"_

" _Yea, but do you think nobody will hear the clunk of the soda as it hits the opening when it comes out?"_

" _That is a problem isn't it?"_

I walked by the soda vending machine and took a glance at the selection. Barqs Root Beer! My favorite!

" _Look brain, you've giving me an idea. What if I get someone to put my money in the machine and hand me the soda?"_

" _It will work", it responded._

" _OK, we have a plan, but, no Sergeants right."_

" _Right, all we need now is a willing person who needs to make a late night long-distance call." Brain and I didn't have to wait long._

In came a private. He went over to the information clerk, then over to one of the phone booths. I waited until he finished his call and approached him as he exited the booth.

"Excuse me Private. Could you do me a favor?"

"I suppose so."

"Could you take this dime and buy me a Barqs Root Beer?"

"Can't you do that yourself?"

"No, I can't drink while I'm on guard duty."

"OK, give me the dime." Clink, Clank, Shakunk! "Here it is."

"Thanks!"

I went to a corner of the room, opened the canteen and began filling it. It began to fizz-up badly. The warm canteen made it difficult to continue filling it. Now I'm stuck with the root beer in one hand, the canteen in the other, and my M1 leaning against the wall. Not a professional sight I would say. Could be worse if the Sergeant-of-the-Guard came walking in the door. I continued sucking the foam, pouring the root beer, sucking the foam, until the canteen was filled. I set the empty can on the windowsill, screwed on the cap of the canteen, and snapped the canvass cover over it. Just then the front door opens sharply. It was somebody's sergeant. I gently picked up my rifle and put on my guard-post demeanor. The sergeant went to a phone booth and made a call. As he left the booth he noticed the root beer can on the windowsill.

"What's this Private?" the sergeant asked.

"Sir, a soft drink can. Sir", I responded.

"What's it doing there?"

"It's probably empty. Sir"

"Then get rid of it! Try to keep this place squared away. You hear!"

"Yes Sir!"

As he walked off, I picked up the can and placed it in the trash bin. The clerk caught my eye and gave a smile. 2100 couldn't come soon enough.

I finally got back to my barracks and stored my gear. I tucked my four candy bars under my pillow and took a shower. At 2130 the lights went out and the fire watch patrol began his circling of our bunks and hallway. I made sure he was headed to the other end of the barracks before I enjoyed my wonderful hometown root beer. The next evening I pulled out one of my candy bars. A fellow recruit in the next bunk caught me doing it.

"Where in the hell did you get that?" he asked.

"I just went down the street and got it from a vending machine."

"Yea, Right!"

All solders receive a medical exam when leaving active duty. I received mine on December 10, 1956 at the end of my six months obligation. The report from the medical exam records my weight being 161 lbs. I had managed to gain 23 lbs of muscle in spite of the physical demands of the training I received. My caloric intake schemes paid off handsomely.

The D.I.s Weren't Through Toying With Us Yet

We are now a little over a week from graduation and going home on leave. Sergeant Carter had us fall-in and we marched over to the barber shop for our final haircut. We were made skin heads when we first arrived. Over eleven and a half weeks our hair has grown to a point where we had nice looking crew cuts. Sergeant Carter went into the barbershop, said something to the barbers, and came out. The first eight men are ordered into the barbershop. They came out in half the time expected of a crew cut. They had their helmet liners on and looked upset. The next eight went in, and they came out extremely aggravated. Those of us further down the line finally got wind of what was going on. Everybody was coming out with shaved heads. This was humiliating. A few of our men had the guts to show their displeasure by throwing their helmet liners down on the barbershop porch as they exited. Sergeant Carter did not chastise them. Wow! This is a first for both parties. I kept my mouth shut and thought bad things of Sergeant Carter and the rest of our D.I.s. I wonder if one of the bets between the Battalions' Sergeants and Officers required the losing D.I.s to have their recruit's heads shaved.

We knew this skin-heading was going to give us trouble outside of our platoon. The shorter a recruit's hair, the rawer the recruit was. This attracted abuse from other D.I.s and senior recruits when opportunities arose. Immediately after receiving our "haircuts", we began to receive harassment from the mess hall recruits on the chow line, the food guards, and the scullery personnel. Senior recruits behind the chow line intimidated new recruits as a standard practice. New recruits were "ordered" to move along unnecessarily and food was purposefully placed on their trays in a sloppy manner. Bananas were shoved down to squash the pads of butter. Senior recruits washing dishes in the scullery would yell intimidating instructions at new recruits, and recruit guards stationed at the exits would be more aggressive in their demeanor when directing new recruits to go back and eat the rest of their food. Needless to say we weren't going to stand for this kind of treatment from recruits our junior.

Our guys were ticked to say the least. They not only stood toe to toe with the mess hall recruit staff, they stepped all over them. When having their food messed with on the chow line, I saw them grab the serving spoon out of their hand and begin serving themselves. When harassed by the scullery crew they threw their metal trays, flatware, and cups all together at them. And, when the recruit guard demanded they finish all their meal, they would play like they didn't understand. When the guard got more demanding and upset, they would stare him in the face as they dropped their tray, flatware, and cup into the sloppy garbage can standing in front of him. We weren't to be trifled with any more.

Two days before we were to go on leave to visit our families, I decided to try and do something about my eight day growth on my head. I got out my three inch scissors, which was part of my official sewing kit. It had rounded points on the tips so it couldn't be used as a weapon. It was sharp enough just to cut thread. I went to the head and stood at the mirror. I carefully began cutting the top of my hair so it would resemble a flat top. It worked. I now looked as if I was further along in re-growing my hair. A buddy of mine admired my new style and asked if I would cut his hair. I sat him down on a footlocker and trimmed his top. It looked better. Soon I had others asking for a trim. My fingers were a little sore from the tiny scissors. However, I continued charging a quarter for each trim. They were happy to oblige.

Who is missing?

Prior to graduation, the platoon was assembled for its official photograph. I am in the fourth row, fifth Marine from the right.

I counted the number of recruits in our platoon picture. There were 71 graduating recruits and three of our Drill Instructors. We began with 72 recruits. I can't remember the exact circumstances as to the one vacancy. Two situations come to mind.

In the second or third day of our arrival at Parris Island, we were brought to a processing-in center and issued all of our clothes, boots, and other gear. We placed all of these items into a giant field transport pack weighing 72 pounds. We were marched to our barracks and forced to stand at attention holding the giant pack with its strap over our left shoulder. We were being yelled at and told nobody was to make the slightest move. This was a setup. It was evident we were going to be kept standing at attention until a movement was seen. We stood and stood and stood. I could see out of the corner of my eye the recruit to my right was trying to keep the strap on his left shoulder from slipping by raising his shoulder very slightly. A junior D.I. caught notice of this. He ran over, stood in front of him and began yelling at him. The recruit just stood silently. His strap slipped slightly and his shoulder moved. The D.I. grabbed the recruit by the neck and began banging his head against the steel bedpost. He continued yelling, "I told you not to make a move god damn it. Who told you to move?" He kept banging his head until the bedpost cut into it and blood ran down the back of his neck and splattered onto the bed. The recruit eventually fainted and fell to the floor. The D.I. continued yelling for him to get up off the floor. I quickly realized each recruit had to fend for himself, and we were being confronted by a well planned system which supported and condoned the D.I.'s behavior. It bothered me badly that I did not make a move to help the recruit. I knew I would suffer severe consequences, if I were to defend him or stop the D.I. The D.I. was likely testing me as much as he was the injured recruit. The recruit revived. He was put on a stretcher and sent to sickbay. Within a couple of weeks he passed out two more times and had to be treated. He received a medical discharge and returned home shortly after his third treatment. He was probably dressed in a pink suit, signifying to his family that he was not medically fit for the US Marines. The junior D.I., who slammed his head repeatedly until he passed out, was removed from our platoon. We later found him in a training position at the bayonet training center. The absence of this recruit may have been why there were only 71 in the platoon photo. Or, could it have been from another situation, if the injured recruit was replaced by another recruit early in our training?

One Saturday after lunch, the platoon was scheduled to wash clothes. We got our buckets, Fels Naphtha Soap, wooden brushes, and dirty clothes and assembled at the very long concrete wash tables. We scrubbed our clothes, rinsed them in buckets, and hung them on clotheslines to dry. I was assigned a two-hour clothesline watch. The platoon was marched off to the Second Battalion drill field for "extra" drilling. Being the weekend, no other Platoons were on the drill field. At the end of my two-hour watch, a member of the platoon relieved me and I went to the drill field. When I joined the platoon, I could see my fellow recruits had been through a difficult time. The temperature was hotter than blazes and some of our recruits were out of water. About five minutes after I joined the ranks, the platoon was marching along in column formation, four abreast with 18 rows. As we marched, one, then another, then a third of our recruits passed out and landed hard on the searing asphalt. They just fell like rocks. The platoon began to stop to avoid hitting their bodies. The D.I. began yelling and cursing at us, "God damn it, who told you to stop or break ranks? You are to do as you are told." While three of our recruits lay unconscious on the hot asphalt, the D.I. began marching us toward them. He ordered us not to break ranks and to march on top of them. When each one of us reached a body, we stepped over it. This made the D.I. madder. We were ordered to a halt. We were then ordered to step on the recruits when we got to them. He gave the orders, "Forward Hug! Column right Hug! Column right Hug! Column right Hug!" This brought the bodies directly in front of the platoon. When we got to them, we sadly obeyed the command and stumbled over the three bodies. The D.I. ordered us to repeat this nasty deed. As we approached the recruit bodies, we heard an angry cry and saw an officer running towards us from the Second Battalion Headquarters' offices adjacent to the drill field. We were ordered to halt. The officer had words with our D.I., but we couldn't hear what he said. The D.I. seemed to be surprised someone was in the Second Battalion offices on the weekend. The platoon was ordered to drink from their canteens. Not many of us had water in them. The officer chastised the drill instructor for letting this happen. We stood in position while ambulances were called to help our three recruits. Two of them revived while on stretchers. One was saying he did not want to go to the hospital. He was worried about the rule, any recruit who stays longer than two days in sickbay will be sent to a platoon which is two weeks or more behind our training schedule. Following this incident, the D.I. made sure our canteens were full. However, he wouldn't let us drink from them. I can remember only two of the three making it back on the second day. Maybe the third recruit was the one missing in the platoon graduation photo. I wonder if his suit would have been pink or yellow. I guess pink.

Cover Boy

Platoon 180 had two weeks to go before boot camp graduation. After mess duty we were measured for our summer and winter uniforms. Someone in the platoon suggested we graduate in dress blues. Dress blues were optional uniforms. The idea caught on and a vote was taken. We would pay for dress blues out of our pay and wear them during graduation. We wore dress blue jacket props when our portraits were taken for the Platoon 180, graduation book. For me the dress blue uniform was costly. I didn't have extra money for such extravagance. However, I did get to wear the classy uniform to New Orleans Mardi Gras Balls over the next four years. I didn't have to rent a tux for the Black Tie galas. I even got an extra call-out dance at a Ball from an unknown masked lady who said she always wanted to dance with a Marine. At the end of the dance she gave me the most attractive favor (gift) I have ever received, a beautiful pen and pencil set. Giving a favor to your male dance partner was protocol for a lady's call-out dance.

Our platoon graduated on September 21, 1956. Official Marine Corps photographers took photographs of our graduation ceremony. We looked sharp in our dress blues. It was a moment we were all waiting for. A year later I discovered one of the photographs taken of our platoon was of me with the front line of the platoon to my right. It became the photo chosen for the cover of all Parris Island platoon books for about five years. How ironic is that!

This is a graduation photograph of Platoon 180. I'm on the far right.

When I visited Parris Island in March 2007, one of the changes I noticed was Parris Island now has a "Family Day" prior to graduation. The island is covered with recruit families visiting their sons and daughters. Large stands have been put up on the edge of the parade field so the families can view their sons and daughters march, receive rewards and graduate. None of this existed in 1956. Visitations were neither encouraged nor wanted. It is much better now.

Assignments, Home, and Back Again

After our graduation ceremony, we returned to our barracks. We were mustered together to hear a D.I. announce each of our career assignments. The six of us from New Orleans were the very first Marines to enter the Navy's six-month reserve program. Because of this we were the only ones in our platoon who knew our destination after boot camp, Advanced Combat Training at LeJeune, NC, followed by aircraft mechanics school in Jacksonville, FL. A few days before we were to graduate, Sergeant Carter overheard some of us discussing the chance we would go into the infantry, tank division, or other careers. One of our New Orleans recruits mentioned the six of us were going to LeJeune, NC for Combat Training then on to Jacksonville, FL for aircraft mechanics school. As Sergeant Carter walked by he said, "We will see about that!" The folks at Parris Island wrote on my aptitude test record, Recommended Assignment: Infantry. When Sergeant Carter announced each of the names of our New Orleans' Marines from the career roster, he said, Aircraft Mechanic. He wasn't pleased. I'm sure he wanted me to be a "ground pounder". On September 23rd I was transferred to Casual Company, Headquarter and Service Battalion, Parris Island. We were given 11 days of leave and I headed home.

I was glad to see my family, friends, and spend time with my girlfriend. One day during the week, I got dressed in my uniform and visited my high school, Cor Jesu (now called Brother Martin). I purposefully chose to arrive at the beginning of lunch hour. I didn't care to run into Brother Gordian, the teacher who unjustly managed my flunking the junior year. I got to spend time with my former classmates who were now seniors. They were glad to see me and we enjoyed getting together again. I did get a bit of surprising news. The high school principal, Brother Flavian, had arranged for his sibling, Brother Gordian, to be shipped off to New York to design a science lab for one of their high schools. I also learned five of my former junior class, who Brother Gordian also contrived to fail, managed to be reinstated during the past summer. They were now seniors. Their parents had threatened to take their son's grades and move them to other schools. Their numeric grades were high enough to be admitted to those schools as seniors. They complained so much about the treatment Brother Gordian gave their sons Brother Flavian rescinded their failing and let them continue on as seniors at Cor Jesu, only a few weeks prior to my visit at the school. My parents raised no such complaint on my behalf.

I returned to Parris Island on October 5. I spent a couple of nights in the brick barracks at Headquarters and Service Battalion. I was assigned odd jobs to fill my short time before heading to infantry combat training.

Combat Training

On October 6, 1956 I arrived, with the other five members of VMF 143, at Camp Geiger. Camp Geiger is the Marine Corps' Infantry Combat Training School located within Camp LeJeune Marine Corps Base, North Carolina. Camp Geiger consisted of Quonset hut living quarters with basic support facilities such as: mess hall, canteen, movie house, PX, bar, photo center, chapel, etc. The camp's front gate was located on highway 17. The camp is adjacent to the town of Jacksonville, North Carolina. Life at Camp Geiger was much better than life on Parris Island. There was discipline without all the hollering and cursing at us. There was no calling us, faggot, ass h---, or four letter words, or hearing such things as: "Are you queer for me boy?" After a day of training we were on our own. We had a few beers now and then, played Hearts, relaxed, wrote letters, etc. On the weekends we could go off base and tour around. We six New Orleans Marines were stationed at Camp Geiger for only 25 days. Our training there was cut short because we were stationed on Parris Island longer than expected. Three events stand out in my memory of Camp Geiger, the rifle obstacle course, direction finding training, and a reconnaissance exercise.

Groundhog Day

Our infantry training centers were located anywhere from a mile to five miles from our living quarters. We were shuttled back and forth from our quarters to the training centers in the most god-awful transports. They were eighteen wheelers. The tractor pulled a long "passenger" trailer rig. The rig was made from the standard enclosed trailer that is seen all over our highways. It was filled with steel straight-back bench seats to either side of a central aisle. Each bench seat held three soldiers. When you sat down, your knees touched the back of the steel seat in front of you. Some of our training required us to wear our full packs while being transported to the training site. The lack of any additional legroom required us to lean forward to accommodate the packs on our backs. The sides of the trailer were cut open from the height of our shoulder to the top of our head. There were no windows to close. When traveling down the bumpy dirt roads, clouds of dirt and dust would periodically pour into the trailer. The ride was spine jarring at times. The eighteen wheeler transports were affectionately referred to as "cattle cars".

One morning after a good breakfast of SOS, we picked up our rifles and mounted the "cattle cars" for a ride in the countryside. On dismounting we found ourselves at a firing range obstacle course. The course was used for learning how to shoot targets from a number of positions we may find ourselves in. The course had a long string of firing stations simulating ground field positions, positions mimicking a window, a door, a roof, a second floor window, a tower, and etcetera. We formed short lines behind each obstacle's firing station. On entering each station, you searched for your target. It would be located somewhere forward of the central line of site from the station, anywhere from 50 to 200 yards out. Each target was made of a white 8 1/2" X 11" sheet of cardboard which was stapled onto a long pole. The targets would pop up and down out of a large hole in the ground. On the end of the pole was either a groundhog or a Marine grunt with a supply of food, water, and hopefully a "porta potty", toilet paper optional. A firing officer, perched in a tall tower just behind the obstacle firing stations, controlled the course. He used a loud bullhorn to blare out instructions. Before beginning our exercise, we were lectured on course safety rules and the type of firing stance best used for each station. The call to prepare to fire was given over the bullhorn. "All ready on the left. All ready on the right. All ready on the firing line. Fire at will!" Firing then commenced. Targets appeared from holes in the ground. If the target was hit it would be lowered for a few seconds then raised up again. You continued to fire at your leisure until the bullhorn announced, "Cease firing. Cease firing!" There was no scoring. However, you were expected to hit the target a reasonable number of times. When you finished your turn at one obstacle station, you put on your safety and got in line for the next station.

This was a fun outing for me. I was picking off my targets left and right. About half way through the series of obstacles, I wanted a little more challenge in my targets. I noticed Marines in one or two stations not hitting their targets. So I helped them out. A ping here and a ping there, and I had their groundhogs working. My next station was a prone position on a roof-top. After completing several hits on my target I continued my new routine, a couple of pings on mine and a couple on the no-hit targets. After enjoying my shooting for a few minutes, the bullhorn blared out,

"The ass-h--- on station numbered six. If you shoot at another target that is not yours, I'm personally going to come up there and shove that rifle up your ass! Do you understand me?"

"Yes sir!" I answered. I guess some of the groundhogs needed a break.

While I was firing at the second-to-last station, I noticed the target in the very last station never got hit. This was strange because it was about 200 yards out and the firing stance was a prone position, a relatively easy shot. I figured the target was being hit and the groundhog was asleep. After waiting in line at the last station, it finally became my turn. I walked up to the station, placed a clip of eight rounds in the receiver, and began to get down in the prone position. As I did, the target disappeared behind the thin screen of tall, grassy weeds which was growing in the target's line of fire. The shooters at this station were looking at a blind target. I stood back up and waited for the call, "Commence firing!" As I moved from a standing position into a prone position, I concentrated on the target and its perceived location once it went out of sight. I switched the safety off and fired through the weeds. I raised my head to take a look. Down went the target. The groundhog was alive. I got up again and repeated my concentration routine and fired again. After a few shots I had enough of the grass mowed to see the target without getting up.

