I was born in 1938 and really grew up in the 50s. During the 40s I saw a lot of flying aircraft as P-47s were built for the war effort in Evansville. I never thought about flying on an airplane. I assumed that was for a different social and economic class. I did build model airplanes as kid and had some favorites, like the F4U Corsair, the P38 Lockheed Lightning, and of course the B25 Billy Mitchell bomber.
When I graduated from high school in 1956, I felt like I needed a break from school, so I enlisted in the Marine Corps. It never crossed my mind how I would get there. After enlisting and swearing in, I was given an airplane ticket. We were told that we didn’t need to take anything with us, so I didn’t learn about luggage etc.
I arrived at the Evansville airport in plenty of time to catch my flight. I was just amazed at all that was going on there. When they announced my flight, I got in line and went through security and out on the tarmac. The plane was DC3 which I read on the card in the seat back pocket. I had a window seat and so was watching out the window to all that was going on. It was dark by the time we were scheduled to leave. They started the motors and the props were turning, and I was excited.
We taxied down to the end of the runway, and they revved up the motors and off we rolled. I look at the motor and there are these blue flames coming out the exhaust and licking around the wing. Scared the heck out of me. All I could think of was cutting torch flames. I pulled the window blind down and went through my litany of prayers. No one else seemed to be concerned, but I never looked out the window for the rest of the flight to San Diego.
Eventually I became accustomed to airplanes and their noises and movements, which was good as I flew on hundreds of flights in my career. However, I never forgot my first.
