ROLLIN’ WITH BONES
93rd Air Defense Squadron, Albuquerque
Municipal Airport, N.M. Apr 1952- Aug ‘53
Major Bones Marshall had returned from Korea
to command a fighter squadron at Albuquerque,
the 93rd of the Air Defense Command. It was
equipped with old F-86A’s. Except for the Air
Guard, it was one of the few still equipped with
them, but any F-86 beat any other fighter.
Martha and our two kids were living with my
parents in Albuquerque while I was in Korea.
Bones had arranged for my transfer to his
squadron, and it worked…It pays to be an Ace ….
I arrived to enjoy serving him once again. I
flew my last combat sortie 9 April and first
flight with the 93rd on 27 May.
My other stroke of luck was to be assigned
to Flight Leader Kenny Chandler, whose flying
prowess made it a privilege. I would never
forget the acrobatic maneuver that he and Chuck
Yeager flew for the movie, Jet Pilot. The
reputation he had earned in the 336th squadron
at Kimpo, was first class. One flight on his
wing affirmed what I had seen and heard of him.
I prided myself on being able to fly excellent
formation acrobatics, so I made sure we got
around to that on my first flight with him. He
was smooth as silk, in any and every acrobatic
maneuver, making hanging tight on his wing a
breeze.
Kenny was beyond doubt the smoothest leader
in formation acrobatics that I have flown with,
measuring up to an excellent leader, Robbie
Robinson, some years later when I had the
opportunity to fly with him and the Thunder Bird
Team. Ken was so natural that he seemed to be
able to do anything without need of practice for
proficiency. It was more than just ability, he
had some special assurance so he could lay off
any facet of flying for a long time, jump into
the cockpit and repeat like it was yesterday.
He was different than most of the great pilots
I’ve met because he was confident but not
cocky. From what I later experienced, Chuck
Yeager, Kenny’s partner in the movie had that
same invincible attitude, but he invented
cockiness. I have learned that while Chuck
could be aloof at times, Kenny was quiet and
unassuming.
Our primary duty in the squadron was when
on alert 24 hours a day. Our responsibility was
to get our alert aircraft airborne within 5
minutes, which we could easily achieve from our
special hangar right off the end of the runway.
We had 4 birds with crews around the clock so we
could use two airplanes for training, with ADC
controller approval, which was usually granted.
I got to do a lot of flying with Kenny and
learned a lot, including how much a smooth
leader contributes. The 93rd seemed to go
through Operations Officers at a rapid pace. I
was there from May 52, to early August 53 and we
went from Maj. Alex Sentes to Capt. Harvey
McDaniel, Maj. Rex Warden and finally, Capt.
Arnold Hector. Actually, flying in the Air
Defense role reduced the squadron rapport to a
large extent, except four of us who would spend
a lot of time together as the gunnery team.
Sometimes we would be scrambled to
intercept B-36 bombers, which by that time had 6
propellers and 4 J-47 jet engines and they could
fly at high altitude. The MIG-15 that I had
fought in Korea was clearly superior to our
airplane for one purpose, defending against
high-flying American strategic bombers.
When we would intercept a B-36 coming at
us, some of us would make a head on simulated
attack, since a turn-around and attack was out
of the question. Once I did that against one
that was higher than usual and held off on
pull-up almost too long. My fighter mushed and
I just made it over that huge tail, which must
have been 6 stories high. Later, head-on passes
were prohibited. They had already ended for me
above 20,000 feet, because I almost took that
bird out.
It wasn’t long before we flew to Yuma AZ to
begin the process of sharpening our aerial
gunnery. How I could have used more gunnery
before Korea, but at this stage it was just
great and competitive flying and preparation for
whatever the future would hold in store. There
was a rotation, between flights so we would fly
to Yuma and spend all our time shooting gunnery
for a week or so before returning to home base.
The Yuma station at that time was little more
than a runway with more tents than the few
run-down buildings. The town I can’t even
recall, except for one cruddy bar, that would
make a Biker Bar look like a palace, but it was
the only place to hang out and have a beer.