A "sergeant" Fell in the Woods

After a morning classroom lecture on map reading, the use of a compass, and using both to find your way over unknown terrain, we headed to the mess hall for lunch. After lunch we gathered our gear and mounted the cattle cars for an afternoon of practicing our map reading and orientation skills. After an introduction to the lay of the land, we were given instructions on a compass reading exercise. We were to take turns following written instructions on a compass heading we were to take, and a specific distance to go in that direction. If the directions were executed correctly we would arrive at the proper location, and a search would result in locating the next set of instructions. The instructions would be hidden in a tree trunk, under a log, or other such location. A different Marine would read the new instructions. He would then take the next compass reading, determine the heading direction, and we would go the specified distance. On reaching our destination we would again search for the next instructions. If we were not at the correct location, a fake set of instructions may be found. Following these instructions would quickly compound our mistake. We would be hopelessly off the correct path. At the conclusion of the exercise we would end up exiting the woods. If all of the correct instructions were found, and each of them executed exactly, we would exit the woods at a specific predetermined spot. If we exited at this exact spot, the unit successfully completed its mission.

We were broken up into groups of eight. The biggest guy in our group was put in charge of assigning the order in which each man would take a turn reading directions, determining the compass heading and distance. When we arrived at the starting location the big guy assigned each of us to our turn in the map reading sequence. I was number seven, second to last. The first Marine was given the initial set of instructions. He took a bead with the compass, looked at the map, judged the distance we were to go and sighted the target where we would find the next set of instructions. Off we went hiking in the woods. On arriving at our destination, we searched for the next set of instructions. There they were, behind a log. Marine number two took over and repeats the sighting procedure. We took off through the woods. We again search for new instructions. We found them. On about the fifth revolution of this orientation exercise the big guy wants to spice up the challenge. Despite the fact there is no time limit to the exercise, he tells us to run to the next sighted location. So, off and running we go. The trail was narrow. It required us to travel in single file. The eight of us got a little strung out. The big guy complained about the few of us in the rears. The running continued and less time was spent on taking the readings. My turn arrived at the compass reading. I told the last man in the sequence,

"Bob, get set. I'm going to run like hell. Try to keep up. When we arrive at the selected destination, we will look for the hidden instructions, and you can take your turn."

"OK."

I took a sighting through the compass and found a tree about the correct distance squarely in the center of compass cross hair. We took off in a flash. We ran through the woods with the group trailing further behind. We reached the tree and found the next set of instructions tucked in a hollow opening. Bob read the instructions and sighted the next location through the compass. He determined which object we were to head for and we began to take off in its direction. At that moment the first elements of our group began to arrive. The big guy hollered, "Hold up there!" Bob and I came to a stop as the big guy arrived. The big guy yelled at Bob, "You just made up your heading and didn't do what you were told to do!" Bob explained what he did and that we found the next instructions in the tree. In a nasty tone the big guy said, "The hell you did." I turned to the big guy and said,

"Bob is correct. We found the instructions. Bob took the compass reading and located the next objective."

"Are you calling me a liar?" Now, this guy is the same rank as the rest of us. However, he is talking as if he is our drill sergeant.

"No, I'm just..." WHAM!

The big guy tried to coldcock me. He missed my face and the punch skins the top of my head. The giant was now slugging me. I realize I didn't have a chance in a boxing match with a guy this size. The only way I'm going to survive this is to get in close and try wrestling him. I start making my inside moves to avoid his blows. I'm now gripping him and hanging on for dear life. All of the sudden I find myself hanging on to his armpits and he has me raised over his head. I was up on his shoulders for what seemed to be a long time. He couldn't get me off his upper body and began to tire. I'm swinging and swaying on top of this guy, hoping I'm not going to be thrown into a tree. Finally the two of us crashed to the ground in a cloud of dust. We are now in my game, wrestling. We roll back and forth, arms and legs getting all tangled up. I never let go of him. After a while of grabbing, twisting, and bending body parts, the big guy begins to lose his endurance. I finally turn him on his back and get him in the classic across-the-chest pin down. He struggles to get loose and can't. He then adds a new tactic to his moves. The big guy begins biting me on the stomach and side. This is the last straw. I would have to try to get him into a grip where his dirt-fighting wouldn't work. Without letting him go, I worked my way around to his backside and got him in a neck hold. He couldn't get me off and begins punching my head. I start tightening my grip around his neck. Once in this position, I knew I had him. I endured his punches to my face and head. They began to wane. I was going to squeeze the life out of him, if I had to. I was not going to let him up until he became completely exhausted. I decided to check how he was doing. "Are you going to cut this out?" I asked. I got no response, but, he still had the will to continue. I cranked my arm around his neck a couple of notches tighter. I waited a bit. He stopped all movement. I said, "Are you going to cut this out?" The big guy gave a little motion, indicating yes. I cautiously let him up. He appeared to be in no shape to continue his "drill sergeant" routine. We finished the last compass reading and exited the forest. We marked our exit location by pounding a stake into the ground and the big guy reported to the sergeant. We were in the wrong location. We were off by 200 feet. Our speedy readings and running got the best of us. Our mission failed in more ways than one.

The Birth of a Snake

One of the elements of unit training was the single-man recon exercise. Five separate infantry units selected one of their riflemen to participate in a reconnaissance exercise. Each recon rifleman, also referred to as a scout, was to locate the enemy while remaining undetected, return, and report the enemy's position and strength. The enemy would be somewhere within a mile of each unit. I was selected to be my unit's recon scout, the expendable one. Each scout would leave their unit's staging area and had to return with the intelligence within two hours. Off I went with my 9.5 pound M1 rifle, canteen, and bayonet, no watch, pencil or paper. After a while of sneaking and peaking through woods, weeds and dirt, I came to a long dirt road with shallow ditches on both sides. I figured somewhere up this road must be the location of the enemy unit I was looking for. Why wouldn't the old salts march up the road and set a trap, rather than hike through the woods and weeds and get dirty? I had a problem. The road was in relatively open area. I could crawl on my belly in the ditch for a long way in hopes of locating the enemy. However, dragging along the M1 rifle was going to cause too much noise and it was bound to be seen. So, I hid my M1 in high grass and proceeded up the ditch on the left. I crawled for about 15 minutes without detecting the enemy. I did notice the shine on the buckle of my web belt was clean off. Damn! Was this going to be worth all the work shining it up again? I continued crawling and then I thought I heard noises off the road to the left. Luckily, I was in the left hand ditch and had some cover, even if it was minimal. I soon reached the location I believed the enemy to be dug in. I crawled out of the ditch and quietly slithered up behind a large grassy bush. I could hear light talk going on just 10 yards from where I was hiding. After a short period, I heard, "Well, let's make a little noise so they can find us." At that moment the bush I was hiding behind stood up. The bush was a black guy with all kinds of weeds and branches sticking out of every part of his clothing and helmet. I figured I was a goner. He had his back towards me. The noise makers stopped after a brief period and the bush sat back down in front of me. I made sure my bayonet wasn't in his way.

I noted the approximate number of the enemy, the number of mobile bushes, and the fighting gear. I then did a reverse crawl for about 20 yards back to the ditch. After dragging myself a short distance, I found another guy wearing a different unit's insignia crawling up the ditch from the opposite direction I was heading. He was dragging his M1. He didn't see me, but I knew we were bound to meet in about 10 seconds. I now realized I only had my bayonet to defend myself. When he finally saw me, I formed my hand into the shape of a handgun and softly whispered,

"Bang, you are dead!"

"You don't have a gun." he whispered back. I thought it would take longer for him to figure that out. I then whispered,

"Are you looking for the enemy?"

"Yes."

"They are a little behind me and just into the brush and trees on the left."

"OK.", he said.

As we passed, we had to brush against one another. The ditch was not big enough for the both of us. As he dragged his M1 by me, I looked over at him and saw it was full of dirt. I knew I had to get the hell away from him in a hurry. If I didn't, the two of us would be captured. I wormed along as quickly as I could. I got to a hiding place and stopped to see what would happen. It didn't take long. I saw the "bush" slowly move toward the edge of the grassy field close to the ditch. As the scout crawled by the "bush", it came alive and surprised the hell out of him. At this point, his ass was grass. I hustled out of the area.

When I returned to my unit, I was informed I was five minutes past the deadline, so a report on the enemy was made up and submitted, (military intelligence at work). Shortly thereafter Joe Prange and Herman Hartman, two of my buddies from New Orleans, walked up to me and said,

"HI SNAKE!"

"Who are you calling snake?" I replied.

"You Snake!"

"Why are you calling me Snake?"

"When you came in from the recon, a Lieutenant was standing next to us. And, he said, 'You see this private walking towards us? He looks sneaky. Someone you can't trust. Just like a snake'" Joe explained.

From that day on my five New Orleans buddies called me Snake. The reference to me as "Snake" was so thoroughly spread throughout our Air Reserve Unit VMF 143, some of the guys never knew me by my real name. There you have it. If it wasn't for a solitary officer standing in the woods of Camp Geiger, North Carolina, I would have been known as Pfc. HORNUNG, JOHN P. to all.

### Aircraft Mechanic School

After completing combat training at Camp Geiger, we were assigned to Marine Air Detachment, Naval Air Technical Training Center, NATTC, in Jacksonville, Florida. I arrived there on October 31, 1956. Our band of six from New Orleans joined other Marines for technical training in Aviation Fundamentals. Technical training lasted six weeks. Life for us Privates was pretty good during our stay on the Base in Jacksonville. We had normal working hours, decent food, weekends to ourselves, and a few bucks in our pockets.

The Greeting

On our arrival, we mustered in with our new unit in front of our assigned barracks. After the introduction to our new sergeant, the sergeant assigned a Corporal Jenkins, a member of the Jacksonville Marine Air Reserve unit, to be in charge of the barracks. The sergeant told us to take our gear and pick any bunk we wished in the second floor of the left portion of the building. We were to return and go to chow. We were then dismissed. I had enough of the stuffy ends of barracks life. So, I ran as fast as I could up the stairs and selected a bunk in the center of the barracks directly across from the large double doors which opened to the central hallway. I tossed my gear onto the lower bunk, went to the head, and assembled outside with the unit and we marched off to the mess hall. When we returned to set up our footlockers and bedding I found my gear on the floor in the middle of the barracks. Someone else decided he liked my bunk selection as well as I did. I asked around whose gear was on my bunk. No one knew. So I flung the gear and a duffel bag down to the end of the barracks. I then set up my footlocker and bunk bedding. I soon got wind that the stuff I flung down to the end of the barracks belonged to Corporal Jenkins. He was ticked off and looking for the private who took over his bunk. By the time he found me he had restrained himself and explained he needed my bunk because of his responsibility for the barracks. I said OK and moved to another bunk. I soon learned restraint came to him just as he was about to locate me. One of my New Orleans buddies explained to me how this occurred. He said the Corporal questioned a group of them.

"Who in the f--- threw my stuff down to the end of the barracks?"

"Hornung did" one responded. "He had the bunk before you removed his gear."

"I don't give ah s---! I'm in charge here. I'll bust his ass!"

He was told about the fight I was in while we were at Camp Geiger. He suggested to the Corporal that he think it over before picking a fight with me.

Within the first week of training, I was called out of class and sent to the Testing Center. There, I was given only one aptitude test. It was a Pattern Analysis test like the one I had taken at Parris Island five months earlier. The test problems and questions were associated with perception and perspective. They were similar, but not identical to the first test. The main difference between the two tests was that I was awake for this one. I wondered if the Corp thought I cheated on their first test. On completing my training at NATTC, I ended my six months of active duty in the Marine Corps. Since I was exiting active duty at NATTC, a civilian Counselor was required to give me an exit interview before I left. One of the topics of discussion was my interest in remaining on active duty. To this, I told him my intention was to finish high school and go to college. The Counselor responded by telling me that I got a perfect score on the Mechanical IQ test." My guess is PA has something to do with mechanical things.

Suppression Rears Its Ugly Head

While we were at Camp Geiger, North Carolina, Private Charles Viola from Jacksonville, Florida befriended three of us from New Orleans: Joe Prange, Herman Hartman, and me. He made us promise we would drop by his home and visit his sister while we were stationed there. He gave us her name, address, and phone number. He said he would let her know we may be dropping in on her to say hello. We agreed we would contact her. We didn't take the agreement seriously, but we took his sister's contact information anyway.

Now and then, we New Orleans boys felt the pull of the civilian life we left behind months ago. To satisfy this need we spent a little time off base to enjoy city life in Jacksonville. Having little money to spend, our choice of hotels was limited to the low end of the comfort scale. We found a small old hotel called The Gerard Hotel in downtown Jacksonville. It had no air conditioning, no wall decorations, no restaurant, and some rooms had no windows. This place was a match for a private's budget. As one of our weekends approached, Joe, Herman and I were trying to figure out what we might do for entertainment. We needed to come up with a new activity of interest. At that point, I remembered our friend Private Charles Viola and his request that we visit his sister in Jacksonville. Joe and Herman weren't keen on the idea and mentioned maybe we shouldn't bother his family on such short notice. With a little encouragement and the lack of a good choice for entertainment, we decided to make the visit. I called Judy Viola and introduced us. Judy was aware we might be calling. She invited us over for a visit, at 2:00 PM Sunday afternoon.

We spent Saturday night at The Gerard Hotel. We went to a local fair for the day and took in the sights at night. On Sunday morning we got dressed in our uniforms and headed out to find a place for a late breakfast. After walking the streets for a while, we returned and checked out of the hotel. Being close to the appointed hour for our visit to Judy, we summoned a cab. We arrived at the Viola's home, paid the cab driver, and began walking up the driveway. It was a single level home with a shallow sloping roof and a large picture window in front. As we strolled up the driveway, Joe asked,

"What are we going to talk about?"

"We'll come up with something" Herman replied.

After Herman rang the doorbell, we felt a mix of curiosity and anxiousness while we waited. We soon heard a female voice call; "I'll get it." And the door opened. Charles had not described his sister. After briefly identifying ourselves, Judy invited us in. She was an attractive girl, dark blond hair, about five foot six, and not too slim. Judy invited us to sit in the living room. She sat on one end of the sofa across from the large picture window. Joe sat at the other end of the sofa, and Herman and I sat in comfortable chairs opposite them. The conversation started slowly with, how was Charley, how did we meet him, and so on. Judy wanted to know about New Orleans and when were we going back. We didn't say much about our training. Not much to say about it to a pretty civilian. Herman told of our weekend jaunts to the city.

"Where are you staying in town?" Judy asked.

"The Gerard Hotel", Joe replied.

She didn't know where it was. I mentioned it is so small and out of the way it was no surprise she didn't know of it. I then began describing how stripped downed the place was. I listed all the things it didn't have: air conditioning, wall decorations, restaurant, curtains, and some rooms didn't even have windows. I then described the gray dull exterior and the small reception area inside, with a hall going off to the left. I told her the narrow hallway was poorly lit with an uncovered light bulb hanging from a single electrical cord clinging from the tall arched ceiling. We had more casual conversation. We mentioned all of us were going to college. Joe and Herman were headed to LSU. I didn't mention the year and a half I had yet to finish of high school. It soon became time to end our cordial visit, and we called for a cab. When the cab arrived, we told Judy how nice it was to meet her, thanked her for having us over, and to please say hello to Charley. Judy wished us the best and closed the door. As we walked down the driveway, just out of ear shot of the house, both Joe and Herman grabbed me by my arms and both of them began talking at once.

"Snake, you know what you said in there!"

"No. What are you talking about?"

"You said there was this f---ing light bulb hanging from the ceiling."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did. Both of us heard it." I thought for a moment. This couldn't be true. I thought again.

"I think you guys are right, holy cow! I can't believe I did that." We got into the cab and returned to the Navy Base.

I fought my use of the vulgar language which was spoken at and around us throughout our Marine Corps training. Somehow the suppression to use it weakened as I became closer to civilian life. I had dropped my guard for the lack of the confrontational environment. I wouldn't make this mistake again.

November 10. We are Going to Celebrate!

Our 13 weeks at Parris Island starved us of all entertainment, including listing to the radio. Like all young adults we loved our music, and ours was Rock and Roll. When we left Parris Island and took buses and trains on our way home, we would put a half hour's worth of change in the juke boxes we found along the way. We did this knowing we were only going to be waiting a few minutes before boarding a bus or train.

There wasn't a single radio in any of the four large wings of our barracks complex on the Jacksonville Navy Base. So, I used part of my small government allowance and the benefit of the PX prices to purchase one of the very first portable radios ever made. It was a Heliocrafter. Its outside was made of wood covered with a tight cloth that was painted gray. It had a black handle on top, a telescoping antenna in the back, and it was powered by a large square battery when not plugged into an electrical socket. My end of the barracks now had music.

As Saturday November 10th approached, my buddies and most of the Marines in the barracks wanted to make sure they were not going to be sitting around a Navy Base on that special day, the Marine Corps birthday. Joe and Herman, along with the rest of the New Orleans Marines, decided that we must spend November the tenth celebrating in Jacksonville. They wanted me to go along. However, I spent my entertainment funds on the radio. I didn't see it worthwhile using what I had left on The Gerard Hotel. I passed up a chance of a grand old time in town. By Saturday afternoon, the barracks emptied out except for a few of us penny pinchers. I enjoyed the chance to be by myself for a change. I polished my boots and dress shoes, and listened to Rock and Roll on my radio. After noon chow, I strolled around the base and went to the PX. As I passed a bulletin board I noticed a Marine Corps flyer tacked up on the corkboard. It had a list of events for our birthday celebration. Starting at 1900 was a dance in the gym with a live dance band. As I turned away, something caught my eye. It was the word girls. I turned back to the bulletin board and there it was. "Girls will be attending the Marine Corps Dance, Free to all enlisted Marines, sponsored by the USO". Well I'll be darn.

It was 1423 (2:23 PM) when I returned to my barracks. I informed the few Marines, who I could find, about the dance and the girls being supplied by the USO. At first they thought I was fooling them. But, they began to think maybe it would be worth a try. After dinner I returned to the barracks, shaved, and showered. I lay in my bunk in my skivvies and listened to the radio until it was time to get dressed. At 1840, I put on my winter, green uniform. I slipped on my dress shoes, combed my hair, and adjusted my tie, sprinkled on some cologne, pinned on my sharpshooter badge, picked up my soft cover, and headed to the gym. After walking three blocks I could clearly see the gym. There was no music. A small truck was parked at the rear side entrance. I noticed a couple of other Marines headed to the gym. I started to think this was going to be a flop of a night when, from behind me, I heard sounds like a bus. A bus passed me by. Then another passed. They pull up and stop in front of the gym. Well at least the band will be here to entertain the few of us, I thought. As I approached the rear of the second bus, its front door opened. I heard the faint sound of female voices coming through the closed windows. This was music to my ears. More chatter came from the open door. I have to be dreaming. One by one, these beauties skip out of the door and onto the sidewalk. I stopped a moment to take in this wonderful sight, trying not to appear gawking or overly surprised. I walked on. By the time I got to the front bus, the sidewalk was covered with nice looking dresses, lovely long hair, and perfume. I kept my composure as I said, "Hi ladies, welcome to the Naval Air Station". I smiled and got a couple in return. I walked on to the gym. I turned the knob and pulled the door open. As I walked in, I saw the band organizing their equipment on the stage. The bleachers were in place on each side of the basketball court. Ten Marines were milling around anxious to start the evening's celebration. A couple more Marines came through the side door. I didn't recognize any of them. I climbed up a couple of rows of the bleachers and took a seat. Another Marine entered the gym. As the band finished positioning their equipment and stringing their sound cables, two of the front doors of the gym swung open. Two Marines held the doors. In strolled the young ladies led by a woman. They congregated on the basketball court in front of the stands directly across from me. A few more Marines strolled in. It appeared there was assigned seating. Ladies had the left bleachers and Marines had the right. It was obvious the protocol for mingling of the sexes had not been figured out. We were left to figure it out on our own. After the band tuned up and practiced a few minutes, it stopped. By this time there were at least 50 Marines in the right bleachers. A sergeant walked across the stage and lifted a microphone off its pole. He welcomed the ladies, mentioned where they were from, and thanked them for coming. The Marines gave them a hand. "All please stand for the national anthem", said the sergeant. The Marines stood at attention and held a salute as the anthem played. As it ended, we began to sit on our bleachers. The sergeant said "Happy Birthday Leathernecks". At that moment the band began playing the Marine Corps Hymn. Every Marine in the place stood and sang as loudly and proudly as they could. It took a while to get the troops calmed down. The band began playing. After a couple of songs, the sexes had yet to co-mingle. As the band started up again, I got up off the bleacher and strolled across the large wooden floor. When I reached half way, I selected one of the gals and approached her.

