Weeds and Seeds

A typical U.S.A.F. SAGE building
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 I reported to the base Civil Engineering squadron the following Monday for detail.  I was surprised to find that only a select few of my fellow detailees were wearing stripes, the rest had dark outlines where their stripes used to be.  They seemed a surly bunch and kept to themselves, not wishing any social interaction with the rest of us.

Do you think this should have tipped me off?

It seems that the vast majority of the group were serving time in the brig for various infractions... serious infractions.  These guys were assigned this detail because it constituted HARD LABOR according to Air Force guidelines.  That's right, they had been convicted and sentenced to hard labor, and guess who was about to “hard labor” right along with them!  First I was shocked, then I was livid.  “Just plant some flowers and take a 2 hour lunch” huh?

The head NCO of Civil Engineering came storming out of the office.  “I want to see every one of you humpin' on a shovel, you will not be dismissed until every tool and every vehicle shines like new!”  It went on and on. Those of us with stripes were astounded.  We'd been put in with a bunch of jailbirds, and were about to go out on a friggin' Cool Hand Luke style chain gang with some Civil Engineering clown watching over our every move.

On Minot AFB there's a huge, concrete building that used to house the old SAGE system, an early air defense command and control system network.  When SAGE was deactivated they renamed it PRIDE which was an acronym for “Professional Results In daily Effort.”  I supposed that I was expected to proudly “hump on a shovel!”  A truck arrived and we all climbed in.  Once we arrived at the building we were let out by the brand spanking new sign that they'd installed.  The 810 Aerospace Division, and 5th Bomb Wing insignias had been freshly painted on it.  It was sure a pretty sign!

Yes sir a really, pretty sign.

Soon several 5 ton dump trucks showed up loaded to the brim with fresh dirt.  We were to climb in the trucks, shovel the dirt all around the pretty sign, spread it all out neatly and plant grass... all of this before lunch, or there would be no lunch.  We jumped in and started shoveling.  It was hot, dirty and difficult, but we managed to get it all done by lunch time.  My fellow non-offenders and I stumbled over to the BX cafeteria while the jail birds had sandwiches delivered at the work site.  I grabbed a burger, took a look around the BX and lo and behold, there in the garden section, I spotted something that caught my attention.  They had racks of seed packets for housing area residents who planted their own little gardens.  I don't know why, but virtually all that was left were packets of pumpkins and beans.  Maybe housing area residents didn't care much for Halloween.  At any rate I bought up every packet I could find.

Heh, heh, heh...

As soon as I returned from lunch I surreptitiously started dumping the seed packs all around the sign.  I was careful not to allow myself to be noticed, those jailbirds would've snitched in a heartbeat if they thought it'd get them a little favor with “The Man.”   Soon we were whisked away and taken back to the squadron where we began to clean the tools and trucks.  I actually got to go home early that day which was great because I seriously needed a shower, I looked like the “Swamp Monster” and smelled like him too.

Then, a wonderful thing happened.   It turns out that my squadron commander had no clue that I was going to be placed on what amounted to hard labor.  When he found out he went ballistic and called the base commander.  “These guys are in critical career fields, they are not supposed to be used for this purpose.  I was told this was to be a simple, flower planting detail, not some chain gang.”  The base commander raised holy hell with the Civil Engineering commander, and when I arrived the next day a subdued and... dare I say... friendly Master Sgt greeted us.  Out of earshot from the jailbirds he told us “You guys are to drive the trucks to the various sites and supervise. Just keep an eye on those guys and bring them back here at lunch OK?”

So I was to drive a truck, and stay in the cab... an AIR CONDITIONED cab... while the jailbirds did their thing.   SWEET!  Later I'd get licenses for everything from a 5 ton dump to a front end loader to a power roller.  Ever see a 5 ton dump do a wheelie?   Put the bed up, drop it in “granny gear” and pop the clutch!  I figured that one out.

Oh, and about the seeds.  A few days later some green started to appear around the pretty sign.  All the Colonels and all the Majors and all the Captains and Master Sergeants looked it over and were pleased.  Then, a few weeks later the green started to sprout little buds.  All Colonels and all the the Majors and all the Captains and Master Sergeants looked it over and were pleased again... “ahhh, flowers!”   Then about a month later the vines began to crawl up the pretty sign, and there were pumpkins and beans all around the base of it.  All the Colonels and all the Majors and all the Captains and Master Sergeants looked it over and were NOT pleased!

