I’m not sure when or where I first acquired a love of flying. It might have been in a movie theater watching “Flying Tigers” or “The Bridge at Toko-Ri”; it might have been while reading Richard Bach’s “Stranger to the Ground”; or, it might have been during my first flight with my uncle in a Cessna 150. In any event, I was resigned to this being an unrequited love save for a handball game in January, 1964. But, I get ahead of myself.
After graduation from Kenyon, I was commissioned a second lieutenant in the Air Force and received an educational deferment to attend George Washington University Law School. After one semester of Legal Method, Contracts, and Personal Property, I decided to abort…or, at least temporarily interrupt my advance to the US Supreme Court. In addition, at the time, I was unaware of the rush a lawyer could get representing victims of mesothelioma. My request for active duty was approved and I eagerly awaited orders to go to pilot training. Imagine my surprise when I was posted as an intelligence officer at Barksdale AFB, Louisiana. When I asked if there had been a mistake, the Air Force informed me that I was not qualified for pilot training due to color-blindness. My wife, Eben, I, and our new-born son, Mark, headed south. We were provided on-base housing and a salary of $222.30 per month. We soon learned, however, that the military indeed looks out for its own. Pot-luck dinners and neighborhood barbecues became the norm—all of which served to stretch our salaries as well as foster friendship and esprit.
A thirty-year service warrant officer, who, on paper worked for me, encouraged me to play handball. Under his tutelage, I became very competitive and, in fact, vied for the base championship early in 1964. I lost to a major who was the aide to the Vice Commander, Second Air Force. One day in January, the aide called and asked if I would play handball with his boss while the aide was on leave. Nervously, I agreed. After the first time we played, the General and I were sitting in the steam room when he asked what I did. I replied that I was an Air Intelligence Officer. He immediately inquired why I didn’t fly. Color-blindness, I replied. He seemed bemused, so I further explained how I was unable to identify the requisite numbers from a series of plates of multi-shaded dots, called an Ishihara (sp) test. He surprisingly inquired whether my wife was color-blind. When I replied no, he instructed me to go to the flight surgeon’s office, get the book of plates, study it with my wife, and schedule a retest. This, I faithfully did, and correctly identified all 14 plates in the retest. The Air Force approved my pilot training application and in June, 1964, I began flight training at Laredo Air Force Base, Texas. I later discovered that the color deficiency I had was disqualifying for entry into pilot training, but could be waived after graduation. In 28 subsequent flight physicals, I never passed the test again. Also, whatever the deficiency was had no noted effects during my flying career.
Over the intervening years, I have often wondered what I might have done had I never played that handball game. Would I have returned to law school, taught school, or gone into business? All tickled me to some degree, but I only felt passionately about the profession a fortuitous, simple game of handball afforded me.
Over 28 years, I logged over 5,000 flight hours, 4,500 in fighters, had two combat tours, visited over 15 foreign countries and all 50 states, held a number of command and staff positions and acquired thousands of memories—only a few of which I would choose to forget.
So, enough about me. We had two more children—Chris and Noel. Mark, and they have gone their separate ways, but each are committed and happy with what they do. How important is that! The exclamation point versus a question mark is intentional.
Eben has been the strength of our family during all the separations.
We wish we could have been on the Hill, but we send best wishes to very special people.
By the way, the General lost 3-0…