"May I have this dance?" I asked.

"OK."

It was a slow dance, one which would be easy for both partners to manage. I introduced myself, and she obliged with her introduction. We went through the common chit chat about where we were from and what we were currently involved in. The band completed their song and we stood and continued our idle conversation. The next song was a jitterbug. We decided to push our dancing skills further. Not much talking occurred during the tugs, twirls, footwork and the volume of the sound coming from the band. When the dancing ended we gave each a cordial thank you and returned to our assigned sideline bleacher. Over the next hour and a half, I would sit out a dance or two then enjoyed a couple of dances with a different gal, and then repeated the sequence. Then something occurred which ruined the entire dancing seen. After a dance there was a long pause. I noticed the sergeant coming to the center of the stage. He picked up a microphone and blew into it. It was working. "I have an announcement to make. After tonight's dance, there will be free beer for all Marines in the slop-shoot." The slop-shoot is a Marine nickname for the enlisted men's club. His next works were barely audible over the yelling and clambering to get out of the bleachers. I could barely make out what he was saying. "The slop-shoot will be opened at each half hour interval." By this time most of the Marines were out the doors. I looked around the gym and saw only a few Marines hesitate to leave. It was embarrassing to see the young ladies looking like the announcement said they had the plague. Some of the Marines had convinced a few of the gals to head to the slop-shoot with them. I hung around for a half hour until the tug of the 3.2 beer dragged me in the direction of the slop-shoot. Off I went.

Now the abandonment of the dance by so many Marines wasn't as mindless as it appeared. Florida had a drinking age of 21. The Navy Base chose to abide by Florida's drinking laws. These Marines had not a single beer for some time. Most of them were under 21. When I got to the slop-shoot there was a long line at the side entrance. The Marines who got there first had been evicted after their half hour inside and the second shift was about to enter. The screen door opened and the line shuffled forward. As I arrived at the door, one of the bartenders stopped me. He said, "No one else enters. You have to wait till the next shift, a half hour from now." The screen door shut with a bang. He latched it and walked off. So, I and the remaining group of Marines and a few gals were left to wait it out. We stood around and chatted. The juke box was rocking away and the smell of beer drifted out onto our small crowd. After 25 minutes our shift was getting antsy. Then I heard someone say, "What if the beer runs out?" That really stirred up the troops. A Marine next to me called in to one of the bartenders,

"When are you going to open up?"

"In ten minutes." was the retort.

"It is supposed to be in five minutes!"

"We have to clear this crew out!"

We then waited eight minutes. Seeing no sign of vacating the slop-shoot, a couple of guys called to the bartenders. No response. The wait time was again past due. I called to a bartender,

"Hey! When are you going to let us in?" He heard me and came over to the screen door.

"We'll let you in, in another...."

"Whoa s---!"

A surge of humanity hit my back. It lifted me up and shoved me into the door. My face and chest were squashed against the screen. The pressure kept mounting. In one big heave the hinges ripped off the frame and the latch gave way. BAM! The door and I hit the floor. The third shift would not be denied. We were going to get our share of beer. One by one we muscled our way to the bar and received our 3.2 nectar. 3.2 was the reduced percentage of alcohol content in military-issue beer. The Defense Department figured out we had to drink twice the amount of beer to arrive at the "who-gives-a-damn" state, and our stomachs were too small to get us there. The Department didn't count on the Marines discovering a technique of relieving ourselves and retaining the 3.2 part of the beer.

The juke box was wailing away at a high volume. There were so many coins stuffed in it, and song selections made, there was no telling when your song would come up. It would go on till noon tomorrow if left alone. I made three selections anyway. I didn't know anybody there, so I stood, watched, and muscled back and forth to the bar. After four trips I gave up watching and began to do solo jive movements to the thump, bump, and swing of the music. After four beers I accumulated alcohol to the tune of 12.8, (4 X 3.2). After I reached 19.2, the music and my feet took over. The place was jammed packed and I had little room for the full movement and beat demanded of the juke box. I found an opening and solo danced to my heart's content. I gave up my dancing space and headed back for another 3.2. When I returned to my dancing site, I was met by two Navy Military Police. Then I heard one of the bartenders, "He is the one, Officers". I felt two arms encircle mine as one of the Officers said,

"Come along with us"

"What's going on?" I questioned. "What do you want with me"?

"It seems you were dancing on the table"

"Not me. It must have been someone else". They escorted me out the door.

"Now Marine, its best you head back to your barracks".

Well there I was, ending my birthday party saying good night to two Navy MPs. It was fun while it lasted. I got back to my barracks, laid in my bunk, and listened to music on my radio for a while. I then got undressed and crawled into bed for the night.

Sunday morning, I took my time getting out of bed. I felt pretty good despite the number of beers I drank the night before. No doubt this was the benefit of the 3.2 and the shortening of my evening by the MPs. I shaved and showered, got dressed and headed for church. I went to breakfast and then returned to my barracks. After changing into fatigues, I sat in my bunk and wrote a letter to my girlfriend back in New Orleans. I loafed around and visited with a couple of my Marines. Sunday afternoon found me studying for my classes. Along about 1430, Marines started to return from their Marine Corps birthday in the big city. My buddies Joe and Herman were among them. I was curious about their celebration over the weekend. I called to one of them,

"Herman! What did you all do over the weekend?"

"Not much Snake. It was a waste of time, how about you?"

"Well let's see. A bunch of us went dancing with two busloads of girls with a live band. And then there was free beer for Marines, at the slop-shoot."

"Ah bull!" Joe responded.

"No, No! Ask some of the guys who hung around here."

"Hornung, you are just making that up."

"No I'm not. Go ask George over there."

"You go ask him, yourself". I called George to come over.

"George, tell these guys what we did for the Marine Corps Birthday". George told the same story and added that I was escorted out of the slop-shoot by two MPs.

"You two clowns are cooking this up", Joe responded.

The story was too good to be true. It took another two independent references before the city visitors finally believed us. By dinner time they were aggravated at themselves for not staying on base.

Returning to Civilian Life

On December 14, 1956, I completed Aviation Fundamentals School, Mechanic Occupational Group. That morning our class assembled in front of one of the attack aircraft displayed on the base and had our class photograph taken.

My New Orleans buddy, Herman J. Hartman, is sitting on the far right. I'm on the far right, kneeling behind him. The red-haired Corporal who took my bunk and piled my gear on the floor is standing on the far right.

Those of us who were completing out tour of active duty were required to hang around another five days to be mustered out. Each of us had a physical exam, and an exit interview by a civilian counselor. During my interview, I was asked what my career aspirations were. I said I was going to finish high school and attend college. To test my interest in continuing with the military, he mentioned I had a perfect score in the Mechanical IQ Test. I appreciated the information, but it had no persuasion effect. At that moment I understood why I was given the test a second time at the Training Center. I wished I could have had the opportunity to take the other four tests as well. I would have been fully awake during the second testing.

By the seventeenth of December we had completed our transfer papers to return to our Marine Corps Reserve Unit in New Orleans. That night we packed our duffel bags and set out our uniforms for the morning trip home. On the morning of the eighteenth we picked up our transfer papers and called for cabs for the ride to the train station. Just as the cabs arrived we received a call from the transfer logistics office telling us to return to the office, our papers were not in order. This delay was sure to make us miss our train to the Crescent City. We raced to the office and inquired about the error. A couple of the office staff chuckled and said our papers were OK. Another set of SOBs, I thought. We barely made it to the station on time.

### They Also Serve Who Stand and Wait

During my career in the Marine Corps Reserves I was a mechanic on different types of aircraft. After returning from boot camp in December 1956, VMF 143 was relieved of its F4U Corsairs and given AD4 Skyraiders. AD4s were the largest single prop driven aircraft ever built. They carried the largest load of arms of any single engine aircraft. They served in the Korean War and in the Vietnam War. One shot down two Russian MiG jets in Vietnam. These were wonderful birds. We mechanics enjoyed working on them and checking them out for our pilots before takeoff. In 1957, while stationed for two weeks training at Cherry Point Marine Corps Air Base North Carolina, VMF 143 set a unit record for total flying time. In January 1958 VMF 143 became VMA 143 and we received our first jet aircraft, F9F Cougars. The fun in the pilot seat ended. The F9Fs didn't require any warm up and cockpit check out. We strapped our pilots in their seats and they taxied off with us covering our ears from the loud wine of the engine. In July of 1958, four other mechanics and I were selected to form one of the first Marine Corps Reserve Helicopter Squadrons in the country, HMR 767. Three of us went through Parris Island together. For the lack of the unit having its own helicopters, Navy personnel taught us the ins and outs of helicopter maintenance and flight line operations. During 1958 HMR 767 received several pilots and its own Marine Corps helicopters, HSS-1s. The HSS-1 could carry 12 fully equipped Marines. Airlift operations were their primary mission. They had a huge radial piston engine in their nose. This engine was also used in tanks. They were highly reliable. However, they required a high level of light maintenance, e.g. oil changed after 50 hours of flight time.

In 1959 HMR 767 was the top Reserve Helicopter Squadron in the Marine Corps. As a reward our unit was flown to Marine Corps Airbase Anaheim, California for our two weeks of summer training in August 1960. We left our helicopters in New Orleans and flew from New Orleans to Anaheim in C 119 box cars. The flight took eight hours. There were no heads on the planes. Our pilots paired up with a fulltime Marine Corps pilots for flying their unit's HSS-1s.

In March 1961 one of our buddies, who helped form HMR 767 back in 1958, discovered a regulation which allowed reservists serving in the six months active duty and seven and a half years active reserves program to apply to be placed on inactive reserve after five years of service. You do not have to attend monthly weekend duty and two week summer training in the inactive reserves. At first, the four of us, who also formed the unit in 1958, couldn't believe our fellow Marine. In quick order we discovered he was correct. The administrative office of HMR 767 did not inform us of this opportunity. Having good records of standing in our Marine Corps units, our applications for transfer to the inactive reserves were accepted. Within three months the five of us were gone. Members of HMR 767 active reserves were sent to Vietnam very early in the War.

The Marine Reserves were not without its problems. By the end of 1959, the year after HMR 767 received recognition as the top Reserve Helicopter Squadron in the nation, low morale had set in among the enlisted men. Our new Commander, Colonel J. Givens, realized this and instituted a correction plan. He announced that, on each monthly weekend drill, three enlisted men would be randomly selected to have a discussion with him. The first month this exercise was enacted, I was selected for an interview with the Colonel. The Colonel asked for my suggestions to improve morale. I mentioned the problems were coming from the two employees within the administration office, one sergeant and one captain. At the end of our discussion the Colonel asked if there was anything else I wanted to discuss. I said, yes. Five of us PFCs were selected from VMA 143 to initially form HMR 767. There were no Corporals or Sergeants in HMR 767 other than the one in the administration office. And, he had no experience with aircraft. The five senior PFCs were Plane Captains jointly running the flight line. We were in the Marine Corps for four years and were still PFCs. I asked the Colonel if the five of us could be promoted. He didn't give me an answer. However, we all received promotions to Lance Corporal the very next month. And, our primary duty designation was changed from Basic Aircraft Maintenance and Repair to Helicopter Mechanic. In researching material for this book I requested and reviewed my military personal records. Form NAVMC 118, Promotions and Reductions, showed I was promoted to Corporal in January 1959, shortly after I was selected to help form HMR 767. The promotion entry on NAVMC 118 was lined out at the time the five of us PFCs were promoted to the lesser rank Lance Corporal in January 1960. In discovering this I can say the two in the administration office, not only knew nothing about aircraft, they knew little about management. The Command and its head office had been on automatic pilot.

On Gung-Ho

I went into the Marine Corps, not to become a Marine, but to do my military service for my country. I timed my service to minimize its impact on my plans for achieving an education. The Navy Department was the first of the services to offer a six month active duty with an eight-year reserve enlistment. If the Air Force had the only six month reserve program in 1956, I would be singing "Off we go into the wild blue yonder..." Any esprit d corps I may have developed while on six months active duty in the Marine Corps was completely squelched by the brutal conduct of my drill instructors at Parris Island. Some of my friends and other men I have met who have gone through Marine Corps boot camp did not experience brutality and they were complementary about their experience. However, all of my friends and other men I have met who have gone through Navy, Air Force, and Army boot training never mentioned any brutality. The attachment for the Corps I do have is my feelings for those recruits and corporals who suffer in the hands of a minority of sergeants who use their authority to seriously harm them without cause. Not many of those who are harmed have the strength or circumstances to gain release from the clutches of the Sergeants and bullies that do it. Fortunately I did.

I believe the Secretary of the Navy's action, in reducing the sentence of Sergeant McKeon in 1956, had two dramatic long term effects on Marine Corps recruit training. First, it gave a stern warning to Marine Corps officers who contemplate on giving firm sentences to seriously abusive sergeants who cause the brutal miming or death of a recruit. Second, the Secretary of the Navy's action gave a green light to Drill Instructors and their superiors to continue unwarranted brutal treatment of recruits. The brutality appeared to have continued for many years after Sergeant McKeon's sentence reduction. This travesty only began to get proper attention after the investigations conducted by Congressman Mario A. Biaggi of New York and the authors H. Paul Jeffers and Dick Levitan, and their publishing of "See Parris & Die; Brutality in the U.S. Marines", in 1971 by New York, Hawthorn Books. The authors were two top investigative reporters from New York. In 1970 Mr. Levitan was the recipient of an Associated Press award for excellence in general reporting. Their book is a hard hitting, shocking documentary of Marine Corps brutality. It describes the major efforts they and Congressman Mario A. Biaggi took to disclose the extent of brutality in the Marine Corps.

The book "See Parris and Die: Brutality in the U. S. Marines" was recommended to me by the former Marine who let me photograph the cover of his father's platoon book, a photo in this book. His father went through Parris Island two years after I did. His father warned him about going into the Marines. After his father died, he sent off for his father's medical records to add to his genealogy research. In the records was a report on injuries his father suffered while at Parris Island. Attached to the medical report was a picture of a recruit. The report mentioned his father had suffered severe blows to the face from the butt of a rifle. This was done by a D.I. His father's face was battered so badly he did not recognize the picture as being that of his father. This type of mistreatment was commonplace at Parris Island.

While at Parris Island, I was intentionally hit between the eyes with a heavy hook after I hit the water in an indoor pool. The instructors were trying to hit recruits with the hook attached to a sling the recruit had to unclip himself from, as he glided down a zip wire into the pool. This was a water-entry parachute drill. The instructors missed the other members of our platoon, but managed to hit me even though I stayed under water long enough for the sling to be retrieved. I was aware of what they were doing. I overheard them talking about how to whip the sling to get the best shot at a recruit. The instructor waited until I came to the surface and then whipped the sling above my head. The hook caught me between the eyes and cut me badly. The D.I. screamed at me for ruining his pool from the amount of bleeding. He told me to get the f--- out of his pool and go to sick bay. When I arrived at sick bay, I was shocked at the number of recruits lined up outside. The line went out from the door to the sidewalk and down to the corner. They had broken bones, wounds, head injuries, you name it. They were given no assistance while waiting for medical treatment and standing in the summer's intense heat. I remember standing in the street wondering if I should get in line or try to go to the head of the line since I was losing blood. I do not remember entering the one story wooden building or any event associated with the medical treatment I received. It is possible I passed out where I was standing in the street. I have a scar over an inch long between my eyes just above the bridge of my nose. It is where the hook tore into my face. There is no medical record of the injury or the treatment for it.

In the 1970s, after decades of sadistic and brutal behavior on behalf of many D.I.s, stringent rules-of-conduct were placed on the Recruit Depots and on every Marine D.I. Examples of some of rules and changes were: D.I.s can no longer live in the recruit barracks; D.I.s cannot come within a foot of a recruit's body; more officers have been added to recruit-training depots to more closely supervise D.I.s; training days were reduced from 16 hours to ten, with one hour of free time each evening, Sundays are off; "Motivation platoons" were eliminated; and prospective drill instructors are subjected to psychiatric evaluations.

Both my conduct score and my proficiency score averaged 4.6 out of 5.0 (a 92%) over my eight year enlistment in the Marine Corps.

Note: The following names are not true names, Clarence Edwards, Sergeant Carter, Lieutenant Swift, and Sergeant Tryndle, Judy and Charles Viola, Charley, George, Corporal Jenkins, and Bob. They have been used to protect the privacy of individuals.

Acknowledgments

H. Paul Jeffers was a news editor for WINS Radio in New York City. Dick Levitan was an investigative reporter for WINS. In 1970 Mr. Levitan was the recipient of an Associated Press award for excellence in general reporting. In 1971 they wrote the book "see Parris & die: Brutality in the U.S. Marines". In the Forward of the book Representative Mario A. Biaggi wrote "Since 1965, courts-martial (on charges of brutality) have been ordered for threescore Parris Island Drill Instructors, and more than half have been convicted.... Unfortunately, until now, the scope and depth of the brutality, racism, and injustice in the Marine Corps have not been fully reported to the American people."

I was made aware of this book only by chance. On reading it I discovered the brutal treatment I received was not the random accident of a rogue sergeant, but bad behavior fostered by the Marine Corps to its highest levels. As Representative Biaggi stated in the Forward, "this book has been written not to malign the Marines but in the hope and belief that it will help to restore and maintain the honor, prestige, and glory of the United States Marines". I thank Mr. Jeffers and Mr. Levitan along with Representative Biaggi of New York for their efforts.

If you would like to read about Marine Corps boot camp life, I recommend two books to you. In 1958 Bob Shirley entered Parris Island, two years after I left. He became commandant of Marine Corps League Detachment #1229, and a member of the Marine Corps Association. In 2006, Bob wrote a book about his experiences on the lighter side of boot camp, "Parris Island Daze", published by Infinity Publishing. I highly recommend Bob's book. A second book I think is terrific is, "Images of America, Parris Island" by Eugene Alvarez Ph.D., published in 2002, by Arcadia Publishing. The book is a pictorial history of Parris Island from 1562 to 2002. It has many photographs of Parris Island facilities which existed when I was there.

Chapter Four - To the Moon, Without Me

NASA's photograph of the Apollo Saturn IB rocket poised for launch.

