Chapter 3

World War II

On December 8, 1941, the day after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, my friend Red Parker and I decided we wanted to go “shoot down Japs” and tried to enlist in the Army Air Corps. But, the Air Corps required two years of college that day. I had only one year. I tried the navy. The Navy required 20 / 20 eyesight. I had 20 /30 and had no yen for the Infantry. My father hated the Marines so I went home and joined the United States Civil Air Patrol and started taking flying lessons. I dropped out of college and went to work for Standard Brands, Inc. unloading semi-tractor trailers, warehousing and making deliveries of Fleischman Yeast, twenty pound tins of cherries and eggs to bakeries, Royal Gelatin, and various coffees; Standard Brands, Perfect Circle and some exotic roasts. The job paid $ 27 per week and all the yeast I could eat. I paid $ 10.00 a week at home for room and board.

My shifts varied, 4:00 P.M. to midnight or midnight to 8:00 A.M. Some days we would receive and stack 14 tons of flour and baking powders, which came in 100-pound sacks. Each sack was placed on a roller type conveyer at street level and we would pick it up in the basement, stack it on a palette and haul the full palettes with a hand truck. We had no forklifts. I started that job weighing a 117 pounds. A year later I built myself up to 155 pounds.

The 4:00 P.M. to midnight shift, known as the s--t shift, allowed me to go to the beach in the morning and ride my motorcycle. I had blonde hair and a light tan that easily burned. One day, in the water at Lake St. Clair, I met a cute girl and we got friendlier than I had ever been with a member of the female persuasion. She had big brown eyes and was exciting, but we never even got to shore with it. It was my first case of puppy attraction and I did not remember her name. On another day Red Parker and I were returning from the lake on my motorcycle at top speed, about 75 mph. We approached and quickly passed a police officer standing next to his patrol car, on a side road. We heard nothing but the roar of the bike’s exhaust as we passed. We did not slow or stop nor were we followed.

At Standard Brands, Inc. I met some people to remember; one of them Bill Christie was 33 years old but it seemed to me he could do "everything" and especially for an "old guy". For example, he did pushups off of his fingertips with his arms fully outstretched. Ray Gazelle, who later joined the Marines, introduced me to Coca-Cola and vodka. I worked with a kid a little older than me. Joe Mack was his name when he was not at home in Hamtramck. His real name was Macijewski. Hamtramck is a town completely surrounded by Detroit. Many people of Polish descent lived there. He used to “smuggle” me into town. Joe introduced me to seeing a blonde two blocks from the truck. I wrecked a company pick-up truck doing just that, when I slid along wet streetcar tracks into a stake body truck "Zimmie" Zimmerman, my supervisor whom I remember as my first boss, irately
informed me it took 24 labor hours to untangle the front end and rebuild it.

One day I delivered an order near the Detroit Public Library in front of which stood a statue of Rodin’s Thinker. I often studied it when passing it on my magazine route. I took a detour from the bakery and viewed it, again. On the way back to the truck, I passed a guy in a car who sold me an electric razor, for $3.00 with a “pssst, Buddy routine.” When Dad tried to shave with it, it grabbed his whiskers and would not let go. It would not shave me either. The guy was gone when I tried to get my money back.

Katie and Dad divorced in 1942 and she moved. That left Pop, Bruce and me to batch it. Jack left, took charge of Beverly and later took her to Aunt Besse’s. Pop bought a burned out 1932 Harley-Davidson 72 cubic inch with high lift cams and 19-inch wheels. It had crashed during a race and he bought it to rebuild it. While rebuilding that he made a motor scooter that my cousin Bruce and I rode. It had no brakes so were supposed to be careful. We stopped it by dragging our feet.

When Pop finished the motorcycle he asked me if I if I knew how to ride a motorcycle. I said yes so he said I could have it for $ 175.00. I bought it for $ 100 down. On my first ride I turned right off of Wilfred Street, then right at the next street drove the one block to Conners Boulevard and stopped. So far so good. Then I over-accelerated, crossed four lanes of traffic, two of which were oncoming, I missed at least four cars, bounced up on the sidewalk across the street. Then I turned right, crossed back into the correct side of the street and boogied on home. Pop said, " How did it go". I said "Fine" but I must have been pale for days. The bike was green.

This picture shows Bruce with my bike in the foreground.

Dad often went hunting with Joe La Bounty. They both drank heavily. On one day he shot a hole in his car with a Winchester .348 rifle and then fell on it and broke the stock. He later gave it to me; damned thing kicked like a mule. (I fired it 4 times into the ground in my back yard, after a very serious drinking party, on New Years Eve, 1948. Next morning, I found that I had almost “killed” our garden hose.) Dad shot a hole with a shotgun in the darkroom when he tripped on the basement stairway after coming home from a hunt, but fortunately I was elsewhere.

Dad gave me boxing lessons, right after I started smoking a pipe and repeatedly pointed out that “smoking hurt my wind”. He had been a semi pro boxer and never failed to hit me in the nose right after warning me that he would. I did not want to hit him, so I did not impress him with my boxing prowess.

The Civil Air Patrol sounded interesting and I joined. As a member of the United States Civil Air Patrol, I got my first military uniform and became one of two motorcycle escort riders for Gar Wood, our Civil Air Patrol executive officer. Mr. Wood, a wealthy industrialist, lived in Grosse Point near the Detroit River. He had a swimming pool in his basement adjacent to a den in which he had animal trophies mounted on the walls. I was one of two motorcycle escort riders for Mr. Wood. The other was Skippy Sanger. The Civil Air Patrol met at Mr. Wood’s mansion. He was the manufacturer of World War II Landing Ship Tanks and the Landing Craft Infantry. He used his swimming pool to test the hydraulic characteristics of the models, which ultimately became these military craft. Mr. Wood had a profound influence on my future thinking because I vowed that some day I would own a swimming pool and be a hunter.

Skippy Sanger was the other motorcycle escort rider. I pasted a C.A.P. decal on my Harley-Davidson. The Civil Air Patrol had its own song, which I remember. We escorted Gar Wood only in parades. Little did I know that within a year or so that Skippy Sanger would also influence my future.

I adopted the nickname "Speed". It sure wasn’t "watch out". I had a close call about a year later when a car turned left directly in front of me. I skidded sideways, laid the bike down and slid, on the right crash bar, to a stop. When I got off I righted the bike, set the side kick stand, and sat on a curb with my head in my hands for a few minutes until my heart slowed to a normal beat.