Heh, heh, heh...

The Cloud That Ate Minot

 Well, it seemed this big at the time!

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As Winter dragged on in Minot I began to get more and more frustrated with my radio job.  You see I hadn't begun to appreciate the most important thing about being a radio personality... that it's all about the audience, not you.  I had an intense interest in these new performers, and assumed that my audience did as well.   When it was 20 below outside the listeners were more concerned about the weather.  When grain prices were down, the farmers (who comprised 80% of the audience) were more concerned about that.  The rock-n-roll bands of the day were irrelevant to them.

As Spring arrived I began to sense a new chattiness among my fellow hitch hikers at G.I. Corner.  As soon as we went from parkas to field jackets, everybody lightened up.  The foreboding of Winter was over for another year.

On day I was called upon to do an Ammonia service on a missile, Anhydrous Ammonia was used in the missile cooling system.  Now this was seriously dangerous stuff! At 99.8% pure, Anhydrous Ammonia is highly toxic and corrosive, it'll burn you instantly on contact.   We were required to wear a full coverage rubber suit with gloves, boots and a huge headpiece under which we wore a Scott Air Pack consisting of a mask, hose and oxygen tank.  When you suited up in one of these you could hardly move.  The Ammonia line was encased in woven steel, at the end was a quick disconnect fitting which was described in tech school as “absolutely foolproof.”   It had three, spring loaded ball bearings located at 120 degree intervals around the circumference.  When, and only when the fitting was perfectly mated to the receptacle, would the bearings be depressed fully.  That allowed the disconnect to turn, lock into the receptacle and the valve to open.

Fool proof!

There were to be two, fully suited techs on station at all times so Johnnie P came along to supervise.  Now as I mentioned previously, John had been in the Air Force for 956 years.  He'd performed hundreds of these services and never had a problem.  He had no issue wearing the suit, but he was damned if he was going to wear that lousy head gear and that was that!

I climbed up on the wing as John opened the NH3 valve on the service cart.  We always had a hell of a time seating that disconnect just right so the hose valve would open, especially with that suit on.  I struggled with it for several minutes.  I could tell John was getting antsy, “C'mon Berg, get it hooked up will you?” he said.   “I'm trying, the damned thing won't connect” I shot back.  I gave it a good shove and turned the valve. HEY it was opening up, success!!”

Not quite.

The “fool proof” valve wasn't seated after all.  I heard a “pppppppppppttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt” as the valve opened and the Ammonia started pouring out in a thick, white cloud of gas.   There was no way of closing the hose valve without it being seated to the receptacle, so all I could do is watch helplessly as 160 gallons of the stuff escaped into the air

Now Johnny P was a black guy, but the last thing I saw before the gas cloud enveloped me was his face turning white.  His eyes got as big as saucers and away he ran, making a straight beeline to the hanger.   I could hear the clomp, clomp, clomp of those huge, rubber boots as he ran.  For my part, I was just fine, the suit protected me perfectly and the Scott Air Pack enabled me to breath with no problem at all.  I climbed down from the wing, stood under the shower to wash off any Ammonia residue from the suit and sloshed up to the hanger.

When I got there I went straight to the control room where I encountered Johnny P  yelling “Berg's out there, we got to get him, he's in trouble...”  All the while I was standing right behind him, dripping water all over the nicely polished floor.

Once it was determined that I was, in fact, alive and well we all went over the the hanger door overlooking the service pad, and there it was... a HUGE, white cloud of poisonous Ammonia slowly making it's way across the field as a light wind carried it away.  The tank was completely empty now, so this cloud consisted of 160 gallons of pure NH3.  If you've seen the movie “The Blob” you'll get a sense of what this thing looked like as it made it's way toward the end of the flight line, and the 3 or 4 Air Police trucks parked there.  I've never seen AP trucks move so fast!  Those guys high-tailed it out of there RIGHT NOW, leaving their doughnut boxes behind!