### Learning the Right Stuff

Before the start of my junior year at the University of Southwestern Louisiana, now the University of Louisiana, Lafayette, I began to wonder where my degree in physics would take me. By graduation I would have an equal number of math credit hours as in physics. Though I did well in both curriculums, math courses had become esoteric and appeared impractical. I became concerned about my career advancement with only having a Bachelor Degree in physics. I had pushed hard for two and a half years and believed that I should go on to obtain a Masters Degree in physics if I were to work in the field. I had a National Defense Student Loan to repay and I knew I would need a break from the intense school work after my senior year. I had options to take several elective courses. I thought I should use them to improve my career options at the Bachelor Degree level. Where statistics, probability, and computer science courses were not on my list of physics requirements, they seemed more practical than the math courses I have been elevated to. I was able to add them to my curriculum. This was a move that paid off handsomely in each of the four careers I pursued.

After interviewing three or four firms during my senior year, 1962-1963, I accepted a position with the Naval Research Center in Long Beach, California in the spring. My starting date was June 1963, soon after graduating from USL. The Center conducted research and development work for Navy ship warfare. Along with conducting naval weapons research, it had the added attraction of going out on ships for testing such systems.

Right before the Easter holiday I became aware of the NASA Michoud rocket plant on the outskirts of New Orleans, my home town. On Friday before Easter I drove to the NASA facility and walked into the offices of the first company I found. The company was the Chrysler Corporation Space Division, CCSD. Without an appointment, I used the visit as an inquiry into the work being done there and an opportunity to drop off the list of my course work and grades in physics, math, and science. The person at the reception desk asked me to fill out a short information form. After completing it and attaching my college credits, the person asked me to wait in the lobby. After only five minutes a gentleman appeared calling my name. He escorted me to a room in the Personnel Department. There he and I joined in our discussions of my background and the type of work CCSD was doing for NASA. The Division was redesigning and building the first stage of the large Saturn IB rocket. After about a half hour we had finished our interview. The personnel officer excused himself and said that he will return. After about twenty minutes he returned with a manager. After a very brief conversation the manager asked if I could start work on Monday and gave me an offer of a salary greater than all of my current offers. I told him I would love to start work. However, I had to return to college and graduate in a few weeks. The manager said that would be fine. He asked if I could fill out personnel papers so I could start directly after graduation. I agreed and we shook hands. I was given a several page form to complete for a background investigation. I left NASA's Michaud Plant in amazement.

My reporting date for work was less than a week after graduation. This left me without time for a needed vacation. The little savings I had in the bank accommodated the interest of my new employer to report ASAP. The rocket engineers and scientists were housed in the brand new Baronne Building one block off Canal Street in downtown New Orleans. It was the tallest building in town, 31 stories high. When I arrived I was processed in. There was more paperwork to be completed. Chrysler Corporation Space Division must have expected great things from me. One of the legal documents I was told to sign was an agreement that the company will get all rights to any invention I come up with while I was employed with their firm. They purchased the right to all my creative work for a brand new one dollar bill. I thought this to be strange and a bit one sided.

Having completed my processing in, I was ushered into an office where I was met by a personnel officer. He explained to me that I was selected to participate in an Engineer Management Training Program. For one year I would be assigned to four different departments. I would spend three months each in the Reliability Engineering Branch, the Chrysler Data Center in Slidell, Louisiana, the Advanced Engineering Branch, and the Systems Engineering Branch. At the end of the year it would be my choice as to which of these organizations I would join. This was another great surprise. What a wonderful place this was going to be. My decision to take electives in statistics, probability, and computer science could not have matched the initial career path the company had for me any better.

The term Branch is misleading in describing the CCSD's organization structure. For today we know a typical branch size is six to 12 employees. The Reliability Engineering Branch had 310 employees. These employees worked in the primary areas of reliability test and evaluation, rocket component analysis, system design analysis, reliability math modeling, and human factors engineering. In addition to this work, selected engineers were expected to conduct research and develop plans in respond to NASA solicitation for proposals and for CCSD's unsolicited proposals to NASA for research and development of new space applications.

### Reliability Engineer

I was escorted to the 23rd floor to meet my first boss. As we exited the elevator we entered a wide open expanse filled wall to wall with engineers, draftsmen, mathematicians, and scientist. Almost every one of them wore a white dress shirt and tie. You could see clear across the floor to the windows along two outer walls of the building. This was impressive. We turned to our left and walked down a wide isle through a sea of desks. I noticed the only walled offices were along the building's wall to my left. We waited outside one of the offices. The name on the door said Mr. Cochrane. His secretary announced us and we stepped in. After our introduction the personnel officer excused himself and left. Mr. Cochrane was Manager of the Reliability Management Section. His organization comprised the Math Model Unit and the Failure Analysis Unit. Mr. Cochrane gave a brief overview of his organization and the responsibilities of the Reliability Math Modeling Unit where I would be working during the next three months. We then entered into a casual conversation concerning my education and on the point that I was a native of New Orleans. Mr. Cochrane then said, "Let's go and meet your new boss, Clyde Brown". We walked out of his office, past his secretary, across the wide isle, and into a path separating a section of engineers to my left and draftsmen sitting at their large drawing tables on my right. The short stroll brought us to a collection of desks located in the corner of the building that had windows on two sides. This was the location of the Reliability Math Modeling Unit. We walked up to a gentleman sitting in a chair with his back turned to us. He was in a discussion with another individual. "Pardon me Clyde. I would like you to meet Mr. Hornung." Clyde stood up and we introduced ourselves. Mr. Cochrane gave me a second brief welcome and excused himself.

"Won't you sit down John?"

"Yes sir." I pulled up the chair the other individual had just vacated.

"Well, tell me about yourself." In the middle of my third sentence Mr. Brown brushed the top of the table in one stroke and said, "You want a cup of coffee?"

"Sure, that will be fine." And off we went to exercise the pleasant ritual of two gentlemen beginning to size each other up.

Virgil Clyde Brown was a six foot Texan. He was lean, smoked cigarettes, and had a bit of a swagger to his demeanor. He walked with his head tilted down slightly, looking as if he was figuring something out. I quickly learned I was to call him Clyde not Virgil. At this point Clyde knew more about me than I knew of his Reliability Mathematical Model Unit. I didn't know if he selected me to work in his Unit for three months, or if I was assigned there as part of my participation in the Engineer Management Training Program.

During the three months I became familiar with reliability engineering. This was a specialized form of mathematics being used to design the Saturn IB to launch Apollo missions at a very high level of success. I took specialized in-house courses on Reliability Engineering. None of the mathematics, engineering, and logic I was being exposed to was taught in universities. Twenty five years later I would learn the newly created terms, "expert system" and "artificial intelligence". These were two of the creations of the Reliability Management and the Reliability Engineering Sections within the Chrysler Space Division's Reliability Branch. I took to this work with ease and began to feel that USL and I had prepared myself adequately for the challenges that lay before me in the Rocket and Aerospace business. This was quite comforting to me. Within a month of my arrival in the Reliability Management Section Mr. Cochran suffered a heart attack. He returned to work several weeks later. Sleeping arrangements were made so he could take a daily nap.

One Good Deed

A short time after I joined the Reliability Math Model Unit, Clyde held a brief meeting with me and his other employees. He told us that CCSD was looking to hire a black engineer, Mr. Johnson, and other engineering groups within CCSD did not have a position to fit his qualifications. Clyde gave us a summary of his resume and asked if he could be of help in our work. The gentleman did not have education or experience in statistics, probability theory, reliability engineering or FORTRAN computer programming. His resume did indicate he had experience in the general area of flight loads analysis, the field in which I was currently working. However, the Advanced Engineering Branch had just completed this research for our Saturn IB. We sensed that Clyde was under pressure to find a position for Mr. Johnson. None of the current work within our unit could benefit from the black gentleman's education or experience. Each of us expressed this to Clyde. Clyde said, "Well Ok. I'll have to tell my boss and see what goes." And, off Clyde went.

Within a week Mr. Johnson arrived and reported to our Unit as an Engineer level A. Mr. Johnson was given the desk directly across the aisle to my right. Like me, Mr. Johnson arrived a half hour early each day. This gave us the opportunity to learn a little about one another and now and then indulge in idle chat. I learned he was from out of state and was married. He lived in a hotel room or apartment, however, his family was not with him. He appeared to be in his early forties. Mr. Johnson carried a bible and kept it on his desk. I asked about it and he mentioned he was a preacher. Before the morning "starting bell rang" he would do shallow squats in the aisle using one leg then the other. Sometimes I would quietly join him. He would discover me exercising right behind him. Mr. Johnson would just grin and enjoy my antics. After a few weeks I became aware he was hard at work on a long mathematical problem. It was going on and on. I asked him what it was all about. He said he did this kind of math at his last company. It would determine the maximum forces on a rocket. He mentioned he determined the rocket of his last employer would break up in flight. I didn't carry this conversation any further. His work was paralleling a very small part of a project currently underway in Advanced Engineering, an organization separate from Reliability Engineering. The project was the development of the Saturn IB Flight Loads Evaluation Model. I got the feeling Mr. Johnson was not accepting Clyde's direction and he was pretty much doing the thing he knew best. After a couple of weeks Mr. Johnson completed his work. He mentioned to me his calculations proved our Saturn IB would blow apart when it reached MAX Q, the point in flight when rockets encounter their strongest forces. He was anxious to show his work to Clyde. Clyde didn't appear keen in getting involved in research being done by another organization and work he did not assign to Mr. Johnson. However, Clyde asked Wayne, one of our engineers, to join him in meeting with Mr. Johnson. There was no meeting of the minds between Clyde, Wayne and Mr. Johnson. Clyde would not forward Mr. Johnson's warning to his boss or anyone else. Mr. Johnson did not take this lightly.

After the weekend we returned to work. Mr. Johnson didn't. It was assumed he had an illness or other problem he had to take care of. A couple of weeks went by and Clyde still had not heard from Mr. Johnson. During the third week of his absence CCSD got the news. Mr. Johnson was suing them for discrimination. Another week went by and CCSD learned the names of the principal offenders mentioned in the law suit, Clyde Brown and Wayne. We were all flabbergasted. I was puzzled why Mr. Johnson hadn't added me to the list. I guest he took my humor and mild antics just as they were, friendly kidding. I never heard how things ended up as the results of the discrimination lawsuit.

NASA Data Center

Having completed my three month commitment, I headed for the NASA Data Center in Slidell, Louisiana. The Chrysler Space Division component of the Data Center was directed by a woman. She managed extremely talented computer scientists and she supported them in a fine way. When I arrived at the Data Center she met with me and arranged an assignment. Knowing of my education she asked me to re-program a math model simulator of the electronic circuitry of a system that was designed to capture rocket nozzle temperatures and send telemetry to ground tracking stations. The work had been recently completed, but she thought it would be a good project to challenge my physics and FORTRAN computer programming skills. Two days after I was handed the assignment I had serious doubts about being able to perform the work. I wasn't sure if I would be capable of understanding the electrical circuitry created by the research scientists and create the mathematics for it. I had doubts that I could manage an aerospace career if this level of science was going to be expected of me on a regular basis. This assignment seriously unnerved me. Off to work I went, hoping my self-doubts weren't noticed. I had the complex electrical circuit schematics, the circuit simulation mathematics, and the computer scientist's FORTRAN program code for it.

The mathematics used to design and analyze electrical circuitry was nicknamed "J" Arithmetic by physicists. It has to do with the shape of the thumb and index finger when being held at right angles to one another. As you hold those fingers at right angles you also place your middle finger at a right angle to your index finger. If you hold your right hand out as if you are shooting a gun and place your middle finger parallel to a line drawn between your eyeballs, you have the primary tool to do "J" Arithmetic. The electrical current flows straight out of the gun, your index finger. Your thumb and middle finger are pointing in the directions of two other forces created by the current flow. If you can read complex electronic circuit diagrams and understand the physics involved, the use of "J" Arithmetic is not too difficult. But, "J" Arithmetic is strange in one way: the mathematics breaks numbers into two parts, one part is real and one part is imaginary. That's right; in this kind of research a number has an imaginary component and a real component. And you guessed it. The imaginary component is much smaller than the real component. As you proceed with developing the mathematics for the electrical circuitry the real and imaginary parts begin to appear. Once you have all of them, you separate them into two "piles", the real parts in one "pile" and the imaginary parts in another "pile". At this point you perform the mathematics using only the parts in the real part "pile". When completed, you continue the mathematics using only the "pile" of imaginary parts. When you are finished with that "pile", you bring the culmination of each mathematical effort together and quickly finish the "J" Arithmetic. Now you have a complete mathematical simulator of the complex logic of the electrical circuitry. You can vary the input of electrical impulses given to the simulator and receive results in the form of electrical signals, electrical transmissions, and the like. Now you have a good idea what I was required to do.

After a week of studying the assignment I began to feel that I could possibly get my hands around this difficult project. As I went through the circuit diagrams I compared my knowledge of "J" Arithmetic with the logic developed by the scientist. I then compared the mathematics with the accuracy of the FORTRAN code created by the computer scientist. As I went along, I was also learning a new version of the FORTRAN programming language. This whole process was tedious and went on for several weeks. By week six I reached the point in the research where the scientists had completed their work with the real parts of numbers after having separating them from their imaginary parts. They then completed the mathematics for the electronic circuit simulator. The scientists had left out the mathematics involving the "pile" of imaginary parts of the numbers. Now I realized this assignment of mine was a left over project that went nowhere. I was relieved this was not as significant a project as it appeared to be.

Over the next two weeks I studied the scientists' electrical circuitry and developed the mathematics for the "pile" of imaginary parts of the numbers, and completed all of the necessary calculations. I then designed computer logic to handle the mathematics and wrote the FORTRAN program code for it. I now had a complete operational simulator. The simulator could now accurately mirror the electronic system designed by the scientists to record the temperatures of all eight rocket engine nozzles and produce the telemetry to transmit the readings to NASA Apollo tracking stations. I obtained the research test data and ran the simulator on the IBM 7090. All went well and the results were printed on computer generated documents.

By this time I was three weeks from the end of my three month tour at the Chrysler Space Division Computer Center. Over the past six or seven weeks I was rarely visited by the woman who had given me the project assignment. I'm sure she was very busy managing the Data Center. She and I met to go over the results of my work. I casually let her know that I had included the missing mathematics and ran the simulator with the input variables prescribed by the scientist. She scanned the documentation and noticed the difference in the results of the original simulator and the one I had built. The woman thanked me and gathered up all the material. At this point there was not enough time to complete another computer science project due to the short time I had left. She said that I could stay at the Data Center for three more weeks or return to New Orleans for my next three month assignment. The bus commute was a lot easier to downtown New Orleans than bumming a ride to and from Slidell. I chose the easy commute. I left the Data Center feeling good. I met a challenge which I thought would get the best of me.

My next assignment was with the Future Systems Analysis Section within the Advanced Engineering Branch. I was to report to the Section on the first of December. The Branch was not expecting me for another three weeks and it was in the middle of a move to the new engineering building at NASA's Michoud Rocket Assembly Plant on the remote eastern edge of the New Orleans. Therefore, I returned to the Reliability Math Modeling Unit for the lack of office space. I was glad to be back with Clyde Brown and the other branch employees. It was a slack time for me and I enjoyed the latitude given to me.

I was with the Unit only about a week when, at about 10:00 AM, I happened to notice two individuals getting off the elevator who were unsure as to the direction they wanted to go in. They spoke to the nearest person and wandered down the wide aisle looking for their destination. They stopped at the path leading to our Unit. They asked the secretary a couple of questions and began slowly walking our way. As they reached Clyde's desk they asked, "Where is John Hornung located?"

With a brief look of curiosity, Clyde said, "Let me get him for you". "Hey John, come over here for a minute." I walked over and the two men introduced themselves. I don't recall if they worked for Chrysler or IBM. They were conducting research in an electronics lab at LSU in Baton Rouge. "Why don't we sit down", said Clyde. The two from LSU were carrying briefcases. They placed them on the floor and opened them.

"We understand that you did some work out at the Data Center."

"Yes I did. I was only there a little over two months."

"We have some questions for you."

"OK."

"We have been designing a system to monitor the nozzle temperatures of the rocket engines and the telemetry used to send the information back to the launch pad at Cape Canaveral." They couldn't see it, but I began to smile. "We understand that you rebuilt the simulator that we designed."

"That's right. The Data Center manager asked me to do it as a project."

"Your results came out different than ours."

"You left out the mathematics involving the imaginary parts of the numbers."

"That's right. Their values are so small it is meaningless."

"My professor at USL was emphatic about making sure we included them in the calculations."

"Our results in the electronics lab did not match the results from our simulator. We could not proceed with our work. However, your simulator matched our lab results. We wanted to come by and find out what you did."

At this point Clyde was leaning back in his chair gently swiveling it from side to side. He had a gleam in his eye and a smile on his face he tried to hide. My visitors got their answers and stood up to leave. Clyde thanked them for coming and with a slight grin shook their hands and said, "If you gentlemen think we can be of help, feel free to come back any time." With that they began their walk back to the elevator. Clyde went along with them half of the way.

I thought, "I'll be damned. That was not only a real project the Data Center Manager gave me, but a heck of one at that".

Clyde returned to his desk and said, "John let's go for coffee". NASA provided this photo of the Saturn IB Instrument Unit.

It was the rocket's "brain". The Instrument Unit was mounted above the Saturn IB second stage. One of the electronic components along the inter ring could belong to the men in black suits. The Saturn IB also had telemetry units attached to the inside of panels along the top of its first stage.

Where Was I?

In the early afternoon on November 22, 1963, I was standing close to the large window near my desk. While I was gazing down at the building directly across Baronne Street, I heard someone called out, "The President has been shot".

Advanced Engineering

On December first 1963 I reported to the Future Systems Analysis Section which had settled into their new location in the CCSD Engineering Building at Michoud. The Section consisted of a staff of research engineers supporting CCSD executives in planning new business ventures and coordinating the Space Division's bidding on NASA Requests for Proposals, (RFPs). The timing of my arrival was fortuitous. The Space Division had anticipated the receipt of NASA's RFP to design the launch vehicle for the nation's Space Shuttle. Even as a novice, I was asked to join in on development work for the Proposal to NASA.

My assignment was to research all unclassified material in aerospace science journals, research papers, and rocket and aerospace trade magazines on our competition. All pertinent information had to be compiled into a report for executive consumption. Off I went, collecting every shred of information I could find. I soon discovered that we had only one competitor for the Shuttle. The Martin Company was proposing a launch vehicle that was a jury-rig of two Titan IIIC solid fuel inter-continental ballistic missiles connected on either side of a giant liquid fuel tank with the shuttle strapped to one side of the whole contraption. This was not enough to do the job. The Shuttle would have to have a large rocket engine mounted on its rear to make up for the inadequate lift. Aerospace scientists had serious doubts about the configuration holding together. The Titan IIICs had serious up and down vibrations during their launch and flight. This was called "pogo sticking". It would take a lot of effort to hold the launch vehicle together. It could also have serious effects on the Shuttle and its crew. The Titan was built to launch warheads from bunker silos. Its wartime payload could withstand its significant vibration. It was not a man-rated launch vehicle.

