ROAD TO GOLD
William H. LaBarge
Smashwords Edition published at Smashwords by Crossroad Press
© 2011 / William H. LaBarge
Copy-edited by: David Dodd
Cover Design By: David Dodd & CDR Craig (Bastos) Miller
Cover Design for Lighting Strikes Twice : CDR Craig (Bastos) Miller
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PROLOGUE
From the streets of Hometown, USA, to the body-numbing pace of the Pensacola pressure cooker, men, and most recently women, put their integrity on the line to see if they are worthy of wearing the famed "wings of gold." Not all that try prevail, but those who survive are of a special breed and truly have the right stuff to be a Navy pilot.
On Florida's Gulf Coast, just south of the Alabama line, lies Pensacola. It is here that the "Cradle of Naval Aviation" was established, with Saufley Field being the first taste of naval aviation for the fledgling aviator. Ask any Naval Aviator what the hairiest flying in the Navy is and you will probably get answers like "night carrier landings, all-weather terrain following low levels or test and evaluation flights." While these are undoubtedly challenging events, I contend that for pure terror, accident potential, and premature grayness, nothing can exceed being a student going through the Navy's flight program.
Primary flight training is where you develop basic airwork techniques that are the building blocks for further training. Basic and advanced flight training is where you sharpen mission-required skills and strive to obtain the pride in performance that makes a Naval Aviator. While an aviator's training never really ceases, the formal training received before you earn your "wings of gold" is probably the most significant, because here you learn the basics that you must build on for the rest of your aviation career.
Road to Gold will give you an appreciation of what it takes to become a Naval Aviator. When I left my hometown for Navy Flight School, I took many things: a naïve enthusiasm; a love of family and country; hopes of becoming a Naval Aviator; a will to live; a sense of adventure; a fear of the unknown and a doubt in my ability to perform adequately under extreme stress.
Upon successful completion of flight training, if indeed you are able to do so, you will go to the fleet with many new values. A sense of pride and professionalism second to none; a level of technology and experience that will allow you to handle the physical and mental pressures of day-in and day-out tasking. You will be prepared for combat if asked to fight. But most of all, you will have measured up to the highest standards of any flight training the military has to offer and those coveted "wings of gold" will put you in an elite group of a select few.
Do you have the right stuff to become a Naval Aviator?
William H. LaBarge
LaJolla, California
GHOST OF CROW HILL
It was quarter to five in the morning when I rolled over and focused on the alarm clock next to my bed; it was set to go off at 5:00 A.M. As I waited for the alarm to sound I started to think about my future and to wonder if I was doing the right thing by joining the Navy flight program. I wasn't worried about the physical part of the rigorous program. At six-feet-two, and with an athletic build, I figured I was ready for that part of it. I'd played baseball and basketball in college and was used to making demands on my body. But I was still scared.
As I lay in bed I recalled the first time my dad took me to see the Blue Angels perform at an air show. I was fourteen years old. The excitement of the show really made me want to fly Navy jets, and I especially wanted to be among that elite group that landed on aircraft carriers. I thought anyone could land on 12,000 feet of runway, but to land a 60,000-pound aircraft on a pitching deck in the South China Sea at night was something else again. That's the team I wanted to be a part of and why I chose the Navy over the Air Force. Now, after four years of college and a half year of playing baseball, my dream of becoming a Navy pilot was about to become a reality in four short weeks. I had my starting class date, I was to report to the Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida, Building 699, on Monday, November 15, 1970.
Just as the alarm sounded my dad knocked on the door to see if I was up. We were going bear trapping, something he and I had been doing every fall for years. It was my dad's hobby, and as soon as I got old enough to go along, he started teaching me the art of trapping the black bear in Maine.
My father, Dr. Howard Sullivan, was a small man in his early fifties who stood five-feet-ten and weighed only 165 pounds, but he was as tough as they come. He had been an All-American football player at Syracuse University. He'd been born and raised in upstate New York, but after completing medical school, he moved to Dexter, Maine, to start his medical practice, raise a family, and secretly, I think, to hunt and fish.
