95th AERO SQUADRON, "HEY KID"

[FOKKERJ]

My son gave me some print outs from a Veteran that visited our local High School on Veteran's Day. He handed the following to me today (Friday), it's one of three autobiographies. The second and third deal with his personal service during WW2.

S.Joel Premselaar
Sisters, Oregon
prems@bendbroadband.com


"HEY KID"

S. Joel Premselaar

I was denied further sleep, never the less, I remained in bed mulling over the question put before me after dinner last night. Jim had turned to me and asked, "Joel, you've been flying about seventy years, how did you ever get started?" I rolled over and my mind, now a time machine, rolled with me back to a Sunday in August of 1936.



A vivid picture of the sequence of events that occurred on that August (or is that "au- 'gust"?) day flickered like an old movie of that period. I could see myself as a 16 year old standing on the roof of my apartment building. My rubber raincoat glistened from the rain bathing the sooty city. I am apart and yet a part of that adolescent scanning the leaden sky for a break in the low overcast, my concern grew. The summer was waning and I had precious little daylight remaining after work for flying. Too soon, school would start and my free time would be reduced to Sundays only. I work Saturdays.


The Depression! Work! Everyone had to do his bit. I reflected on the fact that when I wasn't shining shoes or selling newspapers at a subway entrance, I was riding the subways selling "Libety" magazines. Why was this recollection so important to me? My thoughts took me back to my fragmented work pattern of the time, delivering and picking up garments, sweeping floors, and occasionally pressing clothes for a dry cleaning establishment. What little free time I had was spent a t the airport laboring at general flunky tasks such as washing airplanes, sopping up oily drip pans from under leaky aircraft engines, and sweeping hangar floors, all in exchange for flight time.



My arm went to sleep - - pins and needles. I'd been lying on it. I wriggled into a new position and like coming out of a dream, I tried to recapture my young self.



Ah yes, it's 1936 again and I'm standing on the rooftop. I'm wet, but my spirit is not dampened. My mind is made up. I will go to the airport. Ever the optimist, I hauled out my bike and started pedaling the six miles to Flushing Airport. A Model "A" Ford passed me honking his horn. I conjured up the image of a goose trying to land on the strret puddles. Land on the street puddles he did - - with a splash. Oh well, I couldn't get any wetter. Waving an apology, the driver disappeared in a rooster tail spray.


As I approached the field, I could see the windsock hanging limp. I propped my bike against the hangar wall and entered the flight office. The room was half office and half lounge. The walls were covered with aeronautical charts and airplane pictures. Cigarette smoke and the aroma of coffee greeted me. Cigarettes and coffee were the staples of airport loungers.


Walt Chambliss, an Ace of The Great War (World War I), was holding court as usual. His twisting hands were held aloft as story telling pilots are wont to do. The cigar clamped tightly between his lips bounced fiercely as he talked through the side of his mouth. I fixated on the cigar's long ash. Defying all laws of physics, it clung tenaciously to the tip of the cigar as though to life itself. Would it ever fall? Without the slightest change in the cadence of his words or the motion of his hands, he managed to acknowledge my arrival with a sharp nod of his head. Still, the cigar ash held. His red hair, graying at the temples, capped a crimson face that was not the result of sunburn, embarrassment, or effort. While I wondered about that at the time, it was later in life that I learned that those frequently under the "alcofluence of incohol" manifested such a complexion. His feet wre propped on a '30's ice cream parlor table revealing high topped lace and hook boots crested with battered leather puttees that overlapped the cuffs of whipcord breeches, the sides of which looked like the doors of an old time western saloon. His khaki shirt, open at the collar, sported epaulettes, each of which featured a major's oak leaf. Judging from his garment's condition, it could be concluded that they were vestiges of his Great War uniform. In contrast to his disheveled wear, the shiny silver wings on his breast evinced a reverent regard for flying. He was, however, a vanishing breed - - a barnstormer.



Although he must have told this story a hundred times, his eyes glowed with excitement as he savored the experience he was relating. Slowly guiding his hands around the sky he continued his tale (in another generation or two of pilots, mankind will be able to rotate their hands through 360°).