One piece of information missing from our research was the weight of payloads each competing Shuttle launch vehicle could put in earth orbit of different altitudes. When this part of our research confronted us, one of my coworkers located a mathematical formula that would give us this critical information. It was a simple formula only five and a half inches long. I asked him where he got the formula. The answer was a bit ambiguous. The formula required only a few input variables. Each variable was unclassified and easily attainable from published material, accessible to the public. Off we went cranking out the payload limits for specific orbits of our Saturn IB and each of our Shuttle launch vehicle competitors. Since this was such critical information for comparing proposed launch vehicles, we were asked to give this research high priority. We completed the work in a couple of days and sent it to the executives. We then returned to reviewing scientific requirements of the Shuttle launch vehicle outlined in the RFP and researching scientific literature.

One morning at about 10:00 AM, two of us were at our desks concentrating on our research, when all of the sudden we hear in a loud voice, "The two of you stand up away from your desks!" We looked up and to our amazement here were two men dressed in dark suits, each with an arm held straight out with a badge held in its hand. Obviously we were not responding as fast as they wanted. How could we. We never experienced this before and the scene wasn't registering in our minds. "Put your pencils down and step back!" was the next order. We complied without any further explanation or comment. One of the men in a dark suit escorted us out of our office while the other started to collect all of our material and began searching our desks. Exactly what went on next is not clear to me, probably due to how bizarre the situation was. I was not worried about what was going on. I couldn't think of any reason for the mess we were in. I didn't even know what the mess was. No explanation for the rude interruption was given to us. After a day or two we were summoned for questioning. We got the first inkling of what was going on when the investigators wanted to know where we got the classified data on payloads for earth orbits of the launch vehicles we had researched. They said the data was SECRET information. We told them if we could get our documents we could show them. They provided our documents and we pulled out our special five and a half inch formula. We explained each of the variables and where we got the data for them. It was clear we had obtained the formula and all information on the rockets we were studying from legitimate unclassified sources. The most important variable in the formula was the Specific Impulse for each launch vehicle's rocket engine. We were questioned on our source of rocket engine Specific Impulse. We explained that aerospace magazines had published information on rocket engines. And, in that information was rocket engine Specific Impulse. I then provided copies of the publications. The inquiry ended shortly thereafter without any apology or kind statement, not even a pat on the back. It appeared to the two of us that our executives used our work to show NASA the shortfall in payload capabilities of our competitor's space launch vehicles. We must have been very accurate in our calculations and this got the rancor of NASA and companies planning on bidding against us.

One company document I was given while conducting my research with the Future Systems Analysis Section contained the annual total staffing of the Space Division over the life of the current NASA contract. It showed that our total manpower would peak in 1965 and begin a decline in 1966. I "tucked" this information away for planning my career.

I had little time left to get involved in another long term research project. However, we began two independent research studies on advanced Saturn IBs. The first was a rocket for the exploration of Mars. There was, in current development, a two stage rocket, Atlas / Centaur. The second stage Centaur used hydrogen fuel which gave it unusual power for its size. Using it as a third stage on the IB would raise our payload capacities significantly. CCSD proposed the Saturn IB / Centaur for the Mars exploration. NASA favored this rocket for its Mars exploration. NASA provided this photo of the Saturn IB / Centaur.

The second study we began just as I was preparing to leave was CCSD's entry into the competition for NASA's Shuttle Launch Vehicle. For this we designed a "ZERO STAGE" consisting of solid fuel rockets attached to the sides of the Saturn IB first stage. NASA provided this photo of our heavy launcher designs.

The Shuttle would be mounted atop the S IV B, our current second stage. This configuration would give us a hell of an increase in payload. The Space Shuttle would be in front of the Launch Vehicle as it rode into space. The Shuttle would have a comfortable ride on a man-rated rocket. These were significant advantages over the Martin Company's Titan IIIC configuration, which was eventually selected by NASA. That configuration resulted in damaging the heat protecting tiles on the underbelly of the Shuttles on several flights. One such flight resulted in the disintegration of the Shuttle on its entry into earth's atmosphere. This would not have happened if the Saturn IB configuration was used. Martin claimed an advantage in a quick launch to inspect satellites suspected of threatening the United States. They also claimed the IIIC configuration would be able to launch much more quickly than the Saturn IB to rescue astronauts in trouble. The Martin Launch Vehicle has never been used in this fashion and it was never shown to have a quick launch capability. NASA did not have a quick launch search and rescue capability requirement in its Request for Proposals for the Shuttle's Launch Vehicle.

### Systems Engineering, Maybe

My three months with the Advanced Engineering Branch came to an end. It was very interesting work and the variety of research and planning projects made it fun. I was preparing myself for my next assignment, Systems Engineering, when Clyde Brown gave me a call and said, let's go for coffee. I met Clyde at a snack bar for a vending machine version of coffee. It passed for coffee for the many Yankees and westerners that swelled the ranks of our company. To us New Orleans folks it tasted like weak Ovaltine. We had to add extra sugar to give it some flavor. However, it was warm and had one redeeming quality: it presented the opportunity for casual conversation away from your desk. Clyde began making a case for me not to finish my last three months of the Engineer Management Program and returning to his Reliability Math Modeling Unit. This surprised me. I didn't see how I could withdraw from the Program, and I didn't know the consequences of doing so. I had not made a decision as to which engineering department I wanted for my initial career in the rocket industry. By the end of our conversation I concluded I was fortunate to be highly recruited by a manager I liked. And, I admired his management style. I accepted his plan for me to bypass Systems Engineering and go directly to the Reliability Engineering Math Modeling Unit. Within a few days I was interviewed by the Executive Management, and Personnel arranged the switch.

After making the move back to Clyde's Unit, I sensed that Clyde did not want me to spend time in Systems Engineering for the likelihood I may favor its selection over Reliability Engineering. Within days after my leaving the Program I learned that Mike, another engineer in the Engineering Management Program, was being paid more than I. Mike was one of my two apartment roommates. He had a Bachelor of Science in Systems Engineering from a university in California and graduated in June 1963, the same year I had. I felt slighted since I had a Bachelor of Science in Physics and the equivalent of a double major, 42 credit hours in mathematics. I told Clyde about the differential in pay and I thought if Systems Engineers were being paid more, I should return to the Program and complete my three months with Systems Engineering. Clyde said to hold on and he would see what he could do. I got a raise within a couple of weeks. All was well again.

### Engineering Reliability into Rockets

On accepting a permanent position in the Math Modeling Unit I was given the title Reliability Engineer B. I had no idea what it meant, but I assumed that it was a grade above Engineer A. I discovered later that I had this reversed.

One of the very first requirements of any new job is training. I attended two new in-house courses in the reliability engineering training series. They were Course III - Reliability Analysis of Design and Reliability Testing. These courses were not taught in colleges and universities and were the foundation of reliability engineering research. To put the course - Reliability Analysis of Design in perspective, I have to jump forward 20 years in the future. In about 1987 I learned two trendy terms being used by different research disciplines: expert system and artificial intelligence. They were associated with a "new" highly sought after technology. The "new" technology was expected to advance the science of conducting research and design, and of determining optimum outcomes and processes. The potential of this technology was completely open ended. While at a conference in Washington, DC, my wife and I attended a lecture on "The History of Artificial Intelligence". After the lecture I asked the speaker if this artificial intelligence made use of computer/math modeling techniques, Boolean algebra, and random number generation technology. He said it did. I described to him the work we had done using these techniques and others on improving the design of the Saturn IB. He looked surprised and said, "This would be the earliest known use of Artificial Intelligence, ten years earlier than currently believed". The principals and methods of this "new" Artificial Intelligence technology are described in Course III - Reliability Analysis of Design. The course material is in CCSD's reliability training manual, R.T.-REL-64-12-1.

Since the research and development work had recently been completed on the Saturn IB Mathematical Reliability Model, (aka the Saturn IB expert system with artificial intelligence), I was assigned to researching the science behind the mathematics and computer systems that were the backbone of the Saturn Reliability Model.

At times our Unit would receive challenges to the Model's logic, statistical validity, and the computer techniques and technology that were being used. The requests for such studies and inquiries came from within our company, from NASA, and as challenges from outside sources. This activity was beneficial to the work of our reliability engineers and to the Model itself. We addressed such issues as: Does the computer random number generator select numbers between 0.0 and 1.0 in extremely fine intervals?; Are the numbers between 0.0 and 1.0 selected in an absolutely flat uniform distribution?; and, Does the confidence level (sigma) in the reliability calculation deteriorate substantially as the number of components connected in series increases? At times Clyde Brown was requested to explain the results of the Model to NASA and our design engineers. Clyde mentioned to me that after the Model was developed for the Saturn I, the model disclosed that when a single fuel valve failed all eight engines would shut down. This surprised everyone. Von Braun's rocket scientists were particularly taken back since they were responsible for the Saturn I's original design. They were in disbelief of our disclosure. Von Braun, himself, came with his engineers to investigate our Model's design and its results. Clyde and the manager of the Reliability Failure Analysis Unit easily convinced Von Braun of the Model's accuracy. The rocket's fuel and liquid oxygen (LOX) design drawings were brought out and Von Braun and his NASA engineers traced through them. And, there it was. A lone valve was controlling the LOX to all eight engines. NASA immediately gave Chrysler a redesign order for improvement of the LOX delivery system with the additional contract funds to implement it. In 1965 the Model was used to search out the weaknesses of our second Saturn IB. 10,000 flights were flown by the Model. On flight 8,587, two failures occurred. A gas generator on engine 5 failed 35 seconds into the flight which indicated a possible flight loss. Then at 84 seconds a Fuel DEPL Sensor failed shutting down four engines. This was a definite loss of the flight. The Reliability Model had exposed a serious flaw in the rocket's fuel system design. In 1965 we were told NASA was so convinced in the significance of the Reliability Model's contribution to large rocket design it required Boeing to build one for the giant Saturn 5 which would land a man on the moon. We wondered if Clyde would be going to Boeing, just next door to us, to head up the work.

Hello, Hello

Clyde's boss, Mr. Cochran, had difficulty in returning to work after his heart attack. He had to take naps twice a day on a bed in his office. After a few weeks his recovery wasn't going well and he had to take a leave of absence.

The Chrysler Corporation transferred Mr. Carr, one of their automobile managers from Detroit, to New Orleans to fill his position. Mr. Carr had no knowledge or experience in Reliability Engineering. However, he was determined to show us he knew managing. He must have enjoyed dealing with the UAW foemen back at the automobile plant. He loved establishing work rules and creating some up on his own, such as, forcing employees to give to the United Fund to get a "feather in his hat".

Mr. Carr was good at issuing orders of the smallest magnitude. Our work hours were from 8:00 AM to 5:00 PM. It was customary for the aerospace engineers to begin tidying up their desks just before quitting time. At about five minutes before 5:00 PM we would casually get out of our chairs, put on our coats, and leave for home. It took eight minutes just to get out of our building. This did not sit well with Mr. Carr. He gave us written orders that we could not leave our desks until five on the dot. So a few minutes to five we put on our coats and sat down at our desks until the stroke of five. He then gave us written orders that we couldn't put on our coats until after five o'clock. I guess he was showing us his management creativity.

The engineers became irritated with Mr. Carr's overbearing, nit-picking rules and his lack of support of our R&D initiatives. It was time to stem his jabs at us. One day an engineer decided to give Mr. Carr a phone call and hang up on him. This seemed childish but it annoyed Mr. Carr. After three such calls Mr. Carr was determined to catch the individual doing the childish acts. Since Mr. Carr's office space was in the open engineering bay with the rest of us, he could easily gaze and search for the phantom caller. When his phone rang he would swivel his chair 180 degrees and look in our general direction while lifting the receiver. This challenge moved the game from the childish level to the prankster level. Skills would be needed to hide the identity of the caller.

The engineering bay was designed with standard size work areas. Each work area had a telephone jack with an active telephone connected to it. The large contingent of draftsmen to the left of our Unit had recently moved to the new Engineering Building at Michoud. Their moving left a large number of empty work areas scattered just outside our Unit. This was a resource begging to be tapped. To nullify the Mr. Carr gaze as he lifted his phone, an engineer would dial his number from a phone in one of the empty work area. It took a few seconds for the call to go through. This was enough time to walk away as the phone was placing a call. This worked well for at least a week. Mr. Carr correctly came to the conclusion that the phones in the empty work areas were somehow being used.

One morning as we were sitting at our desks, men in white jumpsuits arrived and began disconnecting all the un-assigned phones in the engineering bay. We were being trumped at our game. Mr. Carr's Knights took all our Pawns. This moved the game beyond prankster level.

A couple of days later I discovered Mr. Carr's Knights had missed one of our Pawns. The phone company had inadvertently left a phone in the drawer of an empty desk. I retrieved it and connected it to the phone jack next to the empty desk directly across the aisle from me. We were back in business. The dialing and escape move was very clumsy and we couldn't use it as often as we would like. One afternoon Mr. Carr was having a discussion with Clyde in our section of the engineering bay. Some caller dialed the wrong number and the phone in the desk drawer across the aisle began ringing. Our last Pawn was trounced by Mr. Carr's Bishop. From that day on Mr. Carr walked with an air of triumph.

He walked that way for only three days. On the fourth day he got a call. He turned the 180 degrees, picked up the phone, and said, "Hello, Hello!" His phone went dead. Mr. Carr had lost his Bishop to our Rook. Within minutes we learned of the "hang up". Somehow we were back in business. We went to the snack bar to begin our inquiry. One of the engineers had taken a pink eraser and tied a long, thin, dark thread around the middle of it. The eraser was placed between the phone and the receiver, raising the receiver just enough to open the circuit. The phone could be dialed with the receiver sitting on top of the eraser. When the call was answered, the thread was pulled, hanging up the phone. Game On! We were now clearing the chess board with our Queen. We had Mr. Carr in CHECK.

After a couple of exasperating days, Mr. Carr "Castled" and protected his King. He did this by placing his phone close to our Section secretary's desk and told her from now on she was to answer his private phone as well as the Section phone which had all our numbers. Mr. Carr now removed our CHECK and called CHECKMATE on us.

For a week it looked like he had us. Then one day Clyde called our Section secretary and asked her to meet him at the snack bar for a cup of coffee. The two of them returned at separate times to avoid any suspicion. The very next time a call came in for Mr. Carr the Section secretary immediately got up and headed away from her desk. This left Mr. Carr alone. He had to answer his own call after several rings. Hello, Hello! The phone went dead. CHECKMATE!

After this went on for a few times, we surmised Clyde's trip to the snack bar to meet with the secretary may have had something to do with her leaving her desk when she saw Mr. Carr's call button light up with an incoming call. We approached Clyde about it and he said, "I just told her that he doesn't wash his hands after going to the bathroom."

Six years later Clyde was in the Washington D.C. area on business. He called and I invited him over for dinner. During our conversation I recounted the story about Mr. Carr. I said, "It was clever of you to tell the secretary that he didn't wash his hands."

"I didn't make it up, John. The guy really never washed his hands."

The Unseen Flights of the Saturn IB

In 1962 the Saturn I (the predecessor to the IB) was being built by NASA in Huntsville, Alabama. Chrysler Missile Division received a NASA contract to build the remaining three Saturn I Launch Vehicles at NASA's Michoud assembly plant in New Orleans. This first stage rocket was designed to be launched and recovered at sea and refurbished for another flight. Therefore, it had been designed strong enough to withstand the impact of the water. The strength requirement translated into building a rocket of considerable weight. In order to increase the rocket's payload capabilities and speed, and reach higher orbits, the Saturn I would have to be redesigned to be strong, but lighter and more agile. The Chrysler Missile Division won the contract to do the redesign and build the new Saturn IBs. At this time the company name was changed to Chrysler Corporation Space Division, CCSD.

The new Saturn IB Launch Vehicle would be critical to the success of the Apollo Program and the effort to put a man on the moon. The Space Division's Saturn IBs were to be used to test: the Apollo Command Module (Spacecraft), the Lunar Module (lunar lander), the Command Service Module, and to test the Command Module's reentry into the earth's atmosphere from earth orbit. It would be used to demonstrate propulsion and entry control by Guidance and Navigation systems, to verify the Lunar Module's operation of ascent and descent propulsion and its structures, to evaluate the Lunar Module staging, and used to evaluate the orbital performance of the S IVB and the Saturn Instrument Unit. The Saturn IB would launch the first manned Apollo. During the mission the Apollo Command and Service Modules would be placed into earth orbit for a lunar duration of 10 days 20 hours. The Service Module would be manned and its operations fully tested.

The new Saturn IB had to be light enough to do these tasks but strong enough to survive the forces it would face during flight. CCSD was designing the IB to be 18,000 pounds lighter that the Saturn I. The new rocket would be capable of lifting a 32,000 pound payload into a 100 nautical mile earth orbit. This would be achieved primarily by reducing the rocket's superstructure. The amount of weight reduction had to be balanced against the strength the rocket needed to survive the extreme forces it would encounter.

In November 1961, Chrysler Missile Division submitted a Proposal to NASA to develop a sophisticated mathematical model to determine the forces the Saturn I and IB would be subjected to during the duration of its launch and flight. In July 1963, a month after I arrived at the Chrysler Corporation Space Division, its Advanced Engineering Branch completed a study of the feasibility of developing a mathematical model to define the flight load envelopes for the Saturn Launch Vehicle. The study was made for the Reliability Branch under the authority of Work Order 10-6-2943-00-1. The study concluded the model could be built and supported by computer programs and advanced mathematical computer subroutines. The model would incorporate: structural configuration and material, vehicle external configuration, atmospheric condition, launch location and mission data, an earth model, mass distributions of structure and propellants, wind profile and wind shear, control system characteristics, guidance, turbine and pump performance, and engine characteristics. The model would compute the following throughout the 145 second flight of the Saturn IB first stage: thrust, acceleration, velocity, position and orientation, control and guidance orientations, fuel and LOX mass flows, axial and normal and aerodynamic forces, and center of pressure. The model would "fly" the Saturn many times under varying conditions and provide the information for all computations throughout its flight. The predicted forces would then be used to design structural tests and determine the rocket's ability to handle the maximum forces it would encounter. One of the great features of the Model was the input data could be adjusted to represent different rocket configurations and capabilities. You could use the model to "fly" non-Saturn rockets. It was projected it would take 80 engineering man-months and 39 programming man-months to complete the Model in a period of nine months.

The development of the Flight Loads Evaluation Model was approved in August 1963 while I was assigned to the NASA Data Center. I was not aware this work was going on in the Advanced Engineering Branch while I was assigned there from December 1963 to February 1964. The model was completed in early summer of 1964. It was turned over to the Reliability Engineering Branch. One afternoon Clyde summoned me to his office area. "John I got something for you. I want you to go over this model and operate it for us." Clyde described what it did and handed over a description of the model, its complex input data, and instructions on how to operate its computer program. I was given a list of engineers and programmers to contact. This was going to be a very interesting project and I expected to learn a lot. I would be the first to get an insight into how the Saturn IB would fly and understand the forces it was expected to handle. I was pleased with Clyde's confidence in me and appreciated this opportunity.

The material given to me lacked the Model's final documentation. The computer program documentation included the data input format description and it's run procedure. The FORTRAN program code had Comment statements throughout the computer program logic. I could have just studied the model, understand how to vary its data for conducting our research, and learned the data processing procedures for executing it. I didn't feel comfortable not fully understanding the full details of the model, which was built by four engineers and a couple of very talented programmers. It had nothing to do with not having confidence in them. I wanted to understand the mathematics behind such a complex piece of work. The computer program's logic also intrigued me. Having reviewed the Model's design documentation, I began trial computer runs with the data that was provided. A shuttle service was used to transport our run (punch card) decks and data back and forth to the Data Center in Slidell. The Data Center only ran the Flight Loads Evaluation Model overnight due to the model's execution time of 20 minutes on the only IBM 7094 mainframe computer. Between runs I had plenty time to document the model's mathematics and logic sequence.