Dexter is a small rural town in the center of Maine, and is world famous for Dexter Shoes. Because this part of Maine was so sparsely populated, doctors were few and several of Dad's patients lived hours away. Many of them were farmers whose cattle and sheep fell prey to bears during the fall months. The bears would often destroy a lot of livestock as they prepared for winter's hibernation. Most of his patients knew Dad's passion for hunting, so he and I would occasionally be called to trap these varmints.
While my father was still a newcomer to the pine-tree state in the early forties, two of his patients were trappers, and they taught him the art. The bears were trapped because they were killing cattle and sheep, and not just for the pleasure of catching a trophy. My dad always made it clear to me that we hunted and fished for a purpose and not just for the sake of killing.
I knew this would probably be my last hunt for a while because I had no idea where I might be in a year. Dad realized this and wanted us to spend some time together before I left for flight school. My mother was also uneasy. The Vietnam War was very real, and since I was the only son out of four children, she didn't want to lose me. But worried or not, they were both proud that I was joining the Navy.
I rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and bacon was filling the upstairs hallways. I knew it was hunting season, because the scene was the same one I had experienced every fall for the last ten years. Don't get me wrong, I loved to go on these hunts. It was fun to be out in the woods learning how to trap and live off the land. But this year we would be spoiled: we got to use a hunting camp. The farmer we were trapping the bear for had a cabin nearby, so he offered my dad its use. The camp would make the hunt much easier.
After a hearty breakfast, we checked to be sure we had all our gear, then loaded it into the Jeep and car. The barbed wire and bear bait went into the Jeep due to the bulk and smell. The rifles, food, and sleeping equipment went into the car. Once we got to the hunting camp, we'd leave the car and the Jeep would become our primary vehicle. We would be using two new bear sets and each set would take about two hours to build. Because it was a new location and we had to provide more equipment than usual for this hunt, we had a lot more bulk than usual. The hunting area was about two hours northwest of Dexter, and I wasn't looking forward to the drive because the roads were unpaved and poorly maintained.
I bounced along in the Jeep and Dad followed me in the car. Once we got to the campsite, we each had chores to perform. As usual, Dad handled the camp setup and I got the bait and traps primed and tested. Checking the traps was the most tedious job, because they had to be set and tripped to ensure that their closure speed and strength were acceptable. By law, each trap had to be able to sever an eight-inch circular log on closing. This required a closing speed of about 120 pounds. If the trap did not perform to these specifications, it could not be used.
We used steers' heads for bait. Holes had to be punched through the skulls so that we could drive stakes through them and on into the ground at the base of a tree. "Cubby" was what we called the V-like entrance. It was built out of brush and ferns and stood about three-and-a-half feet high. The entrance V was four feet wide and six feet long. Its function was to guide the bear into the trap. The cubby was always built at the base of a large tree, with the V flaring out away from the trunk.
After the bait had been prepared and placed at the base of the tree, the trap was then set and positioned in the center of the V. A four-foot-long chain was attached to the trap and a log, six feet long and twelve inches in diameter, was attached to the opposite end of the chain. This allowed the bear to run free once he was trapped, but he wouldn't get far before he got tangled in brush. The log and chain would lie along the inside of the cubby once the trap was set.
A bear trap is not like a fox or beaver trap. You can't stand on the legs to open the jaws, you have to use C-clamps. When we went bear trapping, we always worked in pairs, because if you got caught in a trap, you'd need the assistance of your partner to get out, otherwise you could bleed to death before you found help. This season we planned to stay up on the trap line due to the distance we had to travel. The law requires you to check the traps every twenty-four hours, once they have been set. It would be too difficult to travel back and forth each day, so we stayed on location.
Barbed wire is used because it is required by law. You must have two strands around the whole set. The first strand is two feet above the ground and the second is four feet. Signs must be posted on all four corners, in both French and English, reading BEAR TRAP. The wire keeps hunters from accidentally walking into the trap. Of course, if the bear you're after can read, then you're in for a long hunt.
After the equipment had been tested and the camp set up, Dad and I loaded up the Jeep and headed over to the farmer's house. He showed us the area where the bear had killed his livestock. The farmer, Eric Frost, lived two miles from the one-store town of Parkman, population eighty-two. His sheep and cattle grazed on Crow Hill, which was two miles behind his farm. Mr. Frost had found twenty-six of his sheep ripped apart and stacked in the back of a little weather shelter he had built for his livestock to get in out of the elements. This is a typical pattern that a black bear will follow. He does not like freshly killed meat; he likes it cold and rotten, so he kills and stacks the carcasses of his prey and returns later to feed on them. The bears usually do this just before winter, to bulk up for hibernation.