The cloud dissipated as it left the confines of the base.   Two days later all the vegetation in it's path died.   A week later there was 2 feet of grass in the same path.  Ammonia is used as fertilizer you know, that's what the “N” in NH3 is for... Nitrogen.

But the damage had been done.  Even though it wasn't my fault, somebody had to pay for the incident.   I began to appreciate a nasty, little fact about the Air Force.  The higher authorities would always demand a scapegoat, and 9 out of 10 times that scapegoat would be a lower grade Fly Boy... in this case me.  The commander called me in his office. “Listen Berg, we have to give them their pound of flesh.  I've gotta put you on detail.  Starting next week you'll be on the 'Base Beautification' project.  It'll be easy, plant a couple of flowers, take a long lunch... nothing to it, OK?”

“OK sir”

So this is how the Air Force worked, cover your own ass first.  To say I was disillusioned was the understatement of the year.  I lost all respect for the Air Force right there and then and to make it worse, I still had nearly 3 years to go in my hitch.

Oh, and about that “fool proof” valve... I guess it all depends on the fool.

Winter Comes To North Dakota

 A typical Winter scene in North Dakota
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By the late fall of 1964 we'd moved into the apartment in town, and I was commuting to the base every morning.  Well, hitchhiking was more like it.   There was a place about 2 blocks away called “G.I. Corner” where car less Fly Boys like me could stand, and some Good Samaritan heading into the base would pick them up.  Same deal coming back home.   I'd grab a bite after work, change my clothes and cab it over to the station for the 7-12 shift a couple of days a week, or when someone took the day off.

The program director described the station's format as “Top 40 with an adult approach.”  In later years we'd refer to that as Adult Contemporary.  The night shift though was basically rock, which suited me fine since I got to play all the great new stuff coming in from the Brits.  By now the list of invaders had grown significantly.  There were Billy J Kramer and the Dakotas, Chad & Jeremy, Peter and Gordon, The Animals, Manfred Mann, Petula Clark, Freddie and the Dreamers, Wayne Fontana and the Mindbenders, Herman's Hermits, The Rolling Stones, The Troggs, Donovan, Dusty Springfield, and many others.   I played every one I could get, and usually the “B” sides too.  I began to notice some American groups fighting back.  Groups like The Four Seasons, The Beach Boys, and Paul Revere and the Raiders were recording some seriously great music as well.

One of those groups is particularly memorable to me.  The Shangri Las had a huge hit out at the time with “Leader of the Pack.”  They were appearing in Minot when one of the Ganser sisters came down with a throat infection of some kind.  I was asked to run the lead singer, Mary Weiss, over to the hospital.  After the visit, I took Mary over to a downtown coffee shop to grab a sandwich.   Mary went on to become THE “rock n roll bad girl” icon that 80's punk rockers such as Pat Benetar and Joan Jett tried to emulate.  I get a kick out of telling people about my “date” with her.   They inevitably want to know what she was “really” like . What she was “really” like was a typical 15 year old girl who was worried about her friend's health!

I started to peruse some of the other albums too. I remember being knocked out by “The Wham of that Memphis Man” Lonnie Mack's seminal album, still considered one of the greatest guitar works in history.

I was getting used to being on the air now, but as much as I tried couldn't seem to get much response from the community.  Meanwhile my old pal Terry had become known as “The Sixth Rolling Stone” as a result of his close association with Brian Jones and Andrew Loog Oldham.  He was tooling around Detroit in a red Sting Ray lovin' life, and here I was in Minot, N.D. hitchhiking to the base and hardly making a dent as a radio personality.  No matter what I did, no matter how much I tried to make my show interesting and entertaining, I got zero respect.  The community didn't seem to care one way or the other, and all I ever got from the PD was “play some more Dean Martin and Eddy Arnold, we're an ADULT station you know!”

Phooey!

As Fall dragged on I began to notice the weather changing.  Now being from Michigan I'd seen some seriously cold weather, but there was something ominous about the way the weather changed in N.D.  The winds would start to build, always from the North or North West.  The humidity would disappear, and the sky would take on an eerie appearance.  It seemed as though the sun would get smaller and smaller day by day.  When I'd walk over to G.I corner I'd see the same guys standing there every day, and every day they'd have less and less to say.  One time one of them said to me “The Hawk's comin' I can feel it. Won't be long and The Hawk'll be here.”  I knew what he meant, The Hawk was the Winter wind!