To expand my knowledge of space flight mathematics, I enrolled in a graduate course on Space Flight Kinetics. It was offered by LSU in a local setting. The instructor was Von Braun's chief mathematician who worked with him at the German V1 and V2 rocket launch sites. I believe he commuted to New Orleans from NASA in Huntsville, Alabama to teach the course. It took our class a few lectures before we could follow his instruction due to his strong accent. Somehow I managed to get a grade of B+. I also signed up for a correspondence course on the Principals of Rocket Engines. The course was provided by The Rocketdyne Corporation, the builder of our rocket engines.

My study and documentation of the Model continued to go well. The math, and its computer code and logic were matching up exactly. I continued my overnight computer runs. Each morning I went to the Data Center delivery center in our building and picked up the model's computer printout. I returned to my desk and anxiously went over the results. After three launches with the computer I discovered the model had a problem. As the model "flew" the Saturn IB, the rocket's flight trajectory was off significantly and its roll program, which aligns the internal gyro settings to the earth's launch location and the intended flight trajectory, rotated the rocket in the wrong direction. The rocket also took a little longer to achieve its planned altitude. "CCSD! We have a problem!"

I informed Clyde of the problems with the model and we both went over the input data and the computer's Read Format statements. The review turned up no irregularities with the way the computer programs were being executed and the data being read by the programs. This required an increase in the effort to complete the documentation to assure that the FORTRAN computer code and its logic matched the mathematics of the engineers. I worked hard to complete my research. After a few days I reached the Engine and Thrust Subprogram portion of the model. Here I reached my wits end. The math for this section was complex, convoluted, and difficult to follow. There was not enough computer program and engine/thrust math documentation to identify the problems we were having. Researching this section of the model was critical. If errors existed here, they would likely be related to problems with the flight trajectory, the rocket's delay in reaching the target altitude, and possibly the roll program. I had no clue as to how to proceed with the investigation. I thought it best to back off the intense work on the investigation and give my thought processing a complete break. I find this allows the "brain swelling" caused by the difficult work to decrease and the eventual arrival of a new approach or idea. The "swelling" went down by the third day of abstinence.

On the fourth day, I had a "eureka!" moment. In the correspondence course, The Principals of Rocket Engines, I recalled a formula for calculating thrust. I retrieved my training manual and looked it up.

There it was, Force (engine thrust) = M x Ve \+ (Pe – Pa) x Ae.

M is the mass flow rate. Ve is the engine's theoretical exhaust velocity. Pe is its nozzle exit pressure. Pa is the ambient pressure. And, Ae is the rocket nozzle exit area. All but ambient pressure, are constant. They are established by the engine's design. Pa, ambient pressure, is directly related to pressure in the atmosphere. Atmospheric pressure decreases as altitude increases. Therefore, according to the formula, the engine will provide more force (thrust) as the rocket climbs. If CCSD had a graph of Thrust vs. Altitude for our H1 engine, I may be able to replace the entire Engine and Thrust Program with such a graph. I explained my intentions to Clyde and asked where could we possibly find a Trust vs. Altitude graph for the Saturn IB H1 engines? Sure enough, CCSD had the information we needed. It only required confirmation of our Clearance levels and need to know to access the data. NASA provided this photo of the H1 engine.

I had the Data Center duplicate the computer programs for the Flight Loads Evaluation Model and gave each copy a different Call name. I then discovered the identity of each specific data element going into the Engine and Thrust Subprogram. I determined which ones were used in Subprogram calculations and which ones were passed through the Subprogram to other parts of the model. I located each data element calculated by the Subprogram mathematics and sent to other parts of the model. I made sure my findings matched the original Engine and Thrust Subroutine Call Statements. The next step was deleting the entire Engine and Thrust computer code and replacing it with the Thrust vs. Altitude graph for the H1 engine. Each morning I would come to work with great anticipation. Would I have program errors and no computer run? Would the program compile and create an Object program equivalent I could execute? Would the Saturn IB "fly" again?

I was only allowed to run the program at night on the IBM 7094, because the model's run time was over 20 minutes. I double and triple checked the computer logic and code changes prior to each run. This was tedious and, at times, nerve wracking. It was the most efficient way to get the job done. As the days went on, the process began to maturate. The computer error notices finally ended and the program finally compiled. The object program code was created and it indicated it may be able to execute the model. At this point, all was needed was an overnight run with live data. I cautiously prepared the computer program's run instructions punch cards, inserted the Object Code punch card deck behind it, and slipped in the Saturn IB design and flight data. I concluded the large deck of punch cards with the END Statement. I placed three large rubber bands around the deck. I then submitted a run request to the Data Center Service Desk for the evening trip to the Data Center in Slidell. I relaxed the rest of the afternoon and took the bus ride home after work.

The next morning I arrived at my desk the usual half hour before starting time. I was a bit apprehensive about last night's attempt to "launch and fly" our Saturn IB. I had to wait until 9:30 AM to learn how it went. To distract myself I decided to have my favorite post breakfast treat. I got on the elevator and descended 23 floors to the lobby of the Baronne Building. I dodged a few cars and quickly arrived at the small restaurant directly across the street. As I opened the door a wonderful aroma of freshly baked biscuits filled my senses. This is why I had come here. I watched as the owner cautiously removed a large sheet tray containing a single solid biscuit out of the oven. He placed it on the work counter. I asked the chef, "How long before they would be ready?"

"In just a few minutes", he replied. The sheet biscuit was cut into two and one half inch squares. He reached for a large container of melted butter. Each square was cut horizontally in the middle, melted butter swabbed on the bottom half, and the lightly browned top put back on. "OK, what will you have", he asked.

"I'll have three of those and a medium cup of dark roast coffee." I watched as he wrapped the three biscuits in waxed paper, placed them in a thin white box, and closed the lid.

"Here you go; you can order your coffee at the end of the counter." I placed my coffee order, paid for my special treat, and stuffed it in a white paper bag. I walked quickly back to the Baronne Building, dodging the increased traffic. I entered the lobby, punched the UP button, and waited for one of the six elevators. The elevator "has-arrived" bell rang and the doors on one of the express elevators opened. I and fellow white-collared workers filled the elevator car. The aroma of coffee and fresh Southern biscuits filled the car. The first stop would be the 16th floor. During the quick assent I noticed a couple of riders looking around to locate who had the goodies. It was slow going in getting to the 23rd floor. I exited the car, turned left, made another left, and walked quickly down the large aisle. I took a right at the opening between the desks leading to our Unit's office area. I plopped the white bag down on my desk. As I reached the seat of the chair my hand was already retrieving the contents of the bag. The coffee came first, then the white paper box. A wonderful aroma began to float around my desk.

"What you got there John?" asked Mr. Jackson.

"Just something I got across the street." For the next 25 minutes I ignored the arrival activity of the other engineers and draftsmen. The ignoring was accompanied by bliss.

This is a NASA photo of stacking the Saturn IB SA 205 for Apollo 7, the first manned Apollo flight.

By 8:30 AM my treat ended and I returned to the working world. It was about the time the Data Center shuttle should be arriving to deliver its valuable cargo of computer run results and documentation. I departed for the Data Center Service Desk located on the floor below us. When I arrived at the service window I showed my identification. I was handed a slender box which contained my program punch-card deck and a fan folded 3/4 inch thick computer print-out. My name was machine-printed in large letters across the top page. The print-out was thicker than usual. I stepped away from the service window and walked to a table close by. I pulled up a gray metal chair and quickly thumbed through the printout to see if any errors had terminated the computer model run. I didn't notice any program or execution errors. I went to the back of the print-out and found the model had executed and generated the model reports for the first time. I was elated. Now I had to go over the reports to see if the Saturn IB "launch" had taken place and the flight problems with the original Flight Loads Evaluation Model still existed. I collected the material and returned to my desk, pleased I had gotten this far. I went straight away to the report section. A full condition report was printed every 4.8 seconds during the flight of the Saturn IB. I began studying the 32 reports. The rocket blasted off and slowly began to climb. A few seconds after it cleared the launch tower the guidance roll program kicked in. The Saturn IB began to slowly rotate in the correct counter clockwise direction as it continued its climb straight up. It stopped its rotation at the appropriate altitude then began to arch over into the proper trajectory. The rocket had no trouble in lifting its weight and the S IV B second stage. It continued down range. At T plus 72.3 seconds, halfway into its flight, it was traveling a little over MACH 1. Around this time the Saturn IB was receiving its maximum forces, MAX Q, and experiencing its heaviest drag. At T plus 88 seconds the rocket reached MACH 2. It was safely past MAX Q and its drag dropped sharply in the thinning atmosphere. The Saturn IB reached MACH 3 19 seconds later. At T plus 123 seconds most of the drag had left its flight and it was traveling at MACH 4. At MACH 5 all drag had disappeared and it began to enter outer space. At T plus 146.4 the Saturn IB was traveling a little over MACH 6. Its first stage had reached the end of its flight. It had done its job flawlessly. It was time for the S IVB second stage to separate from the launch vehicle and the Saturn IB first stage to fall back to earth. This was an excellent "ride"! The Model could have been better, only if it had an audio capability.

I looked up from my work and over to Clyde. "Hey Clyde!" I realized he was on the phone. I waited until he ended his call and approached his desk. "Clyde!"

"What you got John?"

"The Saturn flew."

"What do you mean?"

"The new Flight Loads Evaluation Model flew the IB perfectly."

"Well I'll be darn! Bring it on over and let's take a look." I retrieved the computer print-out and sat at the steel gray table across from Clyde's desk. I discussed the bug free computer run and went over the many reports produced during the "flight". "What did we get for MAX Q?" Clyde asked.

"It was slightly over 700 lbs. per square foot. It occurred at T plus 76.8 seconds, traveling at about MACH 1.5."

"Looks like pretty good stuff. How about documenting the critical information? I'll give it to Dofter (our Chief Engineer, Reliability Engineering Branch). He may want to pass it along to Advanced Engineering."

"I forgot to mention, the computer run was a little over two minutes, and not the twenty minutes the original model took."

"I'll be a son of a gun. Good Job!"

I wrote a report on the changes I made to the Engine and Thrust Subroutine and a summary of the model's results. Clyde met with Dofter and the report went on up the organizational ladder.

After all this effort, I had yet to begin work on the portion of the model that was the responsibility of the Reliability Engineering Branch. It was our job to add randomization to conditions which could affect flight and exert additional forces on the Saturn IB. There were only three items assumed to do this: differences in engine manufacturing, variations in wind speed and variations in wind direction. Manufacturing tolerances contribute to minor differences in the thrust of each of the Saturn's eight engines. The rocket could experience strong cross winds and powerful wind shears as it traveled through the earth's atmosphere. The designers of the IB were reducing the weight, and subsequently the strength, of the huge frame and spider-beam assembly which held the entire first stage together. If a strong wind shear, such as the Jet Stream, put enough strain on the tanks and frame and bent them, the rocket would likely break up during flight. Another critical condition we wanted to investigate was the earliest time in the flight the Saturn IB could suffer a single engine shut down and still be able to meet its mission objectives.

I was able to construct an Atmospheric Subroutine for introducing wind shear and wind directional forces during flight. I installed a random thrust routine to represent variation in rocket engine construction. And, I introduced an engine cut-off switch which allowed engineers to shut down an engine of choice at a specific time during flight. While I was adding these capabilities to the Model, I made an interesting discovery. While tinkering around with the input data for the description of the rocket's design features, I found the mounting locations of the four outboard engines were incorrect. In their current location they would hit the inner four engines when they were gimbaled to their maximum allowable angles. The Model developers had placed their engine mountings incorrectly. The correct mounting locations were slightly more outbound to the rockets center. When I made the adjustments and ran the model, the rocket's flight had a minor improvement and the rocket burned less fuel and liquid oxygen. The results of the change demonstrated the sensitivity of the model's design. The Saturn IB had "flown" several times by the new Flight Loads Evaluation Model. The maximum force loads on the IB were determined for various flight conditions. The earliest time during flight the Saturn could suffer a single engine failure and still successfully complete its mission was discovered. I then completed my final task of updating the new Flight Loads Evaluation Model's documentation. This was a very interesting research project. I learned a lot. The designers and developers of the Model and the Computer scientist who made it work did a wonderful job. They were experts.

Nitro Man

In the morning of September 1965 everybody in New Orleans was tracking hurricane Betsy. It was traveling through the Gulf of Mexico and could take a turn and head straight for New Orleans. I headed off to work with the intention that if Betsy made a turn towards New Orleans, I would leave early enough to return home and prepare the house for Betsy's wrath. You could hear the soft sound of a radio in each of the large open engineering bays. Once in a while a phone would be answered with a concerned voice. Spouses and friends were keeping us up to date. By the middle of the afternoon the news was bad, Betsy was heading our way. All of the executives and managers of NASA, Chrysler and Boeing were aware of the approaching hurricane. We anxiously awaited the word to go home and protect our property. Half hour by half hour passed with no authorization to leave. The longer the delay, the harder it would be to complete the boarding of windows, the tying down of structures and other major preparations. We never got the official word we could leave work. The few employees who were natives knew the transplants from the east, mid-west, and west didn't have a clue as to what to expect. They appeared oblivious to our warnings and pleas to excuse everyone. They didn't even have an idea what the Michoud rocket plant would experience. At 3:30 PM, those of us who knew what was coming left the plant without the OK to do so. We knew the clock monitors would forget to record our insolence once they had to deal with the hurricane's aftermath.

I got home with just enough time to prepare the house. I finished my work just as the high winds and rain appeared. By 7:30 PM things were getting bad. I kept a radio and the TV on, and listened for emergency instructions and evacuation notices. By 9:00 PM areas of the city began to experience light flooding from the heavy rains. Power transformers that hung high on electrical poles began to explode and shower white sprays of chemicals down below them. The situation got so bad we had reached the point of last resort, hunker down. At 10:30 PM the Mayor of New Orleans got on the radio and gave a mandatory order for all those living in New Orleans East to immediately leave and drive west on Chef Menteur highway. All residents should get west of the Industrial Canal. This was the worst time to leave shelter and travel in an intense hurricane. I made a call to a friend and made arrangements to stay at his home. Once I got out onto the Chef Menteur Highway I proceeded a few blocks only to end up in a solid traffic jam. Trees were coming down, transformers were exploding, electrical wires were on the roads and sidewalks, and electrical power was out. I couldn't understand why drivers insisted in staying in the two inbound lanes and refused to use the vacant outbound lanes. I crossed through the median and drove in the outbound lane. I soon arrived at my friend's house and hunkered down for the long night.

By the next morning my friend's house made it through the hurricane with little damage. After breakfast we listened to the radio for a damage report and instructions on the safest way to return to New Orleans East. It wasn't long before we got the word that we could not return. For the next three days we were told not to return. On the fourth day we were given instruction that we could return by way of Lakefront Boulevard. The Chef Menteur Highway was closed. When I entered my neighborhood, it appeared as expected. Some homes had roof and window damage from the wind. It didn't appear as if the homes suffered much water damage despite the foot of water in the street. The water had risen only half way up the yards. When I reached 200 feet from my house the front tire received a massive puncture and immediately flattened to the rim. I still managed to turn the car and make it up the gentile rise of the driveway. I checked the outside of the house straight away. The roof turbine vent had ripped off and a little water had dampened the ceiling in the living room. There was little damage of consequence.

The next morning the water in the street and lower yards remained. It was not being pumped out by the sewer system. It appeared that the conditions were tolerable and we may be able to resume a "normal" post hurricane recovery. That afternoon my neighbors and I noticed the water began to slowly rise. Four of us decided to walk across lawns towards Chef Menteur Highway, the direction the water appeared to be coming from. When we reached the highway we obscured the water coming from the right. We hiked a few blocks and discovered a culvert which ran under the highway had water rushing through it. The water was draining the marsh land on the south side of the highway into the populated neighborhoods on the north side. We had to block the culvert to save our properties. We decided to return to our neighborhood and sacrifice one of our cars and sink it on the south end of the culvert. We would then fill the voids with heavy objects and gravel. When we returned to the culvert with a "disposable" car, we were faced with a man standing next to the culvert dressed in a combat uniform with an M1 rifle slung over his shoulder. He warned us not to come any closer. He was placed there to make sure no one stopped the water from passing through the culvert. We explained the water level was rising in our neighborhood and it wouldn't be long before it flooded our homes. He said it was his duty to let the water pass through the culvert and ordered us to leave. This could have been a scene from a horror film.

Within a few hours our homes were on the verge of flooding. All of the homes were built on concrete slab foundations. They were less than a foot above our lawns. By the next morning the floors of all of the houses in the neighborhood were under water with the exception of three. One of the three was my house. The water stopped one inch from the top of the slab foundation. During the next day we learned hurricane Betsy had knocked the two pumping stations servicing New Orleans East off their foundations. We would be living with the putrid water for who knows how long. After living in the mess for a week the Red Cross came by in flat bottom boats to provide shots to protect us against disease. We were living without electricity and without all the conveniences it fed. Food was rationed and we risked drinking the tap water.

During the beginning of the second week, Dick White, a neighbor who worked in the testing area of the rocket plant asked if I wanted to make some ice. We had been out of ice for a few days and had to cook everything we had in our freezers to save the food. I said, "yes, but how are we going to do that."

"My car is parked up on Chef Menteur Highway. Grab a couple of metal buckets and let's take a ride." We walked to the highway, got in the car and headed east. I asked if we were going in the wrong direction. "No", he responded. Within five minutes I realized we were headed in the direction of Michoud. We were checked through the security gate and continued to the large Rocket Assembly Building. We parked by a side door, grabbed our buckets and coolers, and went inside. "OK John, we fill your buckets with water over here." I thought he was going to bring me to a freezer filled with ice. We filled all four buckets. "Now we will bring them over there" said Dick. Over there was a seven foot, three foot wide shiny steel cylinder. He grabbed a sturdy ladder, placed the ladder next to it, and carefully climbed to the top of the cylinder. He reached over and lifted the steel lid and handed it to me. "Now hand me one of the buckets." I passed it to Dick and he lifted it over the edge and slowly lowered it into the cylinder. After a few seconds I heard the crackling of ice. He carefully pulled the bucket from the cylinder and handed it to me. As I lowered it onto the floor I saw the water had turned to a solid block of ice.

"Well I'll be. How did you do that?"

"I'll get down and you can look in."

I got to the top of the cylinder and looked in.

"Don't bend over to far", warned Dick.

It was filled with a crystal clear liquid. I could see a small whiff of steam rising from the top of the cylinder. "What is it? I asked.

"Liquid Nitrogen, he replied. Here, you try one."

We filled our coolers to their brims. Ah, the benefits of research with cryogenics!

### The First Use of Artificial Intelligence

When NASA requested a specific research study or solicited Request for Proposals to submit a preliminary design for an aerospace research project, its scientists, mathematicians, and engineers were pressed into action. At other times, these professionals would devise research and development projects they believed NASA would have a compelling interest in. They would provide a presentation on the proposed work to CCSD executive management. If the work was deemed to have high potential, CCSD would fund research into its planning and presentation to NASA. This activity was encouraged and critical to obtaining new business and sustaining Chrysler's Space Division. In addition, the Math Model Unit responded to NASA's inquiry into the validity of the technology used in our scientific research and development activities. A couple of these projects were mentioned earlier. One answered the question concerning the confidence in reliability calculations for systems in series, and another addressed the accuracy in the random number generators we were using in our models. CCSD employees also took time to write articles for aerospace and professional publications.