Before my tour was well under way, we were
notified we would receive F-86D, all-weather
airplanes. That was not something fighter
pilots looked forward to because of the mundane,
lone flying, while peering at a radarscope on
the instrument panel. Even the idea of leader
and wingman weakened or vanished with that
concept. I prepared to go to All-Weather
Training School at Moody AFB, GA, to be followed
by F-86D school, and there to be converted to a
straight and level radar driver. I worked hard
to recondition a small old construction trailer,
which was offer by a neighbor. I recovered it
as junk from a prairie dump, in order to be with
the family, so shortly after our long
separation. We certainly wouldn’t live high on
the hog; not new to us. We departed pulling our
temporary home and drove directly to Valdosta,
GA, in early December.
Production of the new 86-D lagged, and the
follow-on school was cancelled. I completed the
instrument training, which was great and most
valuable to me in the years ahead, and I was
back in the cockpit at ABQ in mid-January of ‘54
just 5 days after my last instrument training
flight, mostly spent hauling the trailer home.
For the next three months I enjoyed the
frequent pleasure and challenge of flying
air-to-air gunnery against a banner target towed
by another airplane. Our aircraft were equipped
to ‘drag the flag’ by closing the speed brake on
the cable strung full behind on the runway
before take-off. That avoided breaking the
cable with sudden acceleration of the targets
heavy metal pole and bottom weight on the
leading edge. Scoring hits on the banner, there
can be no doubt as to success or failure, since
bullets were painted and every hole could be
counted and compared with rounds fired for each
of the shooters.
We were preparing for a national gunnery
meet of the Air Defense Command, between the top
scoring teams in the three divisions. The 93rd
represented Central U. S. and our individual
scoring averages were the only determinant for
team selection in the 93rd squadron. I was
fortunate to join Bones Marshall, Kenny Chandler
and another pilot whose name I cannot recall, as
the central team. At that point our gunnery
skills were very competitive, all of us capable
of shooting above 70% hits on the 6 by 30 foot
banner targets. We started flying to Yuma every
Sunday, then flew gunnery every day and returned
home on Friday evening, during part of February
and the entire month of March. Oh, to have that
opportunity before going to fly combat.
The rules for official competition limited
the number of passes per mission and it was
vital to shoot all rounds, since all rounds
counted from the minute you left the chocks on
the parking ramp, even if you aborted take-off.
On the other hand the earlier you fired in the
pass, to assure fire-out, the more risk of
missing the rounds from longer range.
During the competition, we scored well and
were in the lead at 10,000 feet, altitude. As
the altitude was raised our performance was
degraded significantly in our F-86A’s and we no
longer stood a chance in the end, being opposed
by two teams that had F-86E’s with more engine
thrust, effective radar-ranging sights and
improved, unlocked wing slats.
Maybe the following factual account of a
different kind of gunnery involving Bones puts
another slant on a unique guy. I mentioned it
briefly before, but this puts a better slant on
it. It was written by Slip Slater who has been
Bones’ friend and comrade, since WW II. I
believe Slip leaves it to the reader to decide
whether the Captain of the ship was so smitten
by being watched at his job by a famous ace that
he let Bones take the last shot.
“Subject: USS Diablo"
While Bones and I were in the 23rd Fighter
Squadron at Howard Field, CZ, the Executive
Officer on the submarine the Diablo invited the
two of us to take a four- day cruise and watch
how the Navy did their thing. We left on a
Monday, sometime during 1966, and headed out to
an area to the west of the canal. We had another
sub with us, the Conger, and a torpedo retrieve
boat which also served as the target.
After firing a couple of torpedoes the
first day we anchored in some beautiful lagoons
in the one of the Pearl Islands. The crew would
set up a screen on deck and show movies. It was
like a Hollywood movie set, just beautiful! Well
the next day back out to sea and more torpedoes.
On the last firing, I was down in the forward
torpedo room and Bones was up in the control
room, where they control the firing. I blame
Marshall for this entire incident. Anyway,
shortly after the firing and announcement came
over the speakers that a torpedo or fast boat
was heading in our direction. I could hear it,
and then the Skipper orders a crash dive (what
in the hell for, I thought we should be going
up). Anyway the bloody thing hits between the
two periscopes and knocked off a platform that
"watches" usually stand on when the sub is
surfaced. We leveled off around 100 feet I
think, I could hear water gurgling (found out
later it was one of the toilets) and could
visualize me going up a rope out of an escape
hatch. Meanwhile, Bones up in the control room
had some water coming in, but you will have to
get that story from him. You know over the years
how some of these stories vary . . . Anyway it
was quite an experience and one Bones and I
enjoyed and one he and I love to tell especially
after a few drinks. We were briefed, before
docking that this incident would be
highly classified until released. But, on the
way home, we decided to have a cocktail or two
to celebrate our survival. When we exited
the bar newsboys were yelling, EXTRA, EXTRA, USS
Diablo Torpedoed!