"It took no less than 20 minutes of maneuvering to position myself up sun of the Boche. I was at least 3,000 feet above him. the black formee crosses on his wings defeated his camouflage. I was able to follow his every move. I looked around to make sure that he was not a decoy. I thumbed out the sun. I was alone with the Hun. You can bet I was excited. getting this Heinie would make me an ace. Whispering, I told myself to relax. That seemed to work and I settled down to the business at hand. I charged up my twin Vickers machine guns. Just a bit longer, just a l-i-t-t-l-e b-i-t l-o-n-g-e-r, ----NOW! Diving out of the sun my Spad and I became as identical twins. My scream harmonized with that of the flying wires as we plummeted falcon-like on our prey. Closing on the enemy, I could more clearly define the outline of my target. It was a Rumpler observation plane. Intent upon the ground situation, the pilot was leaning to one side to see around the mass of the engine, radiator, and exhaust stack looming before him."


Pausing to suck on his cigar and blow blue smoke rings, the major artfully created the effect he desired. Oh, he was a masterful storyteller. Leaning forward in their chairs, one or two of his captive audience blurted out, "Go on, go on!" Smiling with satisfaction, took a sip of coffee, grimaced at it for now it was cold, looked up and continued.



"My shadow alerted the observer. Dropping his camera to the floor of the cockpit, he pounded on the shoulder of the pilot twice. Through my gun sight, I could see his Spandau machine gun slide along it's Parabellum mount towards me. I had closed to 300 feet. Squeezing off a long burst, I watched my bullets stitch a pattern of holes along the fuselage, through the gunner, and into the engine. The body of the gunner spared the pilot. The gunner fell backward onto the pilot who, while grappling with the controls, pushed him aside. The gunner hung limply over the side flapping in the airstream like a rag doll. Breaking off the pass I exchanged speed for altitude to position myself for another attack."



"The Rumpler was now trailing smoke. The pilot guided the crippled plane toward a clearing behind our lines. He was mine. Closing to point blank range, I could clearly see stark terror register on his face. I pointed to the clearing, Nodding vigorously he turned his crippled plane toward it. Yes, we were the last of chivalrous combatants. In fact, they dubbed us 'Knights of the Air' "



"Knowing that it was fire that caused his fear, I resolved to gun him down the instant a fire started. Understanding my purpose, the pilot waved gratefully clearly preferring the coup de grace I would deliver to the horror of fire. The doped fabric covering made all aircraft of that period a potential incinerator. Parachutes were not standard equipment those days."



"The German set about the business of landing his craft. He was doing a good job of it, side slipping to keep the smoldering engine from igniting the rest of the plane. After the landing, the pilot leaped out of his machine before it stopped rolling. Pilotless, the plane ground looped and burst into flames. As the pilot got to his feet, a group of Tommies watching the whole episode surrounded him. The Brits waved to me ardently, the Jerry was waving too. I returned the salute with equal enthusiasm. Five Krauts had fallen to my guns. At last I had earned the title 'Ace'."



As a final gesture of satisfaction, he inhaled deeply on his cigar. He took a long draught of the cold coffee - - I could see his Adam's apple bob - - and then exhaled the cigar smoke. Great stunt! I was impressed. Some time in the telling of the story, ash had dropped from his cigar leaving a snail-like gray trail down his shirt, but I observed, not on those shiny silver wings.



Feigning modesty, my mentor smiled and held up his hand against a flood of questions and excused himself. Great theatrics! Watching this man, my father's age, rise majestically from his chair and saunter (swagger?) from the room was a treat in itself. I had recently seen a movie in which a panther rose from his haunches to stalk it's prey - - pure poetry in motion. Walt Chambliss was that cat personified. I was awestruck. I had been in Mr. Chambliss' company a large share of the summer, still, I was awestruck.

[FOKKERJ]

Later, I found myself alone with my hero. His demeanor confirmed what I had suspected earlier. He was an entirely different person one on one, at least with me. I recall that on that occasion he spoke to me in a serious mien.


"Have you thought about what I told you last week, Kid?"



He knew my name, but had as yet, to use it. Everyone else had a name, but to him I was "Kid". I knew exactly what he meant, but - - kid like - - I responded, Gee, we talked so much i don't know what you mean."



He nodded knowingly showing only a trace of a smile. "You do know," he said."It's about that business of flying for the Spanish Loyalists. Do you remember that?"



I looked directly into his eyes. The business was about flying for the Spanish Loyalists for $2,000 a kill and subsistence. One kill would give me twice the money my father earned in a year working six days a week. He had reminded me that I only had a couple of hundred flight hours and that I'd be pitted against seasoned Nazi pilots flying the best airplanes in the world.



I answered respectfully, "Yes, I remember. I told my parents about the offer and what you had said about it. I admit that when I left you last week I wasn't the least bit discouraged about going. But, after talking to my parents and thinking more about what you said, I decided not to go."


Mr. Chambliss then confided, "I have to tell you that I was going to ask you to barnstorm with me. You know that Phil quit and I need someone to fly the second plane." I could tell that these words were hard for him. He was such a loner.