In the winter of 1941 I took a job at General Motors Forge Plant as a time clerk. I decided to take flying lessons at Detroit City Airport. The instructor Dixie Davis, owned two all metal Luscombe high wing monoplanes, powered by 85 hp Lycoming engines. My first lesson went well. Dixie Davis took the plane into the air. I took over the joystick I turned the plane left and right, flew figure eights, dove, climbed and made a landing approach. I also flew directly toward the sun at about 5:00 P.M. I had no sunglasses so that bothered me but other than that I thought I was “hot stuff”. Dixie gave me a logbook and a pamphlet containing basic instructions and told me to read the instructions. I looked at the logbook and barely noticed the instructions. A week later, on a Friday night, I had just gotten off my motorcycle for at the Detroit City Airport. The streets had been cleared of snow and ice but the plane all metal Luscombe high wing monoplane was sitting in a patch of snow. The wheel chocks were in when Dixie spun the prop and the engine caught. But it sputtered so I gave it some gas; my both feet were on the brake pedals but the plane moved and toward the 6-story natural gas tank. As I thought about that tank, which friends had warned me about, Dixie started yelling, jumped back from the prop, leaped over and grabbed the left wing. I could not hear him over the roar of the engine. The plane swung around and the right wing hit the right wing of his other all-metal Luscombe. It turns out that beneath the snow laid a sheet of ice on which the wheels and wheel-chocks slid. I still remember Dixie Davis yelling for what seems like 20 minutes, " A plane is always in gear; that’s why I gave you the book to read!” I did not need the book as far as I was concerned. I had been flying and "knew it all". When I told my Dad about it he asked if I was OK and whose fault it was. I told him I was OK and the fault was mine. He said, "Let's eat". I also so informed the insurance company when asked so they paid for fixing Dixie's planes but I put him out of business for three weeks.

One day our CAP crew boarded Gar Wood’s amphibian airplane at TVO (Detroit’s City Airport) and flew to Flint, Michigan to drop imitation bombs on a target at the airport there. During the flight I was informed that it was fortunate that I admitted being at fault because if I had not, the insurance company would not have covered the instructor. The “bombs” consisted of one pound of flour in a paper sack. At the Flint Airport a circle drawn on a taxiway constituted our target.

In the spring of 1942 I went to work for the U.S. Army Detroit Ordnance District. My early tasks included finding measuring gauges for armament that had not been seen since World War 1. My title was Engineer-Order Detailer and I had a GS rating. I earned $1,200 per annum. I had a license to drive a government car. My first boss, Ray Fox; stood almost four feet tall. His boss, an Army captain to whom I was I was later assigned taught me to write letters in his style. I also worked for a man who liked my first name; his name was Myron Churchill and he was in his 70's. He had pioneered freeze-drying and foretold, for my benefit, the advent of the quick freeze industry. Betty Hutton, an emerging movie star had a girl friend who worked at the DOD and I drove her home after work on my motorcycle several times. She had great legs but she was older and too sophisticated for me (and probably too expensive).

One day, early in our batching days, we had a big pile of laundry. Dad instructed me to get it washed. I took it to a Chinese laundry on Conners Avenue. With my customary naive trust and ignorance, I left it without instructions. On pickup day I went there with a few bucks and when informed that the bill was over $11. I had to go home and get some money from Dad. He declared that among other things that if it cost more than $10. the “x@#%^& Chinaman” could keep it. I got it for that price, and almost wished I hadn’t. Every thing had been starched, even our socks. I heard about that for a couple of days.

I stayed on in the house at 14841 Wilfred Street until the winter of 1942 / 1943. In the winter 1942, my father, my cousin Bruce, and I were living as bachelors there. I met a girl named Mary Godwin. She was about 5 feet tall with no discernible shape. We had dated just twice and did some heavy necking; she was hotter than a pistol. I liked her but was chicken. She started coming over to our house. I asked Cal what do about her and he said if I liked her to go ahead and “jump” her. I guess I did not like her that much.

Within a few days after Cal and I talked, Cal and Dee decided to go to California. Cal invited me to go with them. This was on Friday and we were scheduled to leave on Tuesday. We did. I left home with a suitcase and about forty dollars. We drove south at first, through Arkansas we visited Cal’s uncle and his bootlegger’s still. “Uncle” wore hog washer overalls and revolver tucked inside the waste band. The handle stuck out. His still was in a grove of trees up on a hill with a good view of all approaches. We stayed a day and moved on. We drank rum and spent a lot of time looking for Coca-Cola trees. By the time we got to Denver we thought we ought to eat something, so we stopped and had lunch. As we traveled through Arizona we shot at jackrabbits from the window of his car. Had we been sober, we might have hit one.

Cal and I had planned to go to San Diego California and stay there but when we got there we saw many No Vacancy signs. So, we went up the coast to the San Fernando Valley. I found a job at a construction site where I chipped concrete with a star drill and sledgehammer one day and dug ditches the second day. The next day a major rainstorm and flood hit the San Fernando Valley. A woman, unable to exit her car, drowned in it at an intersection. Because of the rain I could not go to work. I used Cal’s car to go a drugstore and left it parked at the curb near the bottom of a steep hill, during a cloud burst. By the time I got out of the store the water was up over the curb and inside the car. Cal reacted angrily and this took the bloom out of our relationship. I had to move out of the motel in which we stayed. I had twenty dollars in my pocket and credit cards, if extant, were not known to me.

Fortunately, when I worked at General Motors Forge I gave many of my checks to my father to keep for me. I sent him a Western Union telegram and he wired me some money so I could afford to move. I remembered and contacted my Uncle Harry Nosanov in East Los Angeles where he lived with his wife, Esther. My Dad had a long-standing feud with Uncle Harry and considered him dead. I wanted to meet him. I sat in his chair when he entered the room and Esther introduced me. I knew he had been a professional wrestler so when he went for me and said, “Let’s see if you’re Morrie’s boy”, I tried to be ready. After we wrestled and rolled around on the floor a little he agreed I was and we got sociable. He and Esther had a nice house and spare room. They agreed to rent a room to me for ten dollars a week.

Uncle Harry Nosanov and his wife Aunt Esther had two daughters, Marilyn and Gloria. They lived there. In a shop in the back yard he made garden furniture for sale. He had two Harley Davidson motorcycles. I liked the Harley 80; 80 cubic inches of engine. The other had a 45 cubic inch engine. My Harley 74 was still in Detroit. He raised chickens in his back yard. Uncle Harry, like his brothers, was a renegade as to being Jewish. To Esther, being Jewish was very important and she gave me the following advice “Be sure to marry a Jewish girl.” I thought then maybe I should find out what she meant and what was “being Jewish”.

I also found out the circumstance that caused the feud between Harry and the rest of the family. Esther did it, not Harry. Uncle Harry was an innocent bystander, normally a sweet guy, and a pushover for his wife. In the 1920' s she sued my grandmother, his own mother, over an estate matter. I never learned the details.

Esther took in Beverly, Bruce’s sister in 1942. Beverly had been with Aunt Besse but they did not fare well together. Esther could not handle her either and had farmed her out by the time I got there. Uncle Jack and Bruce made the trip to California. They drove home on a motorcycle. When Bruce got home he crashed and broke his pelvis. Out of the hospital after three months, on the way home he crashed and broke his shoulder. He switched to horses. The pelvis injury prevented him from qualifying for military service.

I had transported two pistols across the country with me. I took them into City Hall and registered them with the Police Department to protect me from criminal charges if they were ever stolen and used in a crime. On the way back to my abode I drove through a crosswalk, in which there was a pedestrian. Behind me was a patrol car and I learned that in California a pedestrian in the crosswalk has the right of way. I got a ticket.