October is the month that winter really sets in in North Dakota.  The first part of the month is fairly pleasant, by the end of the month The Hawk had arrived.  I suddenly learned to appreciate that 50 pounds of gear I was issued.  By mid November it was winter.  I'd suit up in a parka, bunny pants, long johns and gloves.   The snow was starting to fall, or “travel” I guess is a better term since it usually didn't fall in the strictest sense, it flew in a perpendicular path to the ground with 30 MPH winds behind it.  By December it was deep freeze time in Minot.

I don't know if you've ever heard the phrase “Painfully Cold” before, but that's what it was.  Cold so intense it hurt.  And the ever present wind made it practically unbearable.  In spite of all the gear...parka, long johns, mukluks, bunny pants... I might as well have been standing there in my Sponge Bob boxer shorts.  You walked outside you froze your tail end off, that's it!  Working on the flight line in that weather was the worst job in the world.  It could get to 40 below with a 40 knot wind, and there you'd be, trying to upload a missile onto a B-52.  I learned what the satin glove liners we'd been issued were for.  They were to be used when you had to make some minute adjustment to the missile and needed to take the heavy gloves off.  They prevented your hands from freezing to the metal.  We worked no more than 10 minutes outside, and were required to return to the truck to warm up while another crew went out.  To call it miserable is the understatement of the century. 

I'd always been told that Hell was all fire and brimstone.  I can tell you first hand that Hell is standing on a flight line, next to a B-52 in 40 below weather with The Hawk roaring in at 40 knots.

910 In Minot KCJB!!!

 A Gates "Yard" console similar to the one at KCJB
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Now lest anyone get the notion that military discipline went completely out the door at Minot, let me dispel that idea right now.   Just because the personnel at AMMS were a tad lax on some of the “chicken shit” aspects of Air Force life, didn't mean they were lax when it came to the unit's mission, just the opposite.  To a man we took this responsibility very seriously.  My instructors at Chanute had always said “in SAC you work hard, but you play hard.”  I learned immediately how true this was.  Many was the time when we'd spend our lunch period sitting at a console while we tried to work out a “No Go” condition on the bird.  Our normal workday was 7:30-4:00, but if there was a bug in the system we'd be expected to stay until we worked it out no matter how long it took.  On the other hand, when we partied we REALLY partied!  Everybody looked out for everybody else so there was rarely any backlash.

I'd arrived at Minot in the late summer, the best time of the year there.  The hottest part of the summer had passed... believe me, it gets REAL hot in North Dakota... and the weather was clear and temperate.  I was summoned to BEMO (base supply) to obtain my winter issue.  I was amazed at the amount of clothing they gave me.   A huge, thick parka, insulated “bunny pants” several pairs of insulated long johns, numerous sets of gloves... leather shells, a wool liner and satin glove to wear under all that... gigantic “Mukluk” boots etc.  The issue must've weighed 50 lbs.  “Trust me, you'll need it” I was told.  I was not looking forward to finding out!

One day at lunch I met up with a guy who had a part time job at KCJB, the local radio station.   He told me that they often relied on Air Force guys to fill the part-time slots, and that he'd be happy to introduce me to the program director if I was interested.  If I was interested?  Of course I was interested!  I took him up on the offer immediately.

The program director was a friendly enough guy, he seemed impressed with my limited credentials and introduced me to the general manager of the place.  “It's a pretty simple job” the manager told me, “doesn't pay much, but it's yours if you want it.”  Simple job!  I'd been just introduced to the kind of attitude I'd see time and time again in the industry.  On-air personnel were just “having fun,” it wasn't a “real job” at all.  I'd like to see them run the place without us.  I shook off the insult and took the job.