In 1965 Clyde thought it would be beneficial if we let the world know of CCSD's use of reliability math modeling (artificial intelligence) to search for weaknesses in the design of the Saturn IB. He began writing a paper on our work for submission to the Operations Research Society of America (ORSA) for publication in its professional journal. He asked if I would like to be involved. I jumped at this opportunity. It would be a chance to participate in publishing a paper on a scientific project of great importance to our profession. Clyde and I worked hard on the material whenever we had time in our busy schedules. We finished the paper and had the tech writers review it. It then went through the standard corporate review and joint NASA publication approval process. Clyde made sure it met ORSA's publication standards. Off it went to ORSA for consideration. In a couple of weeks or so we were informed that the paper was received and it had been submitted to ORSA's Scientific Review Committee. Several weeks passed without a word from the Committee. One day a thick envelope arrived in the mail. It was from ORSA and it was addressed to Clyde. I watched Clyde open it while I sat at my desk. He pulled out the paper we had submitted and a cover letter from the ORSA Review Committee. I saw Clyde going over the letter and then called me over to his office table. He didn't look happy or upset. Clyde said our paper had been rejected. This was surprising, because we had not been contacted by the ORSA committee concerning questions or clarifications on the content of our work. We were pretty sure our subject matter was a first of its kind. Their unfamiliarity with the subject did not jolt their curiosity. I asked Clyde why they rejected our paper. Clyde said there wasn't much explanation for the rejection. However, one member on the scientific review committee did give an explanation for rejecting it. He was an Air Force Colonel. The Colonel said, "There is no probability that a rocket part will work. It is either 1.0, it works, or 0.0, it doesn't work." Obviously the ORSA committee members had no idea what CCSD had done. After a brief discussion, Clyde asked if I thought we should go back to the ORSA committee to explain our work. I said if the Colonel is representative of the individuals on the review committee, I don't believe it would be worth the effort. The first use of "artificial intelligence" was not published in the Journal of the Operations Research Society of America

Death Makes a Visit

On page 14 in the May 6, 1963 publication of Missiles and Rockets it reported on a meeting of the Aerospace Medical Association, which was held in Los Angeles. The title of the article is "At space medics' meeting....

Apollo Environment Attacked"

"Vast majority of physicians oppose pure oxygen; dangers from fire, anemia, effects on vision cited.

LOS ANGELES---About 200 biomedical experts have expressed nearly unanimous opposition to NASA's selection of a pure-oxygen environment for Apollo.

... _Interviews after the discussion revealed that a large part of the group feels that medical advisors in the Manned Space Program have not insisted strongly enough on adequate physiological research before environmental-system design decisions...._

Possible hazards associated with pure oxygen listed by some of the speakers included fire; long-term anemia; oxygen toxicity, including effects on vision; partial lung collapse; and reduced tolerance of ionizing radiation......

Fire threat---Spokesmen from the U.S. Air Crew Equipment Laboratory and Pacific Missile Range said that spacecraft fires in a pure oxygen system must be totally prevented.

In experiments at Pt. Mugu, Calif., materials in a 5-psi oxygen environment like that of U.S. spacecraft burn six times as fast, they reported, at a much higher flame temperature and with a lower ignition temperature than in ordinary air. In one accidental fire with men in an experimental pure-oxygen environment, a subject attempted to slap out a fire with his hand only to have the hand burst into flames. When he tried to beat it out on another part of his body, it, too, began to burn.

Air Force space medics told M/R that the oxygen appears to have a saturation effect, and after a period of time all clothing, skin, and other materials become "soaked" with oxygen molecules, and thus fire cannot be smothered out."

On page 15 in the May 13, 1963 publication of Missiles and Rockets there is a long article titled "NASA Defends Oxygen Atmosphere For Apollo"

"Officials rap critics, point to engineering factors complicating use of mixed-gas, deny withholding data.

NASA HAS FLATLY denied charges that it is in any way endangering the lives or health of the Apollo astronauts by prescribing a 100 % oxygen environment for their 14-day lunar-landing mission.

Space medicine experts in Washington told MISSILES AND ROCKETS the agency sees no reason to change its decision to use a single-gas, 5-psi atmosphere in Gemini and Apollo, in spite of criticisms from industry and medical officials at the Aerospace Medical Association's recent meeting in Los Angeles (M/R, May 6, p.14).

D. Brainerd Holmes, director of the Office of Manned Space Flight, sharply rapped these critics in testimony before a Congressional committee, asserting that they should have come to the agency rather than air their views first to the press. Dr. Charles H. Roadman, Space Medicine head, also appeared before the House Science and Astronautics Manned Space Flight subcommittee and declared that, although it could not be ruled out that subjects might develop anemia in 100% oxygen, there was no risk in the 14-day mission.

NASA is so sure about its decision, the space agency's Dr. Joe Connor said in an interview, that it is confident that if the Apollo mission is extended to 18 or perhaps 25 days, the 100% oxygen life support system would go with it."

On page 18 in the August 5, 1963 publication of Missiles and Rockets there is a long article titled "AF reports...

All-Oxygen Tests Reveal Toxicity"

"Subject's symptoms attributed to oxygen-rich, nitrogen-poor atmosphere; NASA believes 100% oxygen safe for first Apollo".

The Air Force provides a summary of the toxicity that occurred during their testing of subjects in a 100% oxygen environment.

On page 9 in the February 24, 1964 publication of Missiles and Rockets a short news article states; "Pure Oxygen Gets Preliminary Nod."

" _A second 30-day pure-oxygen environment test has begun at the AF School of Aerospace Medicine, Brooks AFB, Tex. Although not all data from the first test have been processed, the Air Force reports a tentative OK for 30 days for the controversial spacecraft atmosphere."_

The first manned Apollo spaceflight was scheduled aboard our Saturn IB SA 204 in January 1967. In 1964 Clyde and I came up with the idea of using the technology and mathematical techniques of the Reliability Math Model (expert system / artificial intelligence) to ferret out dangerous design flaws in the Apollo Command Module (spacecraft), and assure a high reliability that it would survive the rigors of outer space and return. We came up with a plan to develop an unsolicited proposal to NASA to do the research at a very modest cost. A secondary benefit of this work would be CCSD's access to NASA's Astronaut Training Center in Houston, Texas, and the potential of new R&D business. CCSD approved the plan and we developed the proposal. CCSD sent the proposal to NASA. CCSD received a fairly quick and frank response. NASA was not interested in doing this kind of work for the Apollo Command and Service Modules.

On January 27, 1967 the first manned Apollo sat atop our Saturn SA 204. While conducting a test of the spacecraft in 100 percent oxygen at a pressure of 16 psi, three astronauts Gus Grissom, Edward White, and Roger Chaffee were burnt to death. NASA provided this photo of the spacecraft after the fire.

In 1975 NASA published Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, NASA SP-350. George M. Low wrote Chapter Four, The Spaceships. In the chapter he writes, _"By April 1967, when I was given the Apollo spacecraft job, an investigation board had completed most of its work. The board was not able to pinpoint the exact cause of the fire, but this only made matters worse because it meant that there were probably flaws in several areas of the spacecraft. These included the cabin environment on the launch pad, the amount of combustible material in the spacecraft, and perhaps most important, the control (or lack of control) of changes._

Apollo would fly in space with a pure oxygen atmosphere at 5 psi, about one-third the pressure of the air we breathe. But on the launching pad, Apollo used pure oxygen at 16 psi, slightly above the pressure of the outside air..... But in 16 psi oxygen most nonmetallic materials will burn explosively; even steel can be set on fire. Mistake number one: Incredible as it may sound in hindsight, we had all been blind to this problem. In spite of all the care, all the checks and balances, all the "what happens if's," we had overlooked the hazard on the launching pad.

Most nonmetallic things will burn---even in air or 5 psi oxygen---unless they are specially formulated or treated. Somehow, over the years of development and test, too many nonmetals had crept into Apollo. The cabin was full of Velcro cloth, a sort of space-age baling wire, to help astronauts store and attach their gear and checklists. There were paper books and checklists, a special kind of plastic netting to provide more storage space, and the spacesuits themselves, made of rubber and fabric and plastic. Behind the panels there were wires with nonmetallic insulation, and switches and circuit breakers in plastic cases. There were also gobs of insulating material called RTV...., as we found out later, (RTV) burned in an oxygen environment. Mistake number two: Far too much nonmetallic material had been incorporated in the construction of the spacecraft.

... _.When machinery gets as complex as the Apollo spacecraft, no single person can keep all of its details in his head. Paper, therefore, becomes of paramount importance: paper to record the exact configuration (of the spacecraft); paper to list every nut and bolt and tube and wire; paper to record the precise size, shape, constitution, history, and pedigree of every piece and every part. The paper tells where it was made, who made it, which batch of raw material was used, how it was tested, and how it performed. Paper becomes particularly important when a change is made, and changes must be made whenever design, engineering, and development proceed simultaneously as they did in Apollo..... Mistake number three: In the rush to prepare Apollo for flight, the control of changes had not been as rigorous as it should have been, and the investigation board was unable to determine the precise detailed configuration of the spacecraft, how it was made, and what was in it at the time of the accident. Three mistakes, and perhaps more, added up to a spark, fuel for a fire, and an environment to make the fire explosive in its nature. And three fine men died."_

Well, let's see how a Reliability Engineer would have confronted the three mistakes Dr. George M. Low mentions. The first mistake was increasing the spacecraft's cabin pressure to 16 psi at 100 % oxygen. A Reliability Engineer would have first realized the danger of this pressure test of the spacecraft and ruled against it. If overruled, the Reliability Engineer would have selected a cross section of the materials which makes up the spacecraft and tossed them into a mockup container of the spacecraft, closed the hatch, and pumped 100% oxygen into it and observed the tremendous fire that would have resulted. Photographs and a video of the test would have accompanied the test report. This should have convinced NASA executives it would be very dangerous to place three astronauts in with the spacecraft contents and raise the 100% pure oxygen pressure to 16 psi.

According to Dr. Low, having too much non-metallic material in the spacecraft was the second mistake. A Reliability Engineer would have conducted the first test at 5.5% pure oxygen for 40-day duration and simulated electrical circuitry under actual conditions, including the sparking associated with poor circuitry. The engineers would have noted the results. If a fire or the smoldering of material occurred, or the brake down of equipment occurred, they would have been documented in a report to NASA executives.

According to Dr. Low, there was very poor documentation of the spacecraft configuration and its contents. Within one week on the job a Reliability Engineer would have discovered this situation and concluded the spacecraft's design and construction were totally compromised. They would have concluded that the mission and the safety of the spacecraft's crew were at an unacceptably high risk.

NASA's approach to the design of the spacecraft can be summed up in a statement recorded in the making of the DVD made by NOVA copyrighted in 1999 by WGBH Education Foundation, "TO THE MOON". Christopher C. Kraft Jr., Chief of Flight Operations, said, "I don't think we would have gotten to the moon in the 60s if we had not had the fire. That is a terrible thing to say, but I think it is true." This NASA photo is the Saturn IB launch pad just after the fire.

Clyde, I and our Reliability Engineers would not have had to use our reliability math model's technology to conclude that the spacecraft was in extremely poor condition and it would not be able to function as designed. We would have recommended that the reliability math model be use in the spacecraft's redesign.

Neither during the hearings in Washington DC nor during reporting of the investigations that followed, did I hear anyone mentioning that CCSD had delivered a Proposal to NASA three years prior to the deadly mishap to use its technology to find the weaknesses in the spacecraft's design. The investigations disclosed serious design flaws in the spacecraft. As a result NASA had the North American Company intensively reengineer their Apollo Command Module and Service Module. The two modules collectively make a single spacecraft. Over 100 major redesign orders were given by NASA's spacecraft design control team. The new spacecraft flew successfully on top of our Saturn IB SA 205 on October 11, 1969. It was the launch of the first manned Apollo spacecraft, Apollo 7.

NASA Looks to Help the Astronauts

In late 1965 or early 1966, NASA sent CCSD and other selected aerospace companies a Request for Proposals to design and build an astronaut training facility to prepare for space walks in outer space. CCSD put a major effort in developing its proposal. While many engineers and scientists were involved in the research to come up with a good design, the Human Factors Unit of the Reliability Branch took the lead in the proposal's development. Our bald-headed (shaved) PhD human factors expert was assigned manager of this effort. CCSD's design was the development of a huge under water facility that would allow the space labs and spacecrafts to be submerged. The astronauts would wear specialized space suits with pressurized air and neutral buoyancy while performing duties on the labs or spacecrafts. The results of this work would be the design of specialized tools, equipment and external features that eased the astronauts work effort and space walk. I was not directly involved in the scientific work of the proposal. However, I was listed as one of several key engineers that would relocate to Houston to design and build the training facility. I was very pleased about being selected because CCSD's manpower curve for our Saturn IB contract was now on a downward slope.

I left CCSD in mid 1966 before NASA awarded the contract for the astronaut training facility. The winning design was a marionette rig and sling system which would support astronauts in "heavy suspension" while conducting their space walk training. The first astronauts to "benefit" from this training were in the Gemini Program. While conducting the first Gemini space walk, the astronaut's blood pressure and heart rate became so dangerously high that NASA- Houston had to get him back into the spacecraft to prevent the astronaut from dying in space.

NASA scuttled the marionette-astronaut training technique and then had a contractor build our design of the underwater training facility. The first spacewalk conducted by an astronaut trained in the new facility concluded his spacewalk with surprising ease. From then on all astronauts conducting spacewalks were trained using our originally proposed training facility and techniques.

### The Crisis of a Failure

In early 1966 my fellow engineers and I received news that something serious had occurred in our rocket assembly plant. Within two days, the what, of what went wrong leaked out. A failure had occurred during the strength test of the Saturn IB spider beam assembly.

NASA provided this photo of the super structure of the Saturn IB.

In this photo, the spider beam with its "Y" ring is attached to the right end of the rocket's central support column. The eight engine thrust structure is attached on the left end. This structure holds together the entire Saturn IB first stage and mates it to the Saturn IV B second stage. The original spider beam of NASA's Saturn I had been reduced in weight to lighten the launch vehicle as part of the Saturn I's conversion to the IB.

It appeared that Clyde was disturbed by the next bit of news. He was told that I would be assigned to the Reliability Testing Section to discover went wrong during a critical test. Clyde got into a hot discussion about assigning me away from his organization. He was cornered into a compromise of last resort. He got executive management to allow him to swap out one of his engineers every two weeks as long as the assignment lasted. I couldn't blame Clyde for his stand. He had built a good team of mathematicians, engineers, and a physicist. They all performed excellent work and got along very well. I was the first to head out to the plant next door. This NASA photo shows our engineering offices in the foreground next to the parking lot and the Saturn IB and Saturn V assembly plant in the background.

When I got there I was shown a giant steel rig that held a huge Saturn IB spider beam assembly. Very large hydraulic pressure units were attached all over key sections of the spider beam. The opposite ends of the hydraulic units were attached to positions on the giant steel test rig. As I was walked around the giant contraption, the chief test engineer explained how the test worked. The System Engineering Branch had sent them a test design which would transfer the maximum forces the spider beam would encounter during flight from the test rig onto the spider beam assembly. This would occur at MAX Q, something I was familiar with. Additional forces would be applied during the test as a safety measure in the design of the spider beam. Before our walk around came to a stop I looked up and saw a large upside down U shaped bend in one of the spider beam frames. This was a consequence of the test. My job was to determine what had caused the test to fail. I was given no suggestions as to the cause, only the documentation of the test requirements and the detail of the test design contraption. I was given a work area in the plant as my office space. I was told the test failure had set back the launch of the first Saturn IB six months. Any delay in resolving the cause would lead to increases beyond six months.

The systems engineers designed the test such that the sum total of all forces and their direction of impact on the spider beam would result in it be suspended in equilibrium. That is, when the tremendous forces were exerted throughout the spider beam, the spider beam would float "in midair" and not move from the center of the giant test rig. This was my clue as how to approach solving the riddle of the failure. The systems engineers had a computer math model that computed the amount of force that should be applied to each of the many attachments to the spider beam. Each force applied to the spider beam had to be broken down into its six degrees of freedom components of location, direction and strength. The location of each force applied to the spider beam had a major bearing on this research. Once all forces were broken into their six degrees of freedoms, their sum in the up and down directions would equal zero. The same should be true for force components in the north and south horizontal direction and their east and west horizontal directions. The sum of clockwise force components on the spider beam would have to match the sum of its counter-clockwise force components. If all these forces countered one another evenly, the large spider beam should have floated safely inside the giant rig during the test. All I had to do was hundreds of trigonometry calculations to discover which summation of counter forces was not equal to zero. I had to do all the trig calculations and the mathematics using my slide rule and a Freidan electro-mechanical calculator. Here is my well worn slide rule. Notice the crack in the glass slider.

After three long days of hard tedious work, my calculations showed that all the forces applied to the spider beam would have resulted in a perfect suspension of the beam inside the giant rig. My results matched those developed by the computer math model the systems engineers used. The test should have worked. Did the reliability test engineers make a mistake in the construction of the rig's complex hydraulic system or apply incorrect force to one of the many attachments to the spider beam or test rig? My brain was "swelling" from all the work and concentration. I stepped away from my desk. It was time to walk the rocket assembly floor to let the "swelling" go down. After a lengthy walk I left the assembly building and went to lunch in the Michoud cafeteria.

After lunch I returned to the rocket assembly building. I casually sat in my chair and let my thoughts float lightly over and around the spider beam dilemma. As my thoughts tip toed over the spider beam they suddenly came to a stop. Something was missing. Suddenly an idea appeared. What if the forces in the upward direction and the downward direction were not balanced over the bottom and the top of the spider beam? Their totals up and down were equal and canceled one another. However, what if their locations on the two surfaces didn't match up? I could find out by splitting the spider beam in half and look at the force locations and strengths on each half independently. This will tell me if there were unbalanced forces on either side of the line I used to "cut" the spider beam. I was searching for twisting forces that would circle my line. I summed up all the contrasting forces and they came to zero. The spider beam still safely floated. I then drew a line through the middle of the spider beam perpendicular to the first line. I summed up the contrasting forces. There it was! They didn't sum to zero. There was an unbalanced force of 210 pounds. It appeared on the edge of the outermost steel beam. It was as if a 210 pound systems engineer stepped onto the outer most edge of the spider beam as it floated in perfect suspension. This would have caused the spider beam to move slightly at first. Then the individual forces, many thousands of pounds each, would have gotten all out of whack. The spider beam's movement would have accelerated with enough speed that it would have smashed into the giant test rig with a force of hundreds of thousands of pounds. At the end of the day I wrapped up my work and left for home.

The next morning I returned to work. I had enough time over night to mentally review my work. I didn't discover any "leaks" in my analysis. I cleaned up my draft report and telephoned the Director of Reliability Testing and reported I had discovered what caused the test to go wrong. When he arrived I asked him what went on during the strength test of the spider beam. "It tried to flip inside the test rig and banged into it, bending the outside beam of the spider beam." He pulled up a chair and sat next to me. I went over my analysis. My results demonstrated that the Spider beam would try to flip. The Director asked if I would mind if we get on a conference call.