"I would have asked you today, but your parents are right," he continued. "Get an education. I had a good education, but here I am, a flying hobo. Someday I'll tell you why this is so, but later - - later. It's a whole other story."



He got up and with that slinking walk of his went to the window and looked into the southwestern sky.



"Mm," he said, offering me some hope for a flight, "It looks as though we might get to fly in an hour or so. It surely does. I have several customers lined up. Time for another cup of mud."



With a steaming cup of coffee in each hand, he sat down facing me and passed a cup to me. I thanked him with a grin. I always grin when I am touched and too full of words to speak.



"Tell me Kid," he asked, "How did you get started flying at such an early age?"



Pleased with his interest in me, I cheerfully told him about Uncle Morris. "Uncle Morris isn't my blood relative." I said. "He is my aunt's husband. When I was about eight years old and since he had no children, he gave me special attention and told me exciting stories about his dogfights of the Great War. He was in a pursuit squadron."


Slouching in his chair, Mr. Chambliss held his cup in both hands slowly sipping his coffee. Watching his face through a thin veil of mist, I could tell that he was deeply interested in my answer. Barely removing his lips from the cup, he peered over it and asked, "What is his last name?"



I told him, but he slowly moved his head from side to side.



"What was his squadron's number?"



"The 95th Aero Squadron", I answered. At this he bolted upright and I feared for his coffee.



"That was my squadron." He said abruptly. "I don't recognize his name. Do you happen to have a picture of him?"



"Sure," I replied. "We had our picture taken together in front of the Curtiss Robin a couple of weeks ago. I carry it with me all of the time."



I removed the photo from my wallet and passed it to him. Putting his cup down, he positioned himself for better lighting and squinted at it with extended arms. His eyebrows almost merged as he concentrated on Uncle Morris.



He spoke in a slow metered and slow voice. "I know this man, but I'm having a hard time placing him. Yes, he was in my squadron, but I just can't place him."


Staring at him as he studied the photograph for what seemed an eternity, a remarkable transformation took place. His lips opened, his eyebrows were no longer knitted, and a smile was beginning to form. The smile expanded until he was laughing, positively roaring. His eyes were watering. Reaching into his back pocket for his handkerchief, he was now out of control, almost convulsing. It scared me. I was totally confused. The decline of his laughter was interspersed with outburst of what can only be described as cackles. Gradually regaining his composure, he finally had sufficient control to wipe his eyes. A sound like coal pouring down a metal chute was generated as he blew his nose.



Himself again, Mr. Chambliss spoke apologetically. "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry about my behavior and for what I must tell you. The whole thing is so ludicrous I simply lost control. I did need that laugh though. I was getting pretty low."



Leaning forward and again resting his arms on his legs, he locked his hands together and looked directly in my eyes. I sat there transfixed. He started to say something, stopped, wet his lips and began anew.



"Kid," he said, "There are times in life when heroes fall and when and when it's your hero, it hurts, it hurts like hell. I have to tell you - - your uncle was in my squadron in France all right. Your uncle told you genuine air combat stories, no doubt, but - - "He looked away only an instant and then continued, "Uncle Morris, you see, never took part in air engagements. He heard those stories in the Officer's Mess. He was the officer's cook and server."



Pausing, he studied my reaction and correctly read the chagrin and anger I openly displayed.



"Kid," he said ever so softly, "you have a choice to make. You can confront him with this and destroy his dignity and his affection for you or you can be thankful to him for starting you on your career and continue to enjoy his favor. It really isn't my business, but I would like to know what your decision is. It's important to me too."



The enigmatic last words of his statement so occupied me that my anger was quenched. I rose from my seat and slowly made my way out and onto the tarmac to swallow the lump in my throat and to hide the tears I knew would come. For a long time I stared at the sky. It was brighter. Sort of an omen I thought. I knew that I had just received a profound message, but what was it? Gradually it dawned on me that I was at a crossroad in my young life. In another few months I would finish school and would, according to my long range plan, try to fly for the U.S.Navy. The Navy's recruiting posters state that the Navy needs good men. Men, that was the key. Physically I'd be a man. Sure, that's the message. I'd look like an adult, but I must behave like one.


I almost ran back into the office. Mr. Chambliss was standing at the door watching.


"Well, made up your mind have you?" He asked.


I almost sobbed. "Yes, I understand what you tried to tell me. I'll never tell him."


Walt Chambliss smiled benevolently and said, "Joel, I'm proud of you."


He called me Joel.



THE END