"Cheers, Slip”
Bones Marshall was and still is a very
unique man, with a great appreciation of humor
and an uncanny determination, probably best
proven recently, when he recovered after a
brutal beating in a Mall near his home. He has
recovered by sheer determination!
When I arrived in ABQ we had rented
because base housing was not available. After
some months, anticipating our first extended
tour of duty, we decided to buy our first home,
a comfortable 3-bedroom investment, just short
of $10,000. The Romero family, Candelario and
Elsie, with six kids, our next-door neighbors,
became life-long friends, who all still live in
the ABQ area. We learned a little about people
and prejudice at that time. Candy, of Mexican
descent and Elsie, with Castile family lines,
were ignored in our Gringo neighborhood, but
proved to be as kind and caring neighbors as we
have known and that’s a lot, now in our 29th
residence. He was ten years my senior, she a bit
less. They are still wonderful, now, and they
didn’t ever do anything to warrant less in
return. They were as American as Apple Pie,
with a Nacho accent, mighty proud of it and they
didn’t expect to be offered Spanish as a second
language. But they got a tremendous chuckle
when we tried our hand at it.
Candy’s brother-in-law, “Uncle Victor”
Sullivan owned a large cattle ranch near Truth
or Consequences NM. Victor’s dad, an Irish
immigrant had married a local Hispanic lady, and
ended up buying a huge adjoined area of land
grants over the years. We had great family fun
cruising over beautiful cattle ranges in a jeep
and riding real working ponies. As we roamed we
would sometimes find ourselves far from the
homestead at night.
Then we would camp out in rustic cabins
used by the cowboys during roundups, sometimes
choosing the option of bedding down, under the
moon. One time, when the weather permitted
sleeping outside, just a bit chilly, we were all
on the ground with a bonfire. Since we had been
away from home too long, Martha and I got
amorous, lying so close together on the ground
and our extended cuddling awaiting everyone to
be sound asleep seemed eternal. Finally, we
felt secure, but took great pains to be
especially quite and gentle. We were emotionally
pleased, and conscientiously proud that we had
controlled the situation so expertly. Next
morning at breakfast Candy said to Elsie,
slyly, “I sure wish you and I were young enough
to sleep as soundly as Bob and Martha”, and the
ensuing giggles assured us we had been detected.
Elsie and Candy were like parents and best
friends all wrapped in one, so the embarrassment
was short-lived.
At the Ranch, the mountains and hills were
rough, even for a jeep, especially for an
overcrowded one, and I recall Martha once bailed
out and climbed on foot, when the mountain got
too steep for her. The main house was purely
functional, and the Sullivan’s and their one
young son, Darrell, were the only residents of
‘Monticello’, where the dirt street was lined
with deserted shacks like a ghost town in an old
western movie.
Martha, deathly afraid of horses, put on
the greatest rodeo stunt I’ve seen, when she was
finally convinced to ride a real working cow
pony, on that dirt road. The horse seemed to
sense she was not in control and refused to move
after she mounted. Someone suggested she kick
his haunches upon which he took a tremendous
leap forward with his hindquarter, the typical
first step out of the gate in bulldogging. She
was holding the reins for dear life and when her
head and body flew back and the reins hit the
stops, so did that horse. He planted his
forelegs and commenced an emergency slide only
to have her heave forward and tighten her legs,
his signal to jump forward. Miraculously she
held on through a series of rapid jump-slides
until that pony just quit. That seemed
unbelievable, but exactly as it happened. The
real cowhands didn’t believe what they saw. Had
the pony been offered good traction, Martha
would have been the first astronaut!
Sounds unreal, but some years later, she was
the only person that I have ever seen that never
fell down while learning to water ski. She was
deathly afraid of the water and she would
recover from positions that others would release
the rope from fear of a bad fall. Her first
submergence, when skiing, happened because our
friend, Ed Chaplin, and I decided that it was
time and just slowed the speed and made a turn
until she slowly sank into the bay, with our
shouts of “Watch out for Sharks!”