My first night on the air was pretty straightforward.  Dan Brannon showed me the board (the control console, or nerve center of the station) and told me “good luck. See ya!”  OK, now what?  For those of you who've never seen the inner workings of a radio station let me run through a typical sequence of events:

• Cue up the next song on turntable #1
• Cue up the spot for Hamms Beer on turntable #2
  Load up the cart decks (a tape machine similar to an 8 track used to record commercials, jingles and other programming elements) with the rest of the commercials in the break
• Dig into the copy bin for the tag to read after the Hamms spot
• Crack the mike and backsell the previous record while “slip cueing” (holding the record with your finger while the turntable spins below it) the Hamms spot.
• Whip the TT#2 pot (volume control) open and let go of the record.
• At 20 sec, crack the mike and read the tag
• Hit the first cart
• Remove the Hamms spot from the turntable and cue up the next song.
• Hit the second cart, and load #1 with a jingle
• Slip cue the next song.
• Hit the jingle and crack the mike
• Whip the mike and TT#1 pots open at the same time
• Intro the song.
• Do it all over again.

This sequence was repeated over and over, dozens of times per air shift.

It took awhile to get the hang of it andI had my share of “dead air” during the first hour, but by the second I had gotten the hang of it.  By the time my shift ended 5 hours later I felt like a seasoned pro.  I'd successfully completed my first, real shift on the air and hadn't done anything to put the station's license in jeopardy.

I felt that was a step in the right direction.

Why Not Minot!?

 Main Street, Minot ND
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As I neared the end of my tech school, I began to appreciate how difficult life could be for lower income people. I recall one time when dinner consisted of a can of beans covered with ketchup.  We had completely run out of money 2 days before payday, and as soon as I got paid we high-tailed it to the base commissary to buy as many groceries as we could.  I remember, once we got home I ripped open a box of Cheerios and gobbled down a huge bowl of them.  It was 2 o'clock in the afternoon, but breakfast cereal never tasted so good! Living in the barracks had been pretty much stress free.  I had a nice, warm bed and three excellent meals a day.  I can't tell you how many times that damned oil tank ran out, and we had to scramble to find enough money to fill it up just so we could stay comfortable.  The dealer didn't care a bit if you froze, and the owner of the cottage wasn't about to insulate the place properly.  We were just Air Force... second class citizens.

If you've ever lived in a GI town you'll know, the townies resent military families as much as they rely on them.  It's an uncomfortable dynamic, and pretty demoralizing to the GIs. Should anything occur, it would have befallen us to put our lives in jeopardy protecting their right to resent us.

I must admit that when graduation arrived, I was more than happy to bid Rantoul goodbye.  After a week leave I'd be transferred to Minot AFB ND for assignment with the 450^th Airborne Missile Maintenance Squadron.  In Tech School we'd been given the opportunity to choose which base we'd like to be stationed at, the caveat being that we'd get the assignment only if the Air Force would accommodate it. I chose Wurtsmith in MI.  Yeah, fat chance I'd get what I wanted!   The one base where NO one wanted to go was Minot.  All through tech school I'd heard from instructors who'd spent time there what a Hell hole it was.  40 below winters, unfriendly townies, no on-base accommodation for lower grade families and once you got there, no way to transfer out.  I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when my orders for Minot arrived.   The way things had been going lately, it was just another kick in the pants.

I spent a pleasant week at home in Lapeer and caught up with some of my old pals.  By this time Terry Knight had become a HUGE Detroit radio star at CKLW in Windsor, ON.  It was a 50,000 watt blowtorch that could be heard all over Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania and, when the skip conditions were right, at the North Pole.  I kid you not, years later when I worked there, I got a hit line request from a ship at the North Pole!   My old band mates were soldiering on, playing bar gigs and making fairly good money.  We got together with Dude Newton and played at a Flint dive one night just for old time's sake.  I must admit, once the leave was over, it was not without some trepidation that I boarded the plane to Minot.

I don't know what I expected, maybe some old west style settlement with dirt roads and clapboard shacks, but what I found was a pleasant, little community.  Geeze, it looked like any small town I'd ever been in. Who've thunk it?  I had a couple of days before I was required to check in at the base, so I took a look around.  Far from being unfriendly, the townies here were downright accommodating.  So much so that you practically had to fight them off!  As soon as they saw my uniform, and my two measly stripes... I'd been promoted when I graduated... they bent over backward to show me around, suggest places where I might rent an apartment, and suggest the best restaurants.  I located a nice apartment building with a well appointed, clean flat for about the same money I'd been paying in Rantoul.  Where were the “unfriendly townies?  I only met extremely friendly townies!