Gloria had a boyfriend, George with whom I played touch football. We took bus rides to an ice-skating rink and the Bimini swimming pool on Western Avenue. She invited some girl friends over and introduced me. I took a couple of cute ones for motorcycle rides and walked one home. I liked Evelyn Miller’s looks whom I walked home, but she talked my ear off. Gloria told me about a girl named Betty who knew which way the wind blew. One day in the backyard while I was talking with my Uncle Harry in his shop, I saw Betty Fay Magidow, a cute girl in a pair red slacks. She looked great to me. One of my criteria had come from a book where the heroine had enough hips to berth a baby and return to the fields very shortly. I offered her a ride home and told her I would meet her in front of the house. Little did she know that I was going to take her home on Uncle Harry’s Harley 80. She did not demur and I drove her home. When her mother saw that bike she told Betty not to go out with that bum again. Betty had a great bust line, beautiful eyes and cheekbones, rosebud lips and was not shy. But, she had no idea which way any thing blew. She even thought that kissing produced babies; just like in the movies.
Within days after meeting Betty I moved to a room on Rampart Street in Los Angeles and ate most of my meals at the Silver Dollar Café. A motley, if not sleazy, greasy spoon with a less than modest clientele, but affordable. I paid $10 a week for one room with a bed, a window and a hot plate. It probably had a toilet somewhere. I tried to get a job as a draftsman with L. A. Shipbuilding. They said they liked my drafting samples but would not hire me because “Uncle Sam” classified me 1A in the Selective Service Army Draft. I became a lonesome polecat. One popular song that made an impression on me contained the lyrics, “Get out of here and get me some money, too.”

I found a job in a gasoline service station on Hollywood Boulevard directly in front of the Mocambo nightclub. One of the near cross streets was Marmont Lane. Stan Laurel lived on this street and Jack Oakie lived in the Marmont Hotel. The boss, Joe, normally a good natured roly poly guy, let me take his Rolls-Royce to go to lunch a mile away at either Schwab’s Drug store or Greenblatt’s Delicatessen across the street. At the intersection of Sunset Boulevard and Crescent Heights Avenue it reveled in Hollywood’s hey-days. The service station had customers like movie stars Arlene Judge, Ann Sheridan and Humphrey Bogart. Arlene Judge, known as the It Girl of the 40s, wore low cut tailored suits and no blouse or brassiere. I enjoyed pumping gas and collecting from her. Bogart behaved reservedly cool and Ann Sheridan was drop dead beautiful. Tony Martin, the singer and Navy officer, stored cases of booze in one of the closets. I worked there for two weeks until I came back late from lunch with Joe’s Rolls one day and he ran me off with an adjustable wrench that look too big for where he wanted to put it. I hated cleaning the rest rooms, anyhow.

I promptly found employment at Schwab’s Drug store as a motorcycle delivery boy. Later, I also manned the cash register in the front of the store and washed dishes in the soda fountain galley on occasion. Leon Schwab hired me. He, his brother and sister, Yetta, ran the store. I earned $ 90 per month, tips, and a meal plus a second meal during my shift. A shift ran 8 to 12 hours per day, starting at noon. Their motorcycles had three wheels and between the two in the back there was a trunk like storage compartment. I also majored in soda jerk, counter clerk and dishwasher when needed. I used my nickname, “Speed”. I moved to digs on Franklin Street near Western Avenue. I had a room in an attic all to myself and refrigerator privileges in the kitchen for the same rent I had paid on Rampart Street.

At Schwab’s I met and observed many famous acting people. Some came in after work, others after play or whatever. Barbara Stanwyck and Vera Ellen frequented the soda fountain. Bob Benchley came in for cigars. Ann Miller, 19 years old at the time, (as was I) came in and tap danced in the back room to prove that she was faster than Alabam, a Negro cohort who also rode motor for Schwab’s. Alabam was an aspiring entertainer who also danced at a local nightclub. Another rider was Bill Bordner, who lived just around the, south of the Garden of Allah. He wanted to be an actor. One day at his house I found him and his Mom admiring his body; he was standing in front of a mirror in his shorts, all puffed up. He had a great profile and cheekbones and although he knew it did not behave haughtily. Bill and I often chatted with Bill Lundigan, a very nice fellow and well-known actor of those days.

The most memorable chat was with Bob Benchley (later known in the 1990's as Peter’s father), a famous author and comedian. One late night after Bob Benchley had played poker up the street, he stood in front of the cash register counter blew perfect smoke rings and comically instructed Bill Bordner and me on the joys and proper puffing on a cigar. He made us laugh so hard we had tears in our eyes. When we could laugh no more, he looked down in disdain and stalked away. It was at this cash register that I met Lena Horne, also my age. I met, had a soda with Vera Ellen at Schwab’s soda fountain and aspired to date her. That idea crashed when the next week, I made a delivery to her apartment and she tipped me a dime. Other persons to whom I made deliveries included Cole Porter (author, musician, composer), Sidney Skolsky (columnist) and performers Bob Mitchum, Charles Laughton, Judy Garland, Rita Hayworth, and Jane Wyman, also known at that time as Mrs. Ronald Reagan. The Garden of Allah was a popular hotel for Hollywood aspirants. Dinah Shore lived at the Garden of Allah with George Montgomery. When I made a delivery there, her new teeth were being built as well her image for stardom. Skolsky used to come into the pharmacy room and chat.

Allan Jones, a talented singer and actor, rode a motorcycle and would wave, as was the custom, to other riders. Each time I would ride up Sunset and turn onto Doheny Drive, a small dog would try to jump in front of Schwab’s three-wheeler. I avoided that dog until I could miss it and it outsmarted me. I ran over it as we both jigged, I to miss and he to get in front. The dog ran a few yards toward a house and collapsed. I stopped and found the owners. They included Allan, and his preteen kids, Jack and Shirley Jones. They took the news bravely but Allan stopped waving at me. Jack and Shirley, of course, grew up to be attractive, talented and famous singers and actors.

I rented a private room, previously used as servant’s quarters, in a house on Marmont Lane at the southwest corner of Hollywood Boulevard. The landlady, Tanya Huntsberger was gracious and accommodating. She invited me to several gatherings of her local folk and friends and I grew up a little more. One of her friends wore army boots and drove a car that let the owner know when to push a button to lubricate it. It may have been a Rolls or a Bentley. He had paid more $30,000 for it. In the spring of 1943 that was more than chump change. I also started to change and had a major hormone attack.

Coupled with the new room and its privacy it seems like I had purchased a libido license and was determined to use it. However, I was still at the learner’s permit stage and chose to watch and listen. A gal who sat at the soda fountain displayed herself with tight fitting clothing on a body that seemed to be the epitome of carnal being. People called her “Rosie the Riveter”. With a mouth like a sewer I heard words from her which I had never heard before and not often since. Sex seemed to be as common as coffee in that neighborhood and I heard stories and saw examples that would put even some tabloid articles of the 1990's in the kindergarten stage. I choose to not print them. I also heard of some exploits of some of the locals that would cause a corpse to blush.

Uncle Sammy wanted some Kings Men cologne, a very popular, scarce and expensive commodity at the time, but Leon sold me a bottle for him. I packed it up and mailed it, the top leaked and when it arrived in San Bernardino the bottle was empty. The store had no more and Uncle Sammy had to do without, as he reminded me often.