We maintained contact with the Romero’s into
the 70’s then lost them. I tried many
approaches, even wrote to the Secretary of the
Interior under President Regan, a longtime
congressman from Corrales NM, attempting to
relocate them, without success. He seemed my
last resort, and I met him on the House
Committee overseeing NASA when I was in charge
of the Shuttle External Tank program. The era
of the Internet and my finally succumbing to it,
brought on a happy telephonic reunion with the
Romero’s recently.
Buying our home gave us the chance to have a
dog, the first for me since I was seven. We
chose a beautiful German Shepard pup, that was
sired by a Champion, as well as a certified
Companion dog, the top obedience rating. Sabre
became the squadron mascot, being with me at
work, frequently.
Because of the 24-hour duty on strip-alert
at Kirtland AFB/ Albuquerque Municipal Airport,
I began training Sabre, for brief but frequent
periods, at 3 months of age. It wasn’t long
until I began her checkout in her namesake, the
real F-86 SabreJet. Whenever we had to
reposition alert to the opposite end of the
single runway because of a wind shift, I would
sit her in my lap to taxi. It wasn’t long
before she outgrew the cockpit, and by that time
she reacted perfectly to “Down-stay” and would
not deviate, until released. I moved her onto
the wing, nearest the tower side, since I
couldn’t see her on the swept wing and the tower
operators were very attentive of her. She would
lie still and never budged, though I doubt she
liked the high frequency noise of the idling jet
engine next to her.
Sabre quickly endeared herself to the
squadron, and even with the Air Defense Division
HQ, on the base. I recall a meeting called by
the Division Commander with Sabre in
attendance. She would seldom roam from my side
at that time but was not yet unflappable. As
the Colonel spoke, a fly passed by her and they
were in a real Dog-fight, jumping for the bug
and falling back to the floor, from one end of
the room to the other. The Colonel didn’t miss
a word, but I missed most of them wondering what
was in store for me, and Sabre. Not one word of
objection was uttered. Sabre had become a
pampered celebrity!
I was ordered to temporary duty to pick up
an 86 in Macon GA and ferry it to Landstuhl Air
Base in Germany. I drove Martha and the kids to
D.C., to visit my dad and relatives. We were in
our used Ford, which was our first auto, since
the old Plymouth blew the engine after advanced
training. But our new, used car caught fire and
was totaled-out. While I was in Germany my dad
bought the hulk from the insurance company plus
a 4-door, junkyard body to replace the burned
hull and put them in the hands of his local
mechanic. I returned to drive back to ABQ,
after stopping to visit Martha’s family in
McKees Rocks, near Pittsburgh. We felt in style
in our newly painted family auto, with a door
for each of us!
In the interim, on 9 June 1953 I picked up,
and flew for my first time an F-86F, at
Warner-Robbins AFB, GA for a checkout of its
modifications. Oh, how I would loved to have had
one in Korea, like the guys there at that very
time were enjoying.
A horrendous tornado had passed directly
over that base picking up an auto with mother
and child, along with a guard gate and a
military policeman. Their bodies and the car
were later found. The power of that storm was
so vivid that the site from above seemed the
result of a giant lawn mower, cutting a swath
with defined sidelines, coming in from the
woodlands, through the end of a huge warehouse
and out the other side of the base. From the
air, the warehouse looked like it had been sawed
at the edges. From above it was the most
dramatic proof of the power of nature I ever
have observed.
Weather did not always cooperate over the
North Atlantic either, even in July. We departed
Georgia on the 10th and landed at Bangor, Maine.
Our flight of four flew on to Labrador the next
day, where we were delayed by weather for a
week. During that time I was introduced to the
game of bridge. I also got to spend time with a
prior squadron mate, Clem Bitner of my first
squadron, the 27th. I took great pleasure, and
still do, of reestablishing the memory of good
times with those friends we shared, so Clem and
I had a lot to talk about and enjoy together
those few days.
The next leg of our trip would be to Bluie
West One (BW-1) airbase, in Greenland where the
runway began at the edge of a fjord and ended at
the base of a very high wall of ice, the leading
edge of their huge glacier. Because of the
terrain, there was an unusual training routine,
very necessary, for anyone flying the first time
to BW1. We repeatedly watched aerial movies
taken from slow flying aircraft to memorize what
we had to do to survive this in a fighter jet.
