Chapter 33
NATTC, Chicago – 1943
When
I arrived back at the Naval Aviation Technical Training Center at 87th
and Anthony ins South Chicago, the first man I encountered was an old shipmate
from VP-11, J.P. Byrd. With him was
another VP-11 man, Rineman. We checked
in together and were assigned adjacent bunks in the second story barracks level
of the huge training complex. We would be
in the same class.
J.P.
Byrd was (and still is) quite a character.
He had a tall, spare, long-legged, but footed frame and shambling
gait. He was easy going and a shock of
tousled brown hair topped an ever-present friendly grin on his lean face. He was soft spoken with a sort of southern drawl
and hardly ever spoke without a pun or a joke. In his tight-fitting tailor-made dress blues with
the badge of an AAM1/c, “J.P.” projected the image of the typical absent-minded
professor dressed up as a sailor. J.P.
was not actually lazy, but professed to be an advocate of conservation of
energy—save it because you never knew when you might need some!
Bob
Rineman was a shorter man with black hair above a pleasant face. He was also an agreeable shipmate and the
three of us were to be frequently liberty companions with our first class petty
officer “crows”, aerial machine gunner emblems, and campaign ribbons identifying
us as veterans of the Pacific theater of war, we were accorded some degree of
deference by our fellow trainees. More often
than not, they also resulted in civilians in bars insisting on buying us drinks
or driving us in their cars wherever we wanted to go. It no doubt made us a bit cocky but, with
sarcastic humor, we kept each other in perspective.
Since
we were, indeed, real veterans and the memories of war were still fresh, we
were to be a bit embarrassed the first morning at NATTC. Barracks were the wide open second floors of
the two or three large buildings. At
each end there were large double doors leading to large landings at the wide
stairways. The three of us were assigned
bunks not far inside the entry doors. It
seemed to be a convenient location but we were to find one bad flaw in it.
We
did not know that first night that reveille at NATTC was held by what amounted
to a small drum and bugle corps. About
six musicians, three drums and three bugles, would assemble outside the entry
doors. On the stroke of six, the doors
would be thrown open and the band would cut loose while they marched the length
of the long barracks down a wide central aisle way.
We
were sleeping in blissful ignorance that first morning at reveille. When the drums and bugles cut loose it was such
an unholy din that shattered our slumbers that both Byrd and I thought we were
in the middle of a Jap attack. Before we
were awake we hit the deck and were ten yards down the aisle ahead of the band
running for cover when we became aware of where we were. We went sheepishly back to our bunks to get
our clothes to the laughter and kidding of our bunkmates. After that episode we would hear the sounds
of the band assembling outside the doors and could prepare ourselves by buying
our heads under our pillows when the loud music started.
Although
I continued to have ambivalent feeling about my engagement to Shirley Mills,
shortly after my arrival in Chicago I decided that if it were to stand it
should be formalized with a ring. I rode
the El to the loop, found a reputable jewelry store, and although my savings was
dwindling, spent two hundred dollars on a small diamond rind. (That was in 1943 dollars. It was, I think, something less than a half
carat and would probably be worth ten times that today.)
After
a few drinks on the way back to 87th & Anthony I decided that
the ring should not simply arrive in the mail.
I gift-wrapped it and mailed it to my brother Rex with the request that
he hand-deliver it with some flowers. He
did so.
Despite
the urgency of war for more trained men as the might of the United States began
to flex its muscles, our classes at NATTC were on a five-day week and we had
liberty every weekend. Byrd, Rineman,
and I found the classes relatively easy after our training at North Island and
our two years of practical experience in VP-11 and the engine change shop on
Ile Nou so we made the most of liberty in Chicago.
During
our first liberty weekend, we explored the Chicago Loop area in the city, but
other than movie houses and two large ballrooms, the Trianon and the Aragon, I
believe they were, downtown had little more to offer than the South Side. One weekend we did go to a professional
football game at Soldier Field. In the main
we made liberty at an area of small night clubs, movie theaters, and bars at 63rd
and Cottage Grove.
In
the days of World War II, The Chicago South Side was still thriving. We could walk a few blocks east and catch the
train that ran between the Chicago Loop and through Gary to South Bend, Indiana.
Our
favorite watering hole was a small night club on Cottage Grove called “Crown
Propeller Lounge”. (The sign outside was
a neon airplane propeller.) It was run by
a retired Irish cop and featured a small live combo. Sometimes there was a small “floor show” by
an aspiring singer, magician, or standup comedian. The waitresses were friendly, the drinks
relatively cheap, and the owner always bought every second or third round for
men in uniform who were veterans of the War in the Pacific. The bandleader soon learned our favorite
songs and would stop a piece and shit to one when we came in and took a table—more
often than not “Sentimental Journey” which I liked and often requested.
We
felt comfortably at home at the Crown Propeller Lounge and knew that we could
always count on getting back to the barracks at 87th & Anthony. On the occasions that we celebrated too much
and the staff of the lounge thought we might run into a Shore Patrol or have
trouble finding our way, the Irishman would call a cab at closing time and make
sure we had enough money for the ride back.
Although
we never got into trouble that might land us on report or in the brig, the
three of us “old salts” had some high old times. There was on chubby little waitress called “Dutchy”,
a brown-haired woman about thirty, who took a liking for me. Sometimes at the midnight closing time for
bars, Dutchy and a friend would take us to one of the many illegal after-fours
bars in the city.
I
recall one after-hours joint in particular.
From the outside the place appeared to be nothing but an abandoned ice
cream parlor. Behind the counter the
door that once led to a kitchen opened into a draped anteroom and then into a
very nice nightclub with a bar, dance floor, and very good band. Dutchy liked to dance and it was her favorite
place to relax after work.