I'd been warned about the base too. “It's SAC (Strategic Air Command) all spit and polish. They'll toss a Courts Marshall or an Article 15 at you so fast it'll make your head spin.”  “There's nothing there, just a tiny commissary and a crappy base exchange."  Imagine my surprise when Staff Sgt Bishop came to meet me at the front gate.  “You're Pat Bergin, right? Great, jump in and I'll take you to the squadron.”  He'd called me by my first name, I hadn't been addressed by my first name since I was back at Ft Wayne!

Once I arrived at the squadron I was led into the hanger.  The floors were polished to a high gloss and spotlessly clean.  There were techs in fatigues and whites conferring over a line of consoles and there in front of my eyes was a real, AGM 28-B missile, all 40 feet of it, with hydraulic, pneumatic and electrical lines snaking out of it's innards and running to the consoles.  I'd never seen a “Hound Dog” missile actually hooked up before, it was like something out of a science fiction movie.

Eventually I was led in to the squadron commander's office.  Up until now Air Force officers, especially ones with silver oak leafs on their shirts, were something to be feared.  If you came in contact with one, it usually meant you were in deep shit.  I Saluted and handed him my orders.  “Geeze Pat, at ease for cryin' out loud, you're making me nervous. OK, let's see... oh yeah you're the systems tech we've been waiting on, BOY AM I GLAD TO SEE YOU!!”

I was thinking “that went well!”

Then he told me to go across the hall to see the First Sgt and get everything squared away.  Now next to an officer, the most feared guy on the planet was the “First Shirt.”   He was usually the last enlisted person you saw before they dragged you in front of the C.O.   In tech school these guys were NOT the friendliest people you'd come in contact with.

“Hey Bill, here's our new Systems Tech, square him away and make sure he gets everything he needs will you”   I heard a muffled “OK” from the room... no “yes SIR” or “right away SIR”...  just “OK.”  I began to get a sense of “loosey goosey” about this place.   “Bill,” a Sr Master Sgt with 30 years in the Air Force asked me to take a seat. “Hey Pat, how ya' doin?  Si-down will ya'”  I believe is how he put it.  “We've got a temporary room all set up for you at the barracks.  I see you're married, have you looked for a place yet?”  I advised him that, yes I'd found a place and had made a deposit.  “Well GREAT, that means you'll be a single guy for awhile.  We have a little get together for the squadron every Friday after work, wanna come?”   I think I must've scared the crap out of him when I piped up “YES SIR”   “Geeze Pat, don't call me sir. You nearly scared the shit out of me!”   I heard a chuckle coming from the commander's office.

That night the squadron gathered in a field behind the hanger.  We had Kentucky Fried Chicken brought in, and beer by the case.   I met “Sgt D" Dzenowagis an E-9 with 30 years in the Air Force.  I met Lt “Don't Call Me Sir” Blackburn who bitched consistently about how “you guys have all the fun, I have to sit here and shuffle papers all damned day!”  I met Sgt Johnnie Pruitt who'd been in the Air Force for 956 years.  When he joined they were flying Pterodactyls.  John liked to take a wee nip from time to time.  He'd be working on a missile and fall asleep right there, with a screwdriver in his hand, until someone would walk by and yell “JOHNNIE” at which time he'd wake up and resume what he'd been doing.

I Heard stories about the tricks they'd played on Blackburn when he arrived.   Sgt Douglas had apparently asked him to take a flight line tug, and go to the Field Maintenance squadron to pick up some “Prop Wash” which he dutifully did.  They sent him back with a bucket of JP-4 jet fuel, and the entire squadron was there with stupid gins on their faces waiting .

“You're all a bunch of assholes, you know that right?” he howled as the rest of the gang laughed their tail ends off.

So this was the horrible Minot, the base that everyone feared.  In North Dakota, the place where everybody was unfriendly.   Minot was the best kept secret in the Air Force, it was just the opposite of everything I'd been told.

Everything except the 40 below part that is.

