Grugger’s Way

My First Time to Fly was so terrifying that I could never forget. Ever! 

I was just 17, and my first time to fly involved three aircraft, NONE of which worked smoothly.

LEG ONE:   I look out the starboard side window and see that the outboard engine is on fire!  The pilot announces that we have an engine going out and he is shutting it down, but we can fly on three just fine, he says, and we continue on (well, what else CAN we do but “continue on”?  Give up?)

LEG TWO:  We made it successfully into Salt Lake City.  We wait and wait to board our next aircraft.  Oh, GREAT….Bomb Threat!    The announcer says boarding will be commencing shortly, having been given the “okay” by the bomb sniffing dogs (that we can see coming out of the airplane.)   Poop time.

LEG THREE:  Having been delayed for two hours in Salt Lake City, we have missed our Los Angeles connecting flight to San Diego.  Yes, we are a group of 40 young Navy recruits on our way to boot camp for the Naval Reserve.  All of us are classmates and going to be high school seniors–1964.  This is our summer vacation ”adventure.”   The “replacement” aircraft that the Navy has arranged to fly us to San Diego from  Los Angeles, is sitting out on the tarmac.  It has two engines and a little “tail wheel” that it sits on.  Reminds me of the TV show, “Sky King.”   We board.  I get to sit on the floor way in the back, right on top of the little “tail wheel.”   The right engine starts and coughs…dies.  The left engine starts, coughs…dies.  The right engine starts and runs.  Sounds like a Harley-Davidson, as I recall now.  The left engine starts…coughs…dies.  The left engine starts…coughs…dies.  The left engine starts…coughs…coughs….coughs…COFF! And DIES!   Fifth Time is the Charm. The left engine starts…coughs…the pilot revs it up suddenly and we are moving….cough…(tail wheel bounce)…cough cough…(tail wheel bounce)…go go go!   Yes…we take off with one of the engines still COFFING!…COUGH, COUGH!  We are taking off from Los Angeles, California, LAX.  Ever been there?  The airplanes take off OVER THE OCEAN!  I can see the beach….and then WATER!  Poop time!

We fly parallel to the coastline all the way to San Diego.  We are never out of site of the ocean surf hitting the beach.  We are never very high above the water…it’s like we are on approach to San Diego the entire ride.  A bumpy ride.  I was ready to die that day.  Made my peace and everything.  A Navy bus was waiting for us at Lindberg Field.  Boot camp was a lark.  The flight home….?  Uneventful.  (But I was ready for ANYTHING!)

My First Time to Make FUDGE, or what passed for fudge, was when I was ten years old.

I loved fudge!  My Mom could make the BEST fudge!  I knew she always cooked it on the stove, and she used cocoa, and then put it in the refrigerator.  (Fridgidaire, I think.)

So I began by getting cocoa and mixing it with leftover, cold coffee.  I heated it on the stove and after “taste-testing” I knew I needed to make it sweeter.  So I turned to powdered sugar.  Lots of powdered sugar, as it turned out.  I kept adding and tasting, adding and tasting, but it never seemed to be quite right, always kind of “bitter,” like cocoa. 

Finally, with a thick “pudding” of fudgy brown, VERY SWEET, coffee-flavored, “fudge,”  I poured it into a dish and put it into the refrigerator to “harden.”  I used the spatula to clean the pan and thought it tasted pretty good, even before it went into the fridge.

Of course, it never really hardened and I eventually put it into the freezer compartment, where it really did get hard.

It never really tasted like fudge either. 

After that experience, I simply mixed up re-heated leftover coffee with powdered sugar and added enough cocoa to make it chocolate-ty.  I more-or-less was making frosting, and it satisfied my craving for chocolate when there was nothing else in the house. 

My First and only time to be truly LOST and in physical danger happened in 1968, December, in Marseilles, France.

This was not long after many Algerians had emigrated to France due to the Algerian War.  (Guerre d’Algérie; 1954-1962), also known as Algerian War of Independence.) But not all immigrants were of good character.  There was a section of Marseilles that was called the “Algerian Gut” and it was strictly off-limits to non-Algerians, but particularly dangerous for American U.S. Navy sailors. 

We were easily identifiable in those days because we were required to wear our uniforms.  When my ship anchored off shore, we sent a “liberty party” of about 1200 sailors to the “beach,” in Navy lingo. 

My group of friends were drinking, naturally, and when it was time to leave the bar, I found myself all alone.  I started wandering toward the “Fleet landing” where our liberty boats would transport us back to the ship.  We had been warned about the Algerian Gut, were told about the gangs of thugs, with knives, crowbars, and chains, who attacked those who  carelessly or intentionally intruded into their “territory.”

I was careless.  I wandered in from a side street which ran at an angle in such a way that each block took me deeper into the danger area.  I kind of knew I was in the shady part of town, because the streets were deserted and there were hardly any street lamps.  Then I saw people far ahead of me.  I turned down a street to avoid them.  I saw more people down a side street, and I changed direction again.  They had seen me and were coming my way.  I didn’t panic or run, but kept a steady, quick walk, trying to work my way in the direction I thought would get me OUT.  I emerged through the darkness into the light, where gendarmes, armed with machine guns and police dogs, expressed AMAZEMENT!  Not only were they amazed that I had emerged from the “gut,” where no sailors were allowed, but that I emerged at all! 

I was lucky.  That’s it, plain and simple.  Luck saves the ignorant; if not always the careless.

My First Time to Carry a Gun on the Job was illegal and unsanctioned, even by my boss who “suggested” that I might, by telling me that he often did.

We carried for personal protection.  I don’t believe the phrase, “easier to get forgiven than to get permission,” but I was just looking out for myself.   I had a part-time job working in the credit department of a major department store chain.  They asked me to also do some “outside collections.” I found out this meant going out at night, between 6 pm and 9 pm, into the “bad” areas of Portsmouth, Virginia, where many of our “delinquent account” holders resided.  

The Assistant Credit Manager was my boss.  He invited me to his house, where he showed my his gun collection, and the shop where he fabricated gun stocks and pistol grips.  I bought a pistol, a snub-nose .38, and he made me a set of cherry wood grips.  Very nice.  He also filed down the trigger mechanism; I now had “protection” with a “hair-trigger” action.  The year was 1969.

Not only was it illegal in the State of Virginia to “carry” concealed without a permit; it was against the Store Policy.  I was also in the Navy at the time and Navy policy forbids having a civilian part-time job in which you carry a weapon.  Something about government liability, I guess. But I was young and stupid and reckless.  I guess not too reckless; for I had no intentions of being taken down in a bad neighborhood at night when I was “bill collecting.”

I learned a few safety measures, like parking under a street light and walking down the street–not on the sidewalks–until I came to the house I was seeking.  I carried a flashlight too; it helped me in noticing when a door had bullet holes, so I would know to stand off to the side before knocking.    Never had much trouble, though, and only had to “show” the weapon once: showing it was enough. 

What a crazy job.  I am fortunate to have survived.