At this time I made a thoughtless decision I still regret. Dad and Bruce decided to move to California, from Detroit. Pop asked if I would be interested in coming to Detroit and taking the trip with them. The decision I made was negative. It would have been quality time that could not be replaced. They started out with two cars, trailers and my motorcycle. In Evansville, Indiana one car broke down. It turned out to have been a stolen car, which Pop unwittingly purchased from Cal Harris. They abandoned it in Evansville along with the trailer that the car pulled. The trailer contained all my belongings including a large, valuable stamp collection. When they arrived a week later I was glad to see them and to have their company and get my own wheels. Bruce and I took a motorcycle rides together.

One day after working more than 12 hours and riding Schwab’s three-wheeler, while going west on Sunset Boulevard I hung a right turn too tight at Kings Road. The right rear wheel of the trike hit the curb and the machine and I flew into the air. Before I came down, the front wheel had hit an oncoming car. I lurched forward into the faring, which cut through my scarf and scratched my neck, under my Adam’s apple. My legs hit the crash guards. My riding boots took the shock so my shins were only dented. The front wheel of the trike went where the motor should have been but it moved to the rear. When the tow truck got there with Bill Bordner, they made me ride on the trike so as not to “lose my nerve”. The shop took three weeks to repair the trike.

At Schwab’s things began to denigrate. Yetta Schwab complained about the meals I freeloaded. I decided that I was not appreciated and quit. Leon knew about it and wrote it off to free overtime, which they did not pay. He and I shook hands and we stayed on good terms. After I was discharged from the Army in 1945 I had to return there to get a copy of my payroll information to satisfy the Internal Revenue Service, Leon offered to train me and run his new store in Beverly Hills, but I had other plans.

The family and some old acquaintances began to congregate. Pop, Aunt Besse and Uncle Harry were in L.A. Bruce and Uncle Jack were in L.A. Uncle Sammy was in San Bernardino. George McCann and George Porter were in the area. George had been a racecar driver and pilot until he had a crash and wound up with a stiff right leg. But he was good looking and charming and not in the service and attracted girls. Cheap whiskey was available. The good stuff was not.

One night in March 1943, Dad, Uncle Jack and I went bar hopping and carousing. Jack, Dad and I were extremely under the “alkoflence of inkohol” and, as I had previously schemed, stopped at Uncle Harry’s. Dad, Uncle Jack and Uncle Harry shook hands and made up. We stayed a while, chatted and went upon our sodden way, into a long and memorable night.

Uncle Sam loaned me a 1932 Model A Ford Coupe from the lot where he sold cars. I made a date with a beautiful beast who worked in a drug store about a mile east of Schwab’s. She claimed to be a countess and showed up with another girl who the Countess claimed to be Nicky Hilton’s ex-wife, Maria. (Conrad Hilton founded the Hilton Hotel chain). I took them both to the Coach and Horses Bar on Hollywood Boulevard. We all drank daiquiris and they were thirsty. When I ran low on cash we left the bar and I dropped off Maria, she slammed the car door and broke the window. When I dropped off the “countess” I was so worried about the car I forgot why I dated her. Uncle Sam shrugged off the car damage. He merely put it back on the car lot from which he had borrowed it. Maria Hilton committed suicide a couple of years later.

George McCann, a family “friend” from Detroit, took me out for my very first round of golf in what is now Century City. I shot a 90 but after 9 holes was just too tired to continue counting strokes let alone swing a golf club. George was living with Helen in a trailer and drove a cool looking convertible.

One day George and I had lunch in a restaurant across from the Greyhound station at 6th and Main Streets in L. A. He made a date with a sexy looking Mexican waitress, just to show me he could do it. To insure his appearance she handed him an expensive sterling silver bracelet, loaded with charms. When we got back to the trailer, his lady or wife (?) Helen asked him, “ How was lunch?” and he just tossed her the bracelet.

Dad scheduled a “going into the service” party for me on April 20th at Aunt Besse’s house on Cloverdale Street in L.A. Because of my family I wanted invite a nice girl for my date. I did not know any in Hollywood and therein lay my dilemma until I remembered Betty Fay Magidow. I telephoned her and she accepted. The night of the party I drove George McCann’s convertible and picked her up. Betty wore a navy blue dress with a lot of white polka dots. Uncle Jack acted like he wanted to count all the dots. We, not Betty, all had a drink or two and after an hour Aunt Besse sent me out for ice cubes. I asked Betty to go with me and we took George McCann’s convertible. Dad informed me later the car did not belong to George; he had “borrowed” it. After a while I found a drug store at Beverly and Vermont that had ice cubes that I could purchase but they had to dig them out of someplace. As we waited, sirens began to wail and all the lights in the city seemed to be turning off. Some one ran in and said the whole is blacked out because of a Japanese air raid; Santa Barbara had been bombed. Betty and I perched on some stools until I got uncomfortable, so we went out to the car and sat, talked and waited. After the air raid all clear signal, we got the ice and returned to the party, which was almost over. Every one was smashed and ready for bed. I took Betty home and we sat in front of the house and talked a long time. On the morning of April 21 I said goodbye to McCann and sold him my alarm clock for $ 5.00. Dad drove me to the induction center in Los Angeles where I reported for induction into the U.S. Armed Forces.

The events of the early days are not clear; there were inoculations, standing around naked, interviews, swearing in, and more interviews. During one of the inoculations a young recruit fainted and knocked over a corrugated metal trash receptacle. The trash receptacle received immediate attention. The recruit wasn’t going anywhere anyhow. The fact that the faintee was a Negro could have been why he received attention only after the trash can, but I realized from that moment on I was probably going to be just number 39571809.

I got in line to get into the Navy, heard my name from behind, turned around and there stood Skippy Sanger, from Detroit. He had been the only other motorcycle escort rider for Gar Wood in the C.A.P. Detroit Squadron. Skippy asked me why I stood in the Navy line and I told him that my Dad had been in the Navy but I really wanted to be in the Army or Navy Air Corps. He said I should get in line for the Signal Corps and when they found about our experience they would put us in the Air Corps. Skippy was older and persuasive; I was young and dumb, so I said O.K. When interviewed about my Detroit Ordnance District experience the interviewer classified it as Engineer Order Detailer and wrote me into the Army Air Corps. Skippy was put in the same unit. We went through initial orientation in the same place and took written and physical tests.

Then we were sent to a desert base, Camp Anza, near Warner Springs. I put on skis for a test to see if I had aptitude as a mountain trooper. A mountain trooper skied down a slope in an attack, fired a submachine gun with one hand and poled with the other. I did not know if I had a choice but this did not appeal to me as it sounded suicidal at best and at worst, I could barely stand up in the darned things. One day I was put on a work detail where we went to an open field, in the High Desert. We were told we would be building the Campbell Mountain Rifle Range and handed shovels by a Sergeant who promptly disappeared. It got hot and after a short time I decided someone should be in charge and took over as the non-digging supervisor. I knew about digging from working with my Dad. After an hour or so the Sarge returned and gave me an earful. A few days later we were taken out there again. By this time it became a rifle range and we were issued .30 caliber 1903 British Enfield bolt-action rifles for the day’s firing. Firing prone, each time I fired I was bounced back a few inches. I would crawl back up and fire again. That night my shoulder was black and blue, my right cheek hurt, and I had a major headache.