The Townies Get Pay Back

I'm second from lower left... the one with the big ears

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Once the shock of the Kennedy assassination passed, things at Chanute fell back into a normal state fairly quickly.  We finished up our Basic Training and were awarded our first stripe.  This was a huge deal, it meant that we were no longer considered trainees but full fledged Air Force members, in other words, part of the team.  Classes would run from about 7:30 in the morning to 4 in the afternoon, at which time we would take a bus back to the barracks and head over to the dining hall for supper.  Air Force dining halls were essentially huge cafeterias with a wide assortment of entrees and desserts, you could have as much as you liked.   The food was well prepared and, usually quite delicious.

For amusement we could zip over to the theater and take in a flick, go to the day room and watch TV or head over to the rec center for any number of activities planned and hosted by the staff.   Those with cars could run over to the base garage where a large assortment of tools and supplies were available to the mechanically inclined.  There was a Base Exchange, essentially a department store, where you could buy everything from socks to living room furniture. In town you could visit the USO where friendly Rantoul volunteers would serve treats, and local girls would come to dance with the GIs. 

But there was a darker side to Rantoul.  I already mentioned the pawn shops and loan sharks that operated there.  Unscrupulous car dealers would con unsophisticated GIs into buying junkers at exorbitant interest rates then repossess them when the kid couldn’t make the payments, only to sell them over again to another sucker.  There were check cashiers who would cash our pay checks for a high fee, the banks wouldn’t cash them unless we had an account there.  These “business people” wouldn’t hesitate a second to threaten a call to the base commander if they thought it would get them a buck or two from a strapped GI. 
 
This was allowed to continue until one day the base commander decided enough was enough and put the entire city of Rantoul off limits.  He lined up the entire fleet of Air Force busses, and put them at our disposal to circumvent the town and go down to Champaign/Urbana.  This worked out quite well for us since Champaign was a much larger town, and offered a great deal more in terms of shopping and recreation.

The howl from the city fathers was deafening, how DARE they do such a thing after the town had been so accommodating!?

Yeah, they were accommodating all right, as long as the accommodation didn’t require anything from them.  Without Air Force personnel shopping in town the merchants of Rantoul were losing thousands of dollars every day.  The commander was unrelenting however, and the ban continued for about 4 days during which special classes were set up to counsel us about the loan sharks and Shylocks.  Normally a complaint from a townie to a squadron commander could cause an enormous amount of grief for a fly boy.  No more, if someone had an issue with a local merchant, cop or any civilian for that matter, there would be an investigation into the matter. 
 
They weren't happy about it, the townies were used to getting anything they wanted from a compliant Air Force, but after 4 days they threw in the towel.   There would be an informal commission set up consisting of Air Force lawyers and representatives of the business community to arbitrate any issues that might occur, and the Shylocks were advised that their access to the commanders was hereby greatly diminished.

With a new dynamic between the town and the Air Force in place, relations quickly improved between the Fly Boys and the folks of Rantoul.   Only a small percentage of people in town were causing issues, and now that they knew their place life improved immensely.

It took about 9 months to finish up tech school, by which time I'd obtained permission to marry Judy, the girl from Owosso I'd been dating.  Love is blind of course, and neither of us could have anticipated the kinds of stress that living on a lower grade Airman's salary would impose on a relationship.  We settled into a little cottage just off base.  It reminded me of the chicken coop, more like one of those migrant worker shacks than a real house, but it had indoor plumbing and an oil stove so I guessed it would do.  With an income of around $170/Mo including housing allowance, the $50/Mo rent seemed like the deal of a lifetime. 
 
It didn't escape me that, as a musician back home, I could easily make a couple of hundred or more on a weekend.

On The Air... Finally!!!

This is actually what I looked like!
Hear Pat read this entry 

In the days following the Kennedy assassination, we began to understand that there would be no World War 3 after all.  The suspect, Lee Harvey Oswald, appeared to be some kind of malcontent working alone.  We were shocked when we saw the images of him being led to a county jail, when suddenly someone stepped into camera range and fired a gun.  Jack Ruby had killed Lee Harvey Oswald, and the world would never know what had inspired him to murder the President.