As we approached the shelter the smell was enough to gag a maggot. It was an unbelievable sight. All the dead sheep were neatly stacked in the back of this small hut. After dad surveyed the area, he told Mr. Frost that we were ready to go to work and that with any luck by the following week we would have a bear to show for our efforts.
It was obvious that this was the work of a bear. There were tracks everywhere and this bear was not a cub. My dad estimated by the size of the footprint that he was between four and five hundred pounds. We followed the tracks and bear droppings back into the woods about a half mile and located an ideal area to set our first trap.
There was a logging road close by, so we drove the Jeep to the area. While I unloaded the Jeep, Dad cut boughs and small trees to build the cubby. Once all the materials were gathered for the bear set, Dad started constructing the cubby at the base of a sizable pine tree. I tied a loop through the steer's head and dragged it along the ground away from the set, in order to leave a scent to lure the bear to the bait once it was staked at the base of the tree.
After the cubby was constructed, Dad drove a wooden tree branch through the steer's head and anchored it to the ground at the base of the tree. As the wooden support went through the skull Dad said, "It sure would take a big aspirin to cure that headache." Once the head was in place, I took bailing wire and secured the bait to the base of the tree. This would keep other animals from stealing it.
While Dad prepared the trap, I cut the toggal pole, the six-foot log that was attached to the trap. This would allow the bear to run once caught and prevent him from smashing the trap or chewing his leg off to get free. The bear would get tangled up in brush and nine times out of ten we would find him close by.
Before Dad handled the trap, he put on gloves that were covered with bear scent. He wiped the trap down with a rag to remove as much human scent as possible before setting it. A bear's smell is its best sense and masking the human presence improved our chances of luring him into the set. Dad bought this nasty fragrance from an old trapper who swore by it. The ingredients, as near as we could figure it, were bear urine and beaver carcass. We called it Chanel No. 5.
After the trap was set, Dad put a wooden matchstick under the pan to keep small animals from tripping it. With the matchstick in place, it took at least fifty-five pounds of pressure to set the trap off. We then positioned the toggal pole along the left side of the cubby. A piece of green moss was put on the trip pan, to indicate where the center of the trap was located, then we covered the trap with leaves and twigs. Several logs were placed at the opening of the cubby and along the sides of the entrance. This would force the bear to lift his paw over the hazards and place it into the center of the trap. The final chore was to string the barbed wire and post the signs.
We cleaned up around the set and made it look as natural as possible, then headed back to camp for lunch. During our break, we discussed the best location for the next trap. Dad had a feeling that this was an old, crafty bear and it was going to take some clever stunts to catch him.
After lunch Dad surprised me when he said, "Matt, I want you to go home and bring back all eleven bear traps. Stop at the grocery store on the way out of town and pick up a box full of meat scraps."
Of course I asked what he had in mind. "Why in the world do we need eleven more traps?"
"Well, son, if we plan on catching this bear, we're going to have to outfox him. I think the only way this bear will be caught is by using live bait."
"Live bait?"
"Yes, Matt, live bait. If Mr. Frost will let us use four live sheep, we'll pen them up down by the swamp and put all of our traps around the pen. Then we'll take the meat scraps and hang them on trees back in the swamp. If we're lucky, this will lure the bear to the livestock. While you're getting the traps I'll try to sell our plan to Frost."
After lunch I jumped into the car and headed out. By six that evening I had returned with everything on Dad's shopping list. Mr. Frost was more than willing to go along with the plan and had gathered up four sheep and penned them in his barn overnight. That evening, after dinner, Dad and I checked all the traps and made sure they were in good working order. We got to bed before midnight, knowing that the next day would be a busy one.
By six o'clock Dad and I were up and getting ready for a long day. After breakfast we headed down to check the first trap to see if we had gotten lucky. When checking the bear set, the lead man carries a rifle in case he runs into the trapped bear. The backup man has a pistol for protection and uses it to kill any small animal that might be caught in the trap. As we approached the set we could see that things were normal—the trap was still set and the bait had not been disturbed by smaller animals. It's evident when you have a hit. The cubby and surrounding area are completely destroyed. There is a trail of broken branches and turned up underbrush that a bear leaves behind him as he drags the toggal pole to the point where he finally gets entangled.