The first music I remember hearing during those days was “ Don’t Get Around Much Anymore”. When I got to a telephone to call my Betty and Dad, he said a gal I had dated accused me of committing fatherhood, which I knew to be a big lie and told him. Dad told her to forget it.
Skippy and I shipped out to Army Air Corps Basic Training Center No. 8, at Fresno, California where I took Army Air Corps basic training. Betty and I began to correspond. My Dad came to visit me and brought his lady friend and Betty. Betty’s mother did not want Betty and I to be alone so he brought her, too, a couple of times but made sure that we had time alone. We appreciated it. I gave Betty my Harley Davidson Motorcycle Pin. It is on her sweater in this picture.

I made a few friends including Mike Baboff, Neeley, and Baker. Neeley survived the war. Baboff did not. I donut know about Baker who loaned me a silver dollar one day. He and I went on a few passes together. On one a Portuguese family named Bojorquez befriended us. Baker had access to a car, and he and I dated two of their daughters. I paired with Rosie. Baker and I visited them once when they later moved to the San Francisco Bay area. Rosie was nice but I was hooked on Betty, although we were not yet engaged. By then she had bought me a watch and sterling silver I.D. bracelet. Each of those presents cost her a week’s pay.

During training the temperatures on the field often exceeded the 100's. Calisthenics were brutal. The philosophy applied seemed to come from a sensible clause in General Von Clausewitz’s handbook. We were informed, “If you can’t survive the training you will fail the mission and your buddies will suffer for it.” The officer who led the training who liked working the previous night’s whiskey out of his system. We worked up to 50 pushups, 100 side straddle hops, 100 sit ups, 10 mile hikes and 2 miles of running in one day. We were allowed one canteen of water during daylight hours. The afternoon of the final day of basic training during “Retreat”, 7 men passed out and two died.

But we did have some fun. I got into some intense dice games (craps) just about every payday, and usually lost. One day I ran my paycheck up to $ 700.00 and “shot” it. I won and “shot” the $ 1,400. Freddy Lobdell won it and lost it on his next roll. We borrowed a dime, went to the PX and split a beer.

During a barracks bull session one night I met Hollywood’s Grant Withers, an actor in some westerns and in a movie with singer Deanna Durbin. Grant was older than all of us and told some great stories. In one of his purported escapades he got drunk, went over to Central Avenue in Los Angeles and picked up a Negro “tootsie”, unintentionally insulted her and after all of that wound up with nothing but a dose of crabs. Condoms were available in the Company Commanders Headquarters. One need not ask, we just took them as wanted.

We could easily leave camp without a pass. I rolled up my mattress and hid my GI issued stuff in a pal’s bunk and footlocker. At night I slipped out of the barracks, under a fence and went. Our barracks housed 21 men of which at least 18 or 19 would show up for roll call each morning. But one was seldom missed. The sergeant, who had been Regular Army, apparently could not count that high and some “heres” were delivered from the sides of a buddy’s mouth. He must have been near sighted, too. One day we were informed that we were all restricted to barracks. One of us had a mustache and refused to shave it. There was a near riot as he was almost attacked. I was one of those who held them off. One of our guys took a couple of men to the back of the attackers and fistically neutralized the instigators. I was to find out later that our leader of the neutralizers was one William Malcolm (Billy) Campbell.

I went AWOL several times to see Betty and once to bring back Mike Baboff who was absent during reveille. Mike Baboff could run the 440 in 10 seconds. He was a beautiful specimen of a young man, but missed his Mom and her great Armenian food. I sneaked out and found him at home, in East L.A. By the time I got there it was dinnertime. His family had emigrated from Russia. Mike’s mother set the table with the most food I had ever seen for a family. It was delicious. The sergeant put him on report and would have qualified for Air Cadet Training School, but the Captain used the report to prevent it. Baboff, Betty, and I became friends. (Mike would later die in infantry combat north of Bastogne.) Our son, Michael, is named after him.)

I was then informed of the results of testing and given three options. Oh, joy. I could become: 1) a radio-operator-gunner; 2) a weather man or 3) take tests to go back to college as a soldier, get a degree and become an officer. The Allies were planning for a long war contingency. I had liked option one when the war broke out. Option 2 sounded boring; the school was at Chanute Field near Chicago. Option 3 sounded best because I still wanted to be an engineer so I opted for that. I could not qualify for pilot training because I lacked 20-20 vision in one eye.

We had our teeth checked and I needed some fillings. The Army dentist informed me that he used cheap metal amalgams; sure they were temporary but survivors of the war would get silver replacements at government expense.

Within days the Army shipped me to Stanford University where I enrolled in the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP) and took academic tests preparatory to assignment at another major university. In three weeks I shipped out to the University of California in Berkeley where I began intensive scholastic and military training. We billeted in a sorority house on Euclid Avenue from which the females had been wisely evacuated.

After reveille, exercises and breakfasts we started class at 7:00 or 8:00 in the morning and studied until 10:00 at night, five days a week. We ate in the school cafeteria, where one day I ate horsemeat for the first time in my life. I made two more friends, "Bambi" Ellison and Billy Campbell. Billy and I had rooms on the second floor. Bambi, my roommate, and I use to take turns punching its each other in the stomach, not hard, but as fast as we could. Billy Campbell was very unusual. He and I first met over a dispute about a pillow that he said I had taken from his bunk. I disagreed. When I had taken the pillow it was not his bunk. We had only one argument over that. We were later to fight, just for practice, when he could provoke no one to attack him, it seemed. He almost always beat me at wrestling and once at boxing.

Billy Campbell had also come out of the Air Corps into the ASTP program. He had been born in United States of Canadian parents; therefore he had dual citizenship. His Dad owned Campbell Motor Company, on Kingsway Avenue in Vancouver, BC, Canada. Billy was a good mechanic and the proud possessor of a caved in chest, from a motorcycle accident. He had slid down a mountain with a tool kit strapped to his chest. He also had a large gap between his front teeth and could be a charmer. Billy had an electric razor that worked and a mobile radiotelephone in his car. The radio - telephone was from Canada and totally illegal in the U.S. at the time. He had a Mercury convertible, painted robin’s egg blue, with two fuel tanks and a cut down, “Carson” top. Gasoline was rationed but not cleaning solvent. Billy could start the car on gasoline in one tank, warm up the engine, and then switch to cleaning solvent in the other tank. I had my motorcycle. The only time I tried cleaning solvent in it I had to park it somewhere in Oakland where it ceased to operate. And, I was broke. Fortunately there was a Red Cross facility on the next block where I made “borrowed” $15 and got back to camp.

On weekends when Billy and I had money we drove to Los Angeles and sometimes stayed at Betty's house. Her mother had married her second husband, Arthur, who liked to be known as Butch. They owned a two-bedroom house on Houston Street in East L.A. Betty’s mother, Beatrice, fed us huge breakfasts; we could put away one pound of bacon and a dozen eggs at one sitting. Bea, her nickname, was an attractive lady for her age. Butch was very hospitable and a fun guy. Betty got dates for Billy and she would be my date. We had some very nice times. We would usually get in very early on Saturday and leave late Sunday night. Among our favorite past times was night clubbing. Billy and I drank a lot of alcoholic beverages. We also “collected” the glasses that held the drinks. Betty could not hold her second drink, or anything that preceded or followed it. This resulted in ruining the paint on my Dad’s car one night.