We would be guided by radio beacon to a
particular one of many fjords at landfall and
begin a journey that involved recognizing every
correct turn at intersections of fjords, since
all but one path terminated in dead-end. The
walls of these crevasses are so high that Dead
would be as absolute as End, even in our
fighters, since we could fly through at only
about 250 knots with the sharp turns, so
couldn’t pull up and clear the walls.
The dicey situation would not end with the
last correct turn toward the base. Because of
the glacier’s huge wall directly across the far
end of the runway all landings had to be made
toward the ice, and take-offs away. Fighters of
that era could not clear the wall of ice and the
fjord was too tight to safely turn-around, so
once into Greenland it was all one-way and only
one landing approach, straight in, with no
go-around!
One last unique procedure was necessary
because the runway rose to a big hump at the
halfway point. During landings, there was
always a person at the far end of the runway,
waving a flag on a long pole to give pilots a
reference to that point. Prior to that practice
blown tires were the result of what appeared
like the end of the runway, and a blown tire or
any failure meant aborting into the dirt to
clear the runway for those to follow. Sounds
almost unreal, but that was BW-1.
This would be first of our three flights
that our so-called poopy-suits were “designed”
for. To put the words designed and suit
together was a perfect oxymoron. These single
layer one-piece rubber monsters with boots
permanently attached, had rubber stretch holes
only at the neck and wrists, once they were
donned, they were water tight, as well as air
tight. Those three openings were held slightly
open by plastic rings to allow ventilation up to
engine start. That was ineffectual as the body
temperature rose long before takeoff and any
pretence of cooling was gone, with profuse sweat
assured. Naturally, it occurred to me long
before I saw the first of many icebergs floating
in the ocean below that I would freeze to death
in my sweaty summer flight suit within minutes
with a thin film of rubber between me and the
ice water, should I lose engine power. For
brief moments in flight one does hear strange
engine sounds but drives them quickly from mind.
Furthermore, there was no alternate landing
site and no means of rescue, in any event from
minutes after crossing the outbound coast for
almost two hours before reaching gliding
distance from safe ejection altitude over the
shore of the destination. It makes one who has
flown a couple of hours in that condition get a
little better fell of the extended flight of
Lindberg. Risk was real and death certain.
Clem Bitner had arrived ahead of us and
departed a day before we did on his flight to
BW-1. We learned upon arrival at the next stop,
that his engine failed at altitude approaching
their destination and restarts were
unsuccessful. He notified the air rescue
immediately and they headed to intercept him as
he glided toward Greenland delaying bailout over
the cold Atlantic until the last possible
second. The SA-16 rescue seaplane was on station
when he called, and in contact with him but was
unable to reach him until he was 15 minutes in
the water and Clem had expired from the freezing
cold.
Our next flight was to Keflavik, Iceland,
under similar conditions, except for a normal
approach and landing. Iceland, like all of the
North Atlantic, had a reputation for sudden
weather changes and this leg, like the others,
stretched our range to the maximum, eliminating
any thought of an alternate destination. This
particular leg we had 4 flights of four with
about 10 minutes spacing. Weather forecasts
were good until we had passed ‘no return’ and
then things started to degrade. The final
flight landed just before the weather socked in
so bad that landing would have been impossible.
The thought of blind bailouts over an island
surrounded by cold water, in weather when rescue
was impossible, would not have been consoling
after what had occurred at BW-1.
The next leg, which was to Prestwick,
Scotland was without incident. It was a
highlight of my trip because I knew that my
first Flight Commander, Jackson Saunders, was
flying Meteor jets with the British Royal Air
Force and I had hopes of seeing him. When I
landed, I got in contact and he said he would
fly up to visit the next morning. The weather
was poor so I assumed he would be filing an
instrument flight plan, as we must at home. I
kept checking with British flight controllers
but they had no flight plan, then he arrived. I
learned that the British only required control
around airports and uncontrolled weather flying
was permitted anywhere else since they had no
other controlled airspace.
It was great to reunite with Jackson
Saunders, depressing but nostalgic to reminisce
about our friends John Honaker and Billy Dobbs,
whom we loved so dearly and lost, and to add the
sad news of Clem’s death. It would be more than
10 years before I would see Jackson again, but
it was an enduring friendship until his demise
many years after I too retired from the Air
Force.
We arrived at Landstuhl, Germany on the
22nd, again on fumes and with one hell of a
thunderstorm over the runway. In the context of
our current fighters flying half way around the
world and back, non-stop, the idea of mid-air
refueling, first successfully performed in the
early 1900’s had sure taken a long time to
reappear. A pilot of one of the other flights
ran out of fuel and had to bail out.