After the first set was checked, Dad and I gathered our traps, collected the materials necessary to build the pen for Mr. Frost, and started in on our new project. Four hours later, the live enticement was completed. This was the most dangerous work we had ever attempted. With twelve bear traps set in a very small area, we had to be very careful not to step in the wrong place. There were no cubbies built. All the traps were positioned around the penned-in sheep and covered with leaves and dirt.
We then strung the required strands of barbed wire around the whole site and posted the signs. As we walked back to the Jeep the stench from the decomposed carcasses was almost overwhelming. Frost would have to bury them soon, so we hoped for a quick hit.
We ate a late lunch and then drove into Parkman to get some more meat scraps and honeycomb. The Parkman General Store was unique. It had a little something for everyone. As we entered there were several old boys smoking corncob pipes sitting around a potbelly stove in the middle of the floor telling stories. The owner greeted us at the counter and a large German Shepherd circled around our legs as we explained what we needed. After the proprietor got all the latest gossip on what we were up to, we paid for our goods and headed back to Crow Hill. There were only a few hours of daylight left, so we had to hustle to finish up before dark.
My job was to wire the chunks of meat to trees a mile or so from the bear sets while Dad cooked the honeycomb with birchbark. This mixture created a lot of smoke and the aroma could bring a bear out of hibernation. This was an old trick that a trapper taught my dad, one he used when he had to draw a bear out of a swampy bog.
As darkness started to fall, I had completed my job and headed back to the area where Dad was working. As I approached the field I could smell the fire. Dad saw me coming and gave a wave.
I waved back and yelled, "You've mixed a great batch, I could smell it a mile away."
"It should get some attention," Dad replied. "Did you have any trouble stringing the meat, Matt?"
"Not really, but I had the feeling I was being watched, especially on the back side of the ridge near Crow Hill."
Dad laughed and said, "Bears are pretty crafty. You probably were being watched. I'm all done here. Let's get back to the cabin and fry up those steaks we brought."
"Sounds good, Dad. I'm so hungry I could eat the asshole out of a dead skunk."
Dad laughed and said, "I don't think I'm that starved yet, son."
After dinner Dad and I sat in a couple of old rocking chairs in front of the potbelly stove that heated the cabin, and did a little reminiscing. Dad lit up his favorite pipe and started telling stories about me that I had forgotten or wanted to forget. One saga I particularly wanted to erase from my childhood was resurrected. "Matt, remember the time you hopped the freight train and got your leg caught?"
"How could I ever forget that stunt? You grounded me for three months. If Mr. Kite hadn't seen me on the back of the caboose, I might have pulled it off."
"I don't think so, son. That two hours it took you to walk home after you jumped off would have given you away. And besides, you would have come clean eventually."
"I learned my lesson that day, believe me. Say, Dad, remember when we were ice fishing on Moose River up near Moosehead Lake and you fell through the ice?"
"You bet I do. If I hadn't got my arms out to break my fall as quick as I did, I probably would have been swept downstream. The current under the ice was strong and I was almost a goner."
"I never saw you go through the ice, but I'll never forget that two-mile hike across the river to get to our Jeep. I was afraid you were going to freeze to death; it was about five below zero that day, wasn't it?"
"Something like that and I've never been so bone-chilled cold as I was that day. I never would have made it off the ice if you hadn't been there to help me, Matt."
After a few more stories, Dad started to get a little philosophical. He was beginning to realize that I really was leaving the nest soon and the type of career that I had chosen was very dangerous and there was a strong possibility that I could get killed. But he was very positive in his lecture on goal setting. He told me to be aggressive, professional, and always to remember my limitations.
He said, "Don't allow yourself to be put in a situation that you can't recover or escape from. Take that with you, son, and you'll be a survivor."
I started to get a little teary-eyed, but recovered when Dad asked me to get some more wood for the stove.
These hunting trips that Dad and I spent together were very special, because when I was growing up, I hardly had time to see him. Being one of two doctors within a hundred-mile radius, he was always on the go taking care of his patients. His hospital was over an hour from our home, so it was difficult to make our cycles match. As I got older and more physicians came to Maine, we got more prime time together.