One night Billy, Betty and I went to a nightclub, the “Seven Seas” on Hollywood Boulevard and got a table close to the stage. Ella Fitzgerald played the piano and sang there that night. We sat in a booth and soon Bill and I went to Men’s Room. Upon our return our seats had been filled by 2 officers whom we firmly but politely confronted; they soon retreated to a safer position. We saw “Red Nichols and his Five Pennies” there one night. Another night, Dad and his lady friend, Sadie, took us to Club Zamboanga, a rowdy nightclub near Gardena. When a patron headed to a rest room they were loudly informed, “ We know where you’re going”, and “ Here, take a short cut”.

Billy had a habit of starting fights, and winning them. He had big wrists, a mouth to match, and an overactive ego and was almost universally disliked by the men. One weekend several of them decided to give “big mouth” Campbell a lesson, in his room. The dummies actually lined up outside the door. When I got up there he was handling two at a time. After I arrived, it was one at a time. He would beat them up, throw them out and I would let in another eager, but stupid, aggressor. After several of them were ejected the rest of them gave up. Billy was very charming with the ladies and could pick them up, often in pairs. I always wound up with one that did not interest me. He fell for one, a beauty named Carol Tanner, and wound up broke one week after financing her trip to her home in Oklahoma City. That kept us from going to L.A. one weekend.

One Monday morning after a heavy weekend during which I was observed out of uniform (I wore my motorcycle jacket and cap, while riding) I missed roll call after reveille. I had dreamed I stood it, after I heard the g-d d--n bugle. I reported to the C.O. to explain. When I told him he dismissed me with a chuckle, saying he had never heard that excuse before.

Our training included water exercises in the University swimming pool. We swam naked. One day while sliding out over the edge of the pool I noticed some tiny little critters on the deck but thought nothing of it. With in hours I was getting some itchy bites. They turned out to be crabs of the crotch variety; I was re-introduced to the song; “Get out that old Blue Ointment, the Crabs disappointment, take a Hot Bath once or twice a day”. In a week the crabs were gone. During one exercise we donned sailor pants and stepped from a deck, 25 feet above the pool water. In the water we doffed the pants, tied knots in the bottom of the feet and at the waist to hold in air, ala water wings, and thus survive an attack on a watercraft.

We studied hard. To fail meant loss of honor and reassignment. Early in the program one could go back to his old outfit, in my case, the Air Corps. One of the fellows, Landon, studied every waking moment, evening when he walked. He did not wash his face or shower. After a few months he literally had a crust on him and an offensive body odor. This attracted the attention of a Sergeant who threatened our group with a disciplinary measure. Finally, his roommates grabbed, stripped, and scrubbed him in the shower with Fels Naptha, a very strong soap. They only had to do it once. After hearing a rumor we asked him if he was related to Alf Landon, a Republican presidential candidate who had run against F.D. Roosevelt: he confirmed that he was a nephew.

The Army wanted to find out about high altitude effects on humans. I volunteered to be a high altitude testing “guinea pig”. The first day they used me I entered a pressure chamber with several other men where they took us to a simulated 12,000 feet. On another day, right after I ate a quick lunch, they took us “up”, returned us to “sea level” and then up to 18,000 feet. At 12,000 feet they stopped providing pressure and as we approached 18,000 feet my stomach bloated and I almost passed out; as did others. It seems that the gas in my stomach expanded to 7 times normal volume and I could not relieve myself fast enough. I did not go back there again. I found out later that the tests were used for B29 flight parameters. The B 29 airplane flew at elevations of 35,000 feet but they knew when to provide oxygen and pressure.

After six months we were informed that the A.S.T.P. would close, the war would be shortened and future technical and officer training of the type we were getting would end. I earned a Basic Engineering Certificate and 40 three-semester units, including some military science credits. So did Mike Baboff, although he was AWOL during the Chemistry Final exam. But he passed. I took the test for him it was easy. I had taken it for myself only a few days sooner. ASTP closed because of Project Manhattan, a program conceived to shorten the war. The A- bomb was to be used in the Pacific after the war in Europe was won. B 29 aircraft delivered those bombs. How would they win in Europe? They would later fully mobilize all human resources (scrape the barrel) as ground combat troops. I found out the later that the Laws of Conservation of Mass and Energy were repealed by the results of Project Manhattan.

One of the last things I did while at Berkeley was to take my whole paycheck of $ 50 to a jewelry store. I spent it all on a yellow 14k gold wedding ring and engagement ring set with a 10-point diamond. I had never been that close to a diamond before. When I got to L.A. I presented the engagement ring to Betty and we became formally engaged.

I tried out again for Pilot Cadet Training and this time passed the eye examination. But, by then Cadets were no longer in short supply. The Air Corps would accept only the return of men who had been in the Technical Training Command. Within days, hundreds of us shipped out to Camp Cooke; on the Pacific Coast, west of Lompoc, California. The 11th Armored Division was to be filled out to combat strength of 15,000 men. They had gone to the desert with 12,000 and then to Camp Cooke with 10,000. I became one of 5,000 new men, almost all fresh from Universities, who were wholeheartedly resented, especially by buddies of the training casualties. My squad leader, Sergeant Pepe, bitterly told us of a his friend whose hand had been blown off by a one pound brick of Nitrostarch during training in the hot Indio, California desert while were at a University. ASTP troops started at the bottom of the totem pole and ate worms.

Bambi Ellison, Mike Baboff and I were in the 11th Armored Division. I was assigned to the 55th Armored Infantry Battalion, Headquarters Company, and Heavy Weapons Section/Platoon, machine gun Squad. Billy Campbell was assigned to the combat engineers. It took him only a few days to look me up. He had brought his car to the base. Mike Baboff was assigned to a rifle company, “A”Company. I weighed 155 pounds when I got to Camp Cooke. On a meat and potatoes diet and infantry training I weighed 185 pounds when I went overseas. The training was different and not as physically difficult as Air Corps Basic. We went through obstacle courses, climbed ropes, swung on rings and tumbled. We trained with basic infantry weaponry- the M1 Garand and M1 Carbine, light and heavy .30 caliber machine gun, .50 caliber machine gun, Thompson .45 cal. submachine gun, bazooka and hand grenades.

We attacked simulated villages; I made a friend on one of those exercises. I had climbed up on top of a one-story building, to avoid going around it to face an “enemy position”. When I jumped off the roof I landed on “Blackie” Sulfaro. Neither of us got hurt. He thought quite highly of that introduction. Another friend was Pvt. Strauss who escaped the Nazis in Berlin by the skin of his tussy, came to the U.S., and promptly joined the Army. One day while in our barracks, lined up in front our bunks, naked as was the custom, waiting for short arm inspection (check your encyclopedia) he told me we would fight our way into Berlin and he would fix me up with many beautiful girls. He got excited and an erection; this would have made it easier for the inspector, but he grabbed a newspaper to cover up, read it and calm down. Two other former ASTP troops were Carl Meyers and Ostrow. Carl liked to be called Carlos. He was assigned to I & R, (Intelligence and Reconnaissance) Platoon. Ostrow was made Company Clerk, a corporal. I resented that. I could have whipped him while playing a bugle. He was the only man I knew who crapped in his pants during the infiltration course.