I'd begun to adapt to Air Force life, and found it to be a comfortable way to make a living without having to stand on a GM assembly line.  I was learning about computers, jet engines, sophisticated hydraulics and so forth... things I'd never even see in Flint.  I admit that I was a tad miffed at my family, however.  No sooner had I boarded the bus to Detroit than the whole lot of them decided to take a nice, family vacation.  We hadn't done that in years when I was living at home.  I imagined my dad yelling:

“OK he's gone, everybody in the car we're gonna' have some FUN now!”

Geeze!

It was a nice surprise, then, when my mom came to visit me at Christmas.  I showed her all around the base, then we had a fantastic Christmas dinner in the chow hall.  The Air Force really pulled out the stops for these holiday meals... turkey, ham, roast beef, all the trimmings... as much as you wanted.  Families were invited, actually encouraged, to join in the party.  It was great!

By February, 1964 The Beatles were taking the country by storm.  Unlike the Revolutionary War, this time the Brits not only invaded the colonies, but had taken the place over in less than a month.  The Beatles were everywhere, on the radio and by proxy in the stores where everything from Beatles wigs to Beatles magazines were on sale.   Suddenly everyone was wearing those tight, pegged pants and “Beatle Boots,” an ankle length shoe with stepped heels and pointed toes.  Even I bought a pair of those.  Yup, in the period of one month I'd become a Beatle convert.  I began to appreciate the sophistication of their simple approach to making music.   No strings or Phil Spector, “Wall of Sound” style production gimmicks, just good, clean playing and impeccable harmonies.  What a concept!

I read everything I could find about the Beatles, and later the other Brit groups that followed... Peter and Gordon, The Dave Clark 5 and others.  I was a veritable storehouse of information, so when opportunity knocked I was more than ready.  It seemed the local radio station was interested in doing a Saturday show featuring the British bands, trouble was the local DJs didn't know doodly squat about them.  I found out about this situation while doing some laundry in town, I met the station's news guy and he told me about it. I didn't hesitate 10 seconds, as soon as that laundry was done the two of us high-tailed it over to the station.  I was asked to read some copy and intro a couple of songs... NO SWEAT... I'd been practicing this stuff for months!  I got the job, and the best part about it was, they wanted to do a remote from the local record store.  I got to do my thing in public!!!

My first radio show was a less than stellar performance I'm afraid.  I recall being extremely nervous, and I blew the intro of the very first song.  I had the mike cranked too high, the music potted too low and couldn't seem to figure out how to get all the copy sorted out in time for my next break.  I was expected to have all this inside info on the Brit bands, but when it came time to crack the mike I forgot it all.   To make it worse I was screwing this thing up in front of an audience!  Good grief, this was embarrassing!  The news guy I'd befriended came to my rescue.   “Just relax” he told me, “If you have to, just take the cans (earphones) off.   Don't pay attention to what you sound like on the air, it's the content that counts.”  Once I took the cans off it did seem to come easier   By the second half of the show I'd learned to use them only when I had to intro a song, then take them off when I was doing some background or reading copy.  I must've done OK, the station asked me to come back the following week.  I'd stumbled into my first radio gig.  It was a tiny little station in a tenth rate town, but it was a start.

The base newspaper noticed that I was on the air, and came to the barracks to interview me.  The Air Force was very supportive of my efforts, and made quite a fuss over my little radio show.  A small TV station in Champaign/Urbana picked up on that, and had me come down to appear on their local dance show... sort of a small town version of American Bandstand.

And just when I felt I was hitting my stride it all ended, the owner of record store that sponsored the show felt he wasn't getting his money's worth.  I guess he figured that his record sales would go through the roof because of this thing.  These small time guys never heard of “Market Equity”...the intrinsic value of name recognition in marketing... so after a month the the show came to an end.  I was disappointed of course, but not discouraged.  I'd learned a lot in that month, the most important of which was “content is king.”

Would be radio folks reading this should now listen up.  If you learn one thing from all this blather learn this, content is king.  Plain and simple, the key to success in radio is relating to your audience.  You think like they think, you talk like they talk, you go the places they go and you relate this back on the air.  You make your living by living.  It's the most important lesson I ever learned.

Years later, as I was finishing up my radio career, a station manager referred to me as “the greatest communicator in radio.”  I don't know about that, there are plenty of guys that I feel were better, but I'm sure glad he noticed.