I said, "Not at all!"

In a couple of minutes he had a manager from the Systems Engineering Branch and an investigator from NASA on the line with the two of us. Most of our discussion was with the systems engineer. The investigator from NASA said very little. Towards the end of the conversation the systems engineer said the 210 pounds would not have moved the spider beam while it was in the test rig. I disagreed and stated, if the strength test was conducted correctly, the spider beam would have been in complete suspension. A force of 210 pounds could cause it to begin to move. Once it moves all forces put on the spider beam change direction and magnitude. We all realized there was nowhere else for this debate to go.

The systems engineer was asked, "Where do we go from here".

He said, "Add 210 pounds in the opposite direction."

"Why? I asked.

In a condescending tone he said, "Because that would cancel out the 210 pound error".

He didn't appreciate my help. So I didn't mention that the new total for the up and down forces would differ by 210 pounds. I expected that he would realize this before the restart of the test. The conference call was concluded. I was asked to provide a final report by tomorrow afternoon.

I completed the report by mid morning the next day. Before lunch time the director of Reliability Testing arrived at my desk with another gentleman. We were introduced. I wasn't sure his organization and title were mentioned in the introduction. I was to give the report to the gentleman. The director excused himself and left. The gentleman reached down and pulled out a fancy black binder from his briefcase. "Here, I would like you to put your report and all the research computations and notes in this binder." It took a few minutes to locate all the material. I clamped it into the binder and handed it to the gentleman. "That will be fine", he said. He then went to his brief case, pulled out a large sticker and placed it on the binder. Printed on it was "SECRET". He said thank you and walked away.

I had a week left on my two week loan to the Reliability Testing Section. Though I completed my work in discovering the cause of the test failure, I remained with the Section to be available to address questions that may arise concerning my research. This gave me the chance to roam the rocket assembly plant and enjoy the fascinating work. Here is a NASA photo of my roaming area.

Now and then I would chat with the engineers and professionals who seem to be doing the real work on the Saturn IB. I enjoyed every minute of my last five days. Towards the end of the week I asked a test engineer, who was managing the repair to the damaged spider beam assembly, how they were planning to redo the test. He said the cost of the high grade steel made it too expensive to build a complete new test rig and spider beam. So they were going to use the same test rig and replace the one bent beam on the spider beam assembly and continue the test. This would also minimize the slippage to the first launch of the Saturn IB. At the end of my two week commitment I returned to the Math Model Unit.

### A Reluctant Exit

In the fall of 1964 the CCSD executives held one of their corporate review meetings. After the meeting Clyde and other line managers met with Mr. Dofter the Chief Engineer of the Reliability Branch. When Clyde returned he said, "John let's go for coffee." We chatted a little and Clyde tossed out a bit of news. "Mr. Dofter mentioned you were rated as the top engineer in the CCSD Engineer Management Program." I thanked Clyde for letting me know. I figured he was giving me a heads up for a meeting with Mr. Dofter or some sort of formal announcement. After a month passed without receiving any recognition, I concluded Clyde was passing along a comment made by the personnel manager to another executive during the meeting. Either way I appreciated hearing the comment was made. I thought my jumping out of the year long program three months early had removed me from any further evaluation by those directing the program.

In March of 1965 I was put up for promotion to Reliability Engineer A. By late spring Clyde got the word the CEO of CCSD gave the final approval for my promotion. Week after week went by with no word of my promotion. By the end of the summer I received no word of my promotion and I became quite concerned. Clyde and I made inquiries into the delay to no avail.

After my return to the Math Model Unit from my two weeks with the Reliability Testing Section in April 1966, I received notice my promotion was approved. However, I would not be receiving almost a year's worth of back pay reflecting the increase in my salary. I began looking for an explanation. I got as far as the Chief Engineer, Reliability Branch, Mr. Dofter. He agreed to meet with me.

"Come on in John", said Mr. Dofter. "I know you are looking for an explanation about the delay in your promotion. But, before you ask questions let me tell you a story. This past January, the executives of CCSD had their annual meeting. We each gave a summary of our work and what we expected for the coming year. The personnel office prepared a written document and placed a copy in front of each of us. When it came time for their presentation they asked us to open the report and follow along. When it came to a summary of personnel attendance problems, I turned to the page showing the summary. The first thing I and every executive in the room saw was your name at the top of a list of the employees with the worst abuse of leave. I was shocked. I knew everyone in the meeting would remember the first name on the list. And, it was my employee. I said to myself, I know John. He is not like that. Well after the meeting I returned to my office and called in my personnel records administrator, Mr. Williams. I told him to immediately go over your leave records for 1965. He brought them to me and they showed you didn't have nearly the hours of non-pay leave listed in the Personnel Office's annual report."

I knew I had spotless attendance and leave records.

Mr. Dofter continued, "Once we corrected the mistake downstairs in Personnel, Headquarters in Detroit approved your promotion."

"What about the back pay?" I asked.

"I'm sorry but that can't be corrected."

At this point I was completely dumfounded. "Mr. Dofter, I have a perfect attendance record. I would like to speak to Mr. Williams about the discrepancy in his records."

"Go right ahead. I'll let him know it's OK for you to go over our records." I thanked him for his time and stepped out of his office.

A few weeks after I met with Mr. Dofter, Erik Lerche, a friend and fellow engineer, called me over to his desk. He mentioned he just had an interview with a recruiter from a research firm located outside of Washington, DC. The interview had been held in a hotel in downtown New Orleans. He thought I would be very interested in what the recruiter had to say. This was a surprise to me. I had no idea Erik was looking to change jobs. His discussion began to draw my attention to the reality of the downward slope of CCSD's manning curve for the Saturn IB contract with NASA. There were other indications it was time to give a career change serious consideration. Erik's suggestion, that I may want to look for a job change, was like tossing cold water in my face.

I took Erik's advice and arranged for an interview two days later. The interviewer was George Davies, Personnel Director for Technical Operations Research Inc. Tech Ops, as it was referred to, had a long standing contract with The Army Combat Development Command to provide War Game research for potential conflicts 20 years or more into the future. The work sounded fascinating. The interview went well, although I was somewhat reserved about it. I knew I would miss the rocket business and the friends I worked with. I loved the aerospace business and the constant challenges it provided. George secured offers for both Erik and I. The two of us flew to National Airport in Alexandria, Virginia. We rented a car and drove to Tech Ops offices at Fort Belvoir, just south of Alexandria. We met with the firm's executives. Interviews were held with our prospective managers. We were shown the war game facilities, and we were introduced to the retired military officers who ran the war games. We had lunch at the Officers Club and George showed us the surrounding area.

On returning to New Orleans we both accepted their offers and announced our resignations from Chrysler Corporation Space Division. On hearing this, Mr. Dofter invited me to his office. After a short conversation he said, "John I'm here to change your mind." I thanked him for his comments.

During the week before my departure, several of my friends, engineers and professionals, from different organizations throughout CCSD gave me a going away party in the engineering building. They presented me with a painting of the Saturn IB racing towards the heavens. It was painted by an artist in the CCSD Industrial Art Department. I will see if Erik Lerche has no longer use for it. I gave it to him when I left Tech Ops.

A couple of years after I left CCSD the aerospace industry began to collapse in a major way. Its unemployed engineers and scientists had difficulty in finding jobs in their specialties. A PhD was of little help. I was glad I had moved on. I enjoyed it while it lasted.

### The Saturn IB Established Its Place in Space

### The Rocket

The Saturn IB was a two stage rocket, a first stage booster designated S-IB, and a second stage on top of the booster designated S-IVB. Above the second stage was the Apollo spacecraft. A launch escape system was attached to the top of the spacecraft. If a problem occurred during liftoff and the flight was going to be aborted, a safety rocket would lift the Apollo manned capsule away from the main rocket allowing the capsule to escape from a pending disaster. A chute would open after the safety rocket completed its lifting of the capsule and the capsule would float to earth after parachutes deployed above the capsule.

The total height of the Saturn IB was 224 feet. The width of the first and second stage rockets was 21.7 feet. The S-IB booster was 83.6 feet tall from the tip of its engines to the top of the spider beam. It had eight H-1 engines which ran on liquid oxygen and refined kerosene. Each engine generated 205,000 pounds of thrust for a total thrust of 1,640,000 pounds. The IB engines burned for 2.5 minutes during flight. The rocket had eight fixed fins attached to its bottom. The second stage S-IVB was 58.4 feet tall. It had one J-2 engine using liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen. The engine produced 225,000 pounds of thrust. Attached to the top of S-IVB was a 35.8 inch wide ring filled with command, control, and guidance equipment. The equipment directed all launch vehicle functions during ascent. This was the Instrument Unit, the brains of Saturn IB and later the Saturn V. The S-IB and S-IVB constituted the Saturn IB launch vehicle. The IB could place 46,000 pounds in low earth orbit. Its total mass at launch was 1,282,856 pounds. The prime contractors for the Saturn IB were: S-IB first stage booster – Chrysler Corporation Space Division, S-IVB second stage – McDonnell Douglas, Instrument Unit Integration – IBM, and S-IB and S-IVB engines – Rocketdyne. NASA provided this diagram of the Saturn IB vehicle.

### The Apollo Spacecraft

The Apollo spacecraft was 80 feet tall. It was comprised of three significant parts, the Command Module, the Service Module, and the Lunar Module, each performing a critical function. The Command Module (Apollo Space Capsule) carried the three-man Apollo crew. Its cone shape was 11 feet tall and 13 feet in diameter at its base and weighed 13,000 pounds. It was crammed with sophisticated equipment, crew couches, instrument panels, navigation gear, radios, life support equipment, and small engines to control its direction during flight. The capsule sat on top of the Service Module. The Service Module was 13 feet in diameter and 24 feet long and weighed 52,000 pounds. It carried spacecraft supplies, oxygen, and fuel cells. It had small engines to control the spacecraft's orientation. It had a single rocket engine generating 20,500 pounds of thrust which provided propulsion for the Apollo spacecraft. The engine used its power, to move the spacecraft from its parking orbit around the earth and head out to the moon, to park the spacecraft in an orbit around the moon, and to propel the Command and Service Modules back to earth. Here is a NASA photo of the Command Module (Apollo Capsule) attached to the cilindrical shapped Service Module in lunar orbit.

Below the Service Module portion of the spacecraft was the Lunar Module which contained the Lunar Lander, shown here in a NASA photograph.

The S-IVB, the second stage of the Saturn IB, was also the third stage rocket on the Saturn V moon rocket. It was used on the Saturn V to put the Apollo spacecraft into a parking orbit before its trip to the moon.

The S-IVB, Command Module, Service Module, Lunar Module and Lunar Lander had to be tested to make sure they could survive a launch and perform in space as designed. NASA chose the Saturn IB to be the workhorse for conducting the tests of these critical components. They were critical to getting our astronauts to the moon and returning them safely. The rocket booster had to be very reliable and perform as expected. The Chrysler Corporation Space Division designed and built the Saturn IB first stage booster to a reliability of .967 from lift-off through S-IB/S-IVB separation. The reliability was increased to .999+ when extra fuel was added to the S-IVB tanks. This meant that out of 1,000 flights only one could be expected to fail when extra fuel was added to the S-IVB.

### Saturn IB Missions

The following is a list of the missions assigned to the Saturn IB. Due to the total weight of the spacecraft, the Saturn IB launched the Command and Service Modules or the Lunar Module, but not the three together.

SA 201 - Launched 2/26/1966 - This was the Saturn IB's first launch of the S-IVB and the Apollo Command and Service Modules into space. The S-IVB became the third stage of the Saturn V. The mission was an unmanned suborbital test flight. NASA conducted tests on the spacecraft's engine to assure that it could be started, shut down, be restarted, and precisely controlled in space. NASA demonstrated the ability of the Command Module (Apollo Space Capsule) to fly in earth orbit, that its heat shield could protect it during high speed entry into the earth's atmosphere, and that the Apollo capsule could be successfully recovered.

SA 203 - Launched 7/5/1966 - The first flight and test of the Instrument Unit, the brain of Saturn V, was conducted. The movement of liquid hydrogen in the S-IVB-500 tanks during earth orbit zero gravity was studied. Tests were conducted on the S-IVB-500 rocket's ability to restart while in space. No Apollo (capsule) Command Module was carried on this mission.

SA 202 - Launched 8/25/1966 – Unmanned suborbital tests were conducted by NASA on the Service Module systems and its structure. The Command Module's guidance and navigation systems ability to control reentry into earth's atmosphere was also tested. Tests performed on the S-IVB during the SA 201 mission were successfully repeated.

SA 204 - Launched 1/22/1968 - **Apollo 5 -** Apollo 5 was originally Apollo 1 which was renumbered due to the death of three astronauts during a preflight test in the Apollo capsule. This was the first launch into space of the Lunar Module with its Lunar Lander. NASA tested the Lunar Lander's propulsion system for proper ascent and descent, critical for the astronaut's lunar landing and takeoff from the moon. It also tested Lunar Module staging, the S-IVB's orbital performance, and the functioning of the Saturn V Instrument Unit. The tests were performed unmanned in earth orbit.

SA 205 - Launched 10/11/1968 - **Apollo 7** \- Commander Wally Schirra, Command Module Pilot Donn Eisele and Lunar Module Pilot Walter Cunningham were the first Apollo astronauts launched into space. Here is NASA's photograph of the astronauts.

NASA tested the Service Module and the totally redesigned Command Module (capsule) in low earth orbit for ten days and twenty hours, a length of time greater than it would take for the trip to the moon and return. NASA provided this photograph of Walter Cunningham making observations from inside the orbiting Apollo 7 Command Module.

Once in orbit, the S-IVB stayed with the Command/Service spacecraft modules for one and a half orbits before the astronauts separated their spacecraft from it. They then turned the spacecraft around and simulated docking with it. The maneuver would be required to extract the Lunar Lander from its module and fly with it to the moon and execute a landing and takeoff from the moon. The next day the astronauts used their capsule to chase down the tumbling S-IVB 80 miles away and rendezvous within 70 feet of it. Here is the astronaut's photograph of it.

The Press Kit for Apollo 7 is a historic documentation of the first manned Apollo mission. NASA provided this photograph of the Apollo 7 / Saturn IB launch.

Here is NASA's photograph of the Apollo 7 Command Module that was plucked from ocean. It is on display at the Frontiers of Flight Museum in Dallas, Texas.

With two successful unmanned flights of the Saturn V and the successes of the Saturn IB / Spacecraft tests behind them, NASA was now prepared to go to the moon. The very next space flight, two months and ten days following the Saturn IB launch of Apollo 7, the Saturn V launched a manned Apollo spacecraft to circumnavigate the moon. This occurred on 12/21/1968.

SA 206 - Launched 5/25/1973 – **Skylab 2** , ferried the first crew and their Command and Service Modules (spacecraft) to the U.S. Skylab Space Station in earth orbit. Skylab was the only U.S. orbital workshop. A crew of four lived in the Skylab for 84 days while conducting experiments. This demonstrated that humans can live in space for long periods of time.

NASA provided this photograph of Skylab.

SA 207 - Launched 7/23/1973 – **Skylab 3** , SA 207 ferried the second crew and spacecraft to the U.S. Skylab Space Station.

SA 208 - Launched 11/16/1973 – **Skylab 4** , SA-208 was first used as a standby rescue vehicle for Skylab 3. It was not needed. It ferried the third crew and spacecraft to the U.S. Skylab Space Station.

SA 209 - Standby rescue vehicle for **Skylab 4** and later Apollo-Soyuz rescue. It was not needed. SA 209 was to be launched as **Skylab 5** to lift the Skylab workshop's orbit so it would endure until the Space Shuttle was ready to fly. Skylab 5 was cancelled. SA 209 is currently on display in the NASA Kennedy Space Center rocket garden in Florida.

SA 210 - Launched 7/15/1975 – **Apollo/Soyuz Test Project** , SA 210 launched an Apollo crew and spacecraft for the historic rendezvous and docking with the USSR Soyuz 19 spacecraft. Here is NASA's photograph of the Apollo Soyuz Saturn IB on its launch pad.

NASA's new special docking adapter module was successfully tested.

Here is NASA's photograph of the Apollo/Soyuz docking on display in the Smithsonian Museum in Washington, DC.

SA 210 was the last of the Apollo Saturn rockets to launch into space.

SA 211 - Was not used. It is on display at the Alabama Welcome Center on I-65 in Ardmore, Alabama.

SA 212 - Was not used. The S-IB first stage was scrapped. The S-IVB stage was converted to the Skylab space station.

SA 213 – Only the S-IB first stage booster was built. It was unused and scrapped.

SA 214 - Only the S-IB first stage booster was built. It was unused and scrapped.

All of the Saturn IB launches were successful.

### Saturn IB's Math Model Unit

The members of Chrysler Corporation Space Division's Reliability Math Model Unit were Virgil Clyde Brown (Unit Manager), Wayne, Karen Chikuma, Steven Martinez, Erik Lerche, Henry Amato, Ron Anderson, and John P. Hornung.

### More Information on the Saturn IB

For an excellent summary of the NASA Saturn IB go to the Wikipedia.org internet site.

The Saturn IB SA 209 is seen here on display at NASA's Kennedy Space Center, Florida.

Here I am with the SA 209.

There are many untold personal stories of drive, initiative, and imagination. They rest with the scientist, engineers, and trade and construction professionals whose creativity, talent, and hard work created the means for space exploration. I would love to listen to them all. Their average age was 27, I was 25.

###

Acknowledgments

Space rocket historians would find the following references of great use. Alan Lawrie's book "SATURN I/IB, The Complete Manufacturing and Test Records", published in 2008, is an excellent documentation of the U.S. rocket industry's effort to build and launch Saturn IBs. The archives of the weekly publication "Missiles and Rockets" contain outstanding coverage of the space industry and its political arena during the critical years of rocket research and development. A search for the current owner of the copyright for "Missiles and Rockets" resulted in dead ends. The publication is long out of print. NASA provided the photograph for the book cover and the photographs in this chapter where noted.

The Author

John Hornung was born in New Orleans, Louisiana. He received a BS in Physics and a Masters of Public Administration. As a rocket scientist, John worked on NASA's Apollo Space Program. While with the Army's Combat Development Command, he designed mathematical models used to conduct war games to test global strategies for military operations. John led research and development programs and rose to Deputy Director, Office of Statistical Programs and Standards at Headquarters U S Postal Service. He received the Department of the Treasury's National Telecommunications and Information Systems Security Award, in recognition of his organization's outstanding contributions. John retired from Federal Service and relocated to Williamsburg, Virginia. John is a member of The Virginia Writers Club.

### Interview with the Author

"The Space Show" is an internet audio program of topics involving space research, policy, planning, and history. The show is broadcast in seven continents. Dr. David Livingston, host of the show, interviewed John Hornung on October 30, 2009 about his work in the Apollo Space Program. If you would like to listen to it on the Internet, the following will lead you there. GO TO: www.Thespaceshow.com. Scroll down to the bottom of Program Archives and Select the OCT 30, 2009 program. Click on details: The description of the program comes up. Click on Listen to the show. The show is two hours long. It begins with six minutes of announcements and a two minute break after each 28 minute segment. You can fast forward through them. I think you will find the interview interesting.

### Connect with John P Hornung

jamestown@jackbenimble.us