During training we crawled through a course under live machine gun fire (the infiltration course), and simulated rifleman attacks up a hill where I could not duck, hide, kneel, crawl roll or do anything but walk erect and “shoot” I was “killed” in about 20 seconds. This is three seconds longer than the average combat life of a rifleman under the same conditions and proved I was as good as the average rifleman.

We practiced live firing, threw live grenades, and hand-to-hand combat, which included Judo, and bayonet training. I was selected as booby trap man for our platoon and learned to recognize and disarm the types of booby traps we might expect in combat. I took jeep and half-track driving lessons and became an assistant half-track driver. A half-track is equipped with two wheels in front, and two tank type tracks on the rear, which is also the drive. There are two seats in the cab and a 1/2-inch thick steel box which seats 8 troops in the rear and stores gear. Above the seat next to the driver is a circular opening in which is mounted a .30 caliber machine gun. In the box in the back is a pedestal-mounted .30 caliber machine gun. The driver and assistant driver take turns driving and manning the machinegun up front. One day, during field training maneuvers I manned the machine gun in the box. The front wheels fell into a foxhole and I lurched, breastplate first into the butt of the machine gun. I suffered cartilage damage to my front rib cage at the breastbone. Next day a medic bandaged me and I returned to duty. It was not serious and only bothered me when my body was jolted but took 15 years to heal.

As a draftee I became a member of the Army of the United States and had a different status than an enlistee. Enlistees were in the United States Army (Regular Army). We had a Regular Army first sergeant, with 18 ½ years of service. This muscle free man weighed an obese 280 pounds and could not accompany us during training. He did not belong in the Army. He, too, resented of all us GIs who spent all that time at a university while he had to train in the desert. He manifested his resentment daily. We retaliated in numerous and subtle ways. Within weeks he broke down, tore off his stripes, cried and took early retirement. Sergeant Wolfe replaced him. We also had a First Lieutenant Richter, another real pain as our platoon leader. One day during a redundant exercise in taking apart and reassembling carbines I asked him what would happen if I filed the sear (it catches the bolt as it retracts). It opined that the carbine could then be fired as an automatic weapon; but there would be no way to stop it short of emptying the clip. Richter retorted, “Ten years in Leavenworth, soldier.” Richter was replaced with a National Guard graduate, just before we went to Camp Kilmer our overseas Port of Embarkation.

I learned to handle more alcohol. Campbell and I would get to L.A. every possible weekend. One weekend he could not get away. I went to Lompoc to try to hitch hike a ride to L.A. So did dozens of other GIs. After an hour or so I meandered into a local bar and met a GI from C Company. He was a red head named Garcia and we and settled down to drink. I tried to get a ride after 2 drinks but failed and went back to the bar. After 11 drinks, about midnight, I got off the barstool and tried to walk but could not. After Garcia showed me- you put one foot out, hang on to something, then another foot, he helped me ambulate to a large room in a local church where I got a cot for the night. I went to sleep on one and when I awoke in the morning I was on the floor. It seemed that was standard procedure. There were only a few dozen cots and many more troops.

One weekend I rented a large 1926 Buick Touring Sedan, then known as a “Pregnant Six”, from a rifle company sergeant; $ 25.00, in advance, for a weekend. The car, a convertible, no longer had a top; but had a luggage trunk and spare tire on the rear. Seven passengers shared the costs. By the time we got to L.A.; we picked up 3 GI hitchhikers .We probably looked like the lost battalion and we hooted and hollered every chance we got.

That weekend Betty and I had a ball. Betty’s stepsister Sylvia used to date with us. She was the same age as Betty and I liked her. She was chubby, sweet and ironed my dress tan trousers for me. She later married Harvey Witnov, Betty’s cousin. His family had a chicken trucking business and provided me with AC@ Gasoline Ration Stamps. Black market gas was $0.50 a gallon when it could be found, compared to less than half that for rationed gas. I took a load of family to the beach. We went to Belmont Shores, near Long Beach. Sylvia’s sister, Isabelle, was 14 and “sailor crazy”, so each time we passed one we teased her. We had a big weekend. On the way back, I collected our riders and we made it back to Camp Cooke by 0500 hours to go to “work”. We had a close call when the driver who relieved me fell asleep and drove off the road; some one woke him just in time.

Trips with Billy Campbell were adventures. More than once, I could not bear to look so I just went to sleep in the back seat. He traveled at high speed in blinding fog. During a foggy night while doing 70 MPH, he passed a California Highway Patrol car. I just knew we were in trouble. But, no, Billy sped away, pulled into a small community just off the highway, and turned out the headlights. We saw the CHP pass and waited until it was safer to proceed.

One Saturday morning, while in camp, Campbell pulled the worn out and squealing brake shoes from his Mercury and we set out for L.A. with two other passengers. We took a back road to avoid traffic. As we started down a long hill, at the bottom of which there was a U-turn, Platoon Sergeant Nelson suggested that Billy use the brakes.
Billy said, “Sure hand them up here, they are under your feet there in the back seat.”
I forget Nelson’s words but the look on his face said it all. Billy shifted down into second gear, slowed a bit, and all was O.K. We made it to L.A. When we got to Sunset Boulevard and Western Avenue a L.A. Police car sat at the northeast corner behind a car waiting to turn east. We were going east on Sunset and the light changed to yellow as we approached then red as we entered the intersection. Billy shifted into second gear, then first, hit the emergency brake and slid onto a parking place, about 100 feet past the intersection. I watched with amazement and relief as the cop, with sirens roaring went down the street and pulled over a different car. That day, Billy bought new brake shoes and we installed them.

Shades of Hollywood. One weekend a budding starlet, Jan Sterling, entertained us. I was selected to be her chauffeur and show her around the base. Another weekend Ray Bolger entertained us.

About that time, Campbell got me in trouble again. We were in uniform, as required, and headed toward the beach in Santa Monica. Billy drove and Betty, Henrietta Robins (a power packed little chick), and I were in the car when he picked up a cute hitchhiker. She turned out to be a college girl and he drove to her sorority house at UCLA, and went inside with her. After about 10 minutes I went in after him. He had started a card game and it took us another 10 minutes or so, to get away. Betty got very angry with me, as if it were my fault, and Henrietta never dated Billy again.

Billy Campbell got himself restricted to quarters but the next weekend we decided to go to L.A. On the way back, we came roaring up behind his First Sergeant’s car. Betty’s cousin, Harvey had given us Gasoline Ration Stamps so we decided to not pass, slow down and kill time by stopping for gasoline and have another drink. We did, but traveling at very high speed, Billy again caught up with the sergeant. Billy said, “ I’ll pass him so fast, he’ll never recognize us.” Yeah, right. Billy got court martialed and sentenced to 90 days, which he would have served, but his company shipped out and they took him along. This was my last trip back to camp with Billy Campbell.
Dad bought a trailer and lived in it in a park at the corner of Alvarado and Temple Streets. I stayed there at night with him occasionally. He listened to the radio a lot. One of his favorite songs was “If I Could Be with you an Hour Tonight”. He had a lady friend named Sadie Kemp. They had good times together. Sadie and Dad introduced me to her daughter, a tall, slim, pretty blond. We had nothing in common.