I landed in a downpour and aquaplaned,
before I knew there was such a thing. I was
almost stopped at the end of the runway when the
airplane suddenly seemed on ice skates. Braking
had no effect so I shut down the engine and
barely got it stopped. I was surprised that
before the rpm was too low I was able to
duplicate an air-start, which I had done in
flight only, clear the runway for following
aircraft, and taxi in without any further
problem.
On this first trip to Europe for me, I got
a day in Germany and couple in London. A
kindly, elder gent recognized me as American and
asked to guide me on an historic tour of
London. He was a walking history of the city
and nation, and showed me such sights that I
bought and sometimes reread Winston Churchill’s
three-volume History of the English Speaking
People. The piece of information that stands
out more than anything in those volumes for me
was that the British had indoor bath and commode
facilities up till 400 BC and upon driving out
the Romans, reverted to outhouses until just
before WWII. It struck me how fragile man’s
culture can be, and how lightly he protects it.
I believe that was the greatest concern of the
framers of our Constitution, one we have grown
to take less seriously with success. It also
brings up thoughts of the barbarian invasions of
Europe and ties the disastrous attack of 9-11
with such thoughts. The Great Crusades,
reversed, is a pretty scary notion? Maybe
Nation Building into democracies isn’t such a
bad idea after all, and Iraq might be a good
place to begin, but one Hell of a challenge.
 |
"Gathering of Eagles" (left to right)
Mom, Bobby, Lane, Martha |
When we got back home, in addition to
enjoying some weekends at the Sullivan Ranch, we
discovered Albuquerque was a very pleasant and
safe family town and the surroundings offered
us, a lot of opportunity for pleasure. Then and
for years to follow when on annual leave, my
parents and the four of us would spend a weekend
camping in rustic style in the Sandoval
Mountains, north of ABQ. We would build a
couple of lean two’s with evergreen branches,
use a shovel and rocks to fashion an old commode
seat into a semi-modern convenience and live
like royalty roaming the area, and enjoying good
food. I never recall encountering another human
on any of those outings, yet we always camped
near a beautiful mountain stream, so the kids
could fish.
One night, after the “old folks and
young’uns” were asleep Martha and I got a little
frisky. We slipped out of our protective abode,
and tip toed down near the stream in the
altogether. In due time, I slipped and fell into
the coldest water I ever recall and Martha
couldn’t sleep for hours. Have you ever heard a
sadist in a fit of laughter? She was witness to
the first True Blue Monty!
 |
(left to right) Bobby, Sabre, and Lane |
The vision of flying into the future, in a
F-86D, following straight paths on a radarscope,
in all-weather airplanes continued to haunt. I
was drawn by the exploits of test pilots,
especially Chuck Yeager, and the challenges in
store for them flying airplanes and missions
that were breaking old boundaries. I had
gradually come to the conclusion that I wanted
the chance to do that and discovered I was
qualified to apply for the Air Force Test Pilot
School.
I was intrigued with the thought that we
were about to enter a new phase of flying
machines, especially advanced in technology,
where engineering might become more important.
There was precedence in either direction set by
great test pilots. Jimmie Doolittle, the
greatest in my mind, was a graduate of
Massachusetts Institute of Technology with a PhD
in Aeronautical Engineering. On the other hand,
Chuck Yeager had no such education, but without
degree had successfully broken the sound barrier
and already tested more aircraft than any other
pilot that I was aware of.
I felt the future would be more in tune
with Doolittle’s example and discovered that the
Air Force Institute of Technology, if I
qualified, would allow me two years of
university study and a bachelor degree in
engineering, at their Wright Field campus or any
number of universities around the country. I
was accepted for AFIT campus and began the steps
toward a new dream. We sold the house and
headed for Dayton, Ohio.
Leaving Albuquerque was difficult for Lane
and Bobby, because they had both grown used to
having the grandparents to give them extra
attention and love. By that time Lane had lived
about three quarters of her life around them and
Bobby most of his, but children are resilient
and Air Force kids learned to accept the
frequent moves and adjust with unbelievable
ease. At the expense of acquiring friends of a
lifetime, they learned how to make a lifetime of
friends, enjoying each as long as possible. Most
proved to be very happy and well adjusted by
their experience, especially facing today’s more
mobile lifestyles. |