Without Dad’s help I had no independent means of transport. About that time, he bought a 1942 Packard sedan and started to fix it up for me to drive. It was almost done and one day he left it at the top of a hill. It rolled down, crashed and he had to start over. It was not ready by the time I shipped out. One night after a date with Betty I walked from her Mom’s house near Soto and Malabar to his trailer. It took several hours. The next day, I was trembling until I reached her by phone, to see if every thing was O.K. The hook was set.

I got a Chevrolet coupe, which I used for a few trips. It held the driver and two passengers but had a trunk into which a hardy soul or two could ride-and did. On one trip I picked up four troops, a large Hershey chocolate bar and a pint of whiskey. Henry Roller, one of those troops was an older guy, maybe 35 or more and it seemed to me, worried all the time. On Highway 101 north of Santa Barbara as we turned off the coast, downhill in the Goleta Pass, I had finished half the whiskey and may have been going at terminal velocity. The wind howled and the car rocked. Two GIs rode in the trunk with the lid open. Henry wanted to get out and walk. At 0500 we got back to Camp Cooke, right on schedule. I had finished the candy bar and the whiskey. As I tried to exit the car, I found I could not walk and had to be helped to my bunk where I spent the day. The guys covered for me.

I began to get withdrawal symptoms ever time I left Betty after a weekend. Little did I know then that I was hooked? She seemed to have no fear and would ride behind me on my motorcycle, our means of transport. One day, on the way back from Santa Monica Beach, where I had asked her to marry me that day, coming east on Wilshire Boulevard we were traveling at 75 miles per hour. Her comment was, Can’t you go any faster?” Actually, the bike would not go any faster that day, although at one time, in Detroit it would go over 100 mph. Years later it turned out she was in her bathing suit and had sand her pants. I guess I had “ants in mine”.

The weekend before the 5th of September 1944 I got a three-day pass, borrowed $ 70 from a couple of troops, and took a bus to L.A. I said let’s get married. Betty said yes. We went to City Hall and I bought a marriage license. Betty’s mom did not let me out of her sight when I was near Betty. She arranged to have the nuptials at a rabbi’s house on Soto Street, a few blocks from her house, the very next afternoon. That night as Dad and I were retiring in his trailer I told Dad him I was getting married the very next day. He said fine but went to sleep with tears on his cheeks. Next morning we drove over to George Porter’s trailer. Dad told him about me getting married. I guess he just had to tell somebody. George had moved to Glendale after he got out of jail for running whiskey. George told us that he served a year but his accomplice, who turned state’s evidence, got a seven years sentence at which the man fainted forthwith. While on the way to the wedding, Dad picked up a pint of whiskey. We sucked on it as he and I walked me up and down the street in front of the house before the ceremony. At least one of us probably needed it.

One of Betty’s cousins scrounged up a best man. Betty and I were married in a short formal ceremony that afternoon and a small reception was held at her Mom’s house that night. Some of Betty’s cousins and aunts and uncles were there. Betty’s grandmother, Bertha, reminded me that I was a soldier, headed to combat and I might not return, and to be careful. I promised. That night we drove to Santa Monica, walked into the Georgiana Hotel and registered as Mr. and Mrs. We were on our honeymoon and our honeymoon could not have been sweeter. Our breakfast the next morning was at Walgreen’s Drug store down the street. The hotel fronted the ocean; we enjoyed a beautiful view from the roof late that afternoon. This is a copy of the picture of Betty taken there that I carried with me all during my service in Europe. The stains were not from my blood.

The following Monday, I took the train back to camp, but it arrived too late for the base bus. I started to walk the five miles. After a while I opened a package Dad had given me and started to drink from a pint bottle of whiskey. I drank the whole bottle by the time I got to camp and I felt no pain. The place was all-aflutter. I was ordered to pick up my weapon, get the 90 pound barrel of a caliber. 50 machine gun and report for Port of Embarkation (P. O. E.) assembly inspection. We had a new platoon leader, a second looey. I showed up in the ranks, still half-soused and properly bewildered. The lieutenant snapped my weapon, a cal .30 carbine, from my “present arms” stance, inspected it and told the sergeant to note that there was dust on the piece. I should have stood at attention and kept my eyes straight ahead. However, I said something like “oops”. Sergeant Wolf put me on report , canceled my pass renewal and sent me to duty at the guardhouse and then to the kitchen for K.P. My honeymoon was over.

The following Tuesday we boarded a train and headed for Camp Kilmer, New Jersey where rumor had it that the mosquitoes were so big they needed landing lights. It was a long ride and went through some southern states, El Paso, Texas, and then St. Louis, Missouri. In El Paso, Texas I managed to get a drink at a bar across from the train station in honor of my Uncles Jack and Sammy. During one of their several escapades in the Army they wrecked a bar during a fight in El Paso. They were over 38 years old and Army policy dictated that a soldier at that age could be released. They “found a home in the army” but that last incident soured their commanding officers. Another incident worth mentioning is when our train stopped in St. Louis and we stood in formation for exercise someone threw rocks down at us from a raised platform.

When we got to Camp Kilmer it seemed about the same as arriving at other camps. Stand in the rain and wait. We finally checked in and assigned to a barracks. We were given orientation as to the rules. One rule was that to be absent without leave (A.W.O.L) was tantamount to “desertion in the face of the enemy”, a capital offense. A capital offense is punishable in the form of execution by firing squad. Being late from a pass was A.W.O.L, therefore technically desertion (if you got caught.)

I accidentally went A.W.O.L on my only pass to New York City. When I went to New York I called the Sax’s, friends of my Aunt Besse who invited me so I said I would drop over. So I saw some of the city and the Empire State Building in the day and hit the bars that evening. I got to the Sax’s’s house that night and had a nice visit, and some food they provided and enjoyed their hospitality. I left a 2:00 A.M and found an open bar. It closed at 4:00A.M. (0400). I made it back to Grand Central Station before 0500. I sat down, shut my eyes a minute and promptly fell asleep. The train left at 0600. I woke up at 0700. I took the next train and when I got back to camp, I had to figure out how to get in. The place was a fort. I loitered across the street and noticed that when officers strolled in, the sentry post guard returned a high salute from rigid attention. The officers wore high top boots that resembled paratrooper boots. I wore high top boots, standard Armored Infantry issue. I thought, “Hmmm. Maybe I can make it in”. Shortly, two officers approached the sentry’s post. As they neared the sentry, I joined them at the gate, saluted and entered.

When I got to the barracks I found that my squad mates had covered for me. I took a needed nap and was ready for chow when they returned from training. One of our troops had a sad experience. Pvt. Young from Ohio heard from home that his mother suffered a terminal illness and had a month to live. He requested a pass to visit her and the Army denied it. A week later we boarded a ship, 15,000 men, the whole 11th Armored Division and set out in a convoy that seemed to be endless. We headed for Southampton, England and combat.