The next day we planned to do a little grouse hunting after we checked the bear sets and the bait in the trees. Dad wanted to stop by the shelter to see if any of the carcasses had been moved or eaten on our way to the apple orchard where we would hunt the birds. Once the traps were set, it became a waiting game and we had time to play. If a stream or lake was near, we would wet a line or look for birds while we waited.
The weather was warm and that was to our disadvantage. Bears move better when it's cold, wet, and damp, but a front was scheduled to pass through midweek and we hoped it would stir up some action. We cleaned and oiled our shotguns for the next day's hunt and went to bed.
I didn't sleep very well during the night, tossing and turning as the hours ticked away toward morning. My subconscious must have been reviewing Dad's lecture. When I finally fell asleep in the early morning, I was having some wild dreams. In one dream I was dogfighting with Russian MiGs, then I was shot down in Vietnam and tortured in a Vietnamese prison camp. When Dad came over to stir me, I awoke with a start and was soaked with perspiration.
He asked if I was all right and I said, "It was a rough night killing communists."
He said, "There aren't many communists up here, but we do have some bears to kill."
I got cleaned up, put on my hunting clothes, and sat down to a wholesome breakfast Dad had prepared. He made the best pancakes, and I was so hungry from working the day before that I had a dozen. The bacon was done just right, crisp but still bubbled and clear.
After breakfast we cleaned up the camp, gathered our hunting gear, and headed out the door. The weather was turning in our favor—an overcast had settled in and the temperature was dropping.
Before we did any pleasure hunting, we had to check the traps and bait. Things looked normal at both sets. The sheep in the pen were lying down resting, so Dad and I split up to check the chunks of meat I had wired to the trees. I scouted out the back side of Crow Hill and Dad checked the ridge line.
I backtracked the logging road that I had used to wire the bait. As I approached the first chunk of meat I saw a big northern shrike sitting on the meat having a feast. A shrike looks a lot like a blue jay, but is much larger and has a prominent blue-and-white-feather crown on its head. I hadn't seen one of these birds for years. They were on the endangered-species list, and according to the game wardens, there were only a few hundred remaining.
As I walked deeper into the woods I couldn't see any more meat hanging. My heart started to race. As I examined the trees where the meat scraps had been wired, I could see claw marks gouged into the bark and bone remnants lying at the base of the tree. Our plan was working.
I decided to take a shortcut to intercept my father on the other ridge line. I had a mile or so to hike before I could catch him. By the time I reached the top of the first ridge, Mother Nature called and I had to go to the bathroom. I looked around, found a suitable fallen tree to squat over, and did my thing. Not carrying any suitable toilet paper, I had to use some leaves. As I pulled my pants up I saw movement down at the bottom of the ridge near a big brush pile. I froze. The next thing I saw I couldn't believe. Out of the ground came a man who had a white beard down to his waist.
I didn't move an inch. This strange creature slowly worked his way along the ridgeline to a stream that was flowing down the hillside. He filled a bucket with water and headed back to his hole in the ground. Once he disappeared, I zipped up my trousers and headed for Dad on a dead run.
By the time I reached my father, I was out of breath and speechless. "Slow down, son," Dad said, "slow down. What's the matter? You're acting like you've seen a bear."
"Dad, you won't believe what I saw."
"Well, what was it?"
"I saw a man come out of the ground. He had a white beard down to his waist; he walked several hundred feet to a stream, got some water in a bucket he was carrying, and walked back to his hole and disappeared into the ground."
"Come on, son . . ."
"No, I'm not shitting you. I was up on the next ridge taking a dump and the old bastard came out of the ground. He looked like Rip Van Winkle. Oh, by the way," I added, "a bear has ripped most of the meat out of the trees I baited."
"Boy, it sounds like you've had an exciting morning. Let's get some more chunks of meat and take a hike back to where you saw this man come out of the ground, then we'll plant some more bait."
"You think I'm bullshitting you, don't you, Dad?"
"No, son, I believe you. It's your mother we're going to have trouble selling that story to."
As we headed back toward the ridge it started to sprinkle. Dad was pleased because he knew this would get the bears on the move, and if the temperature dropped another ten to fifteen degrees, we would really be in business. I showed Dad where I saw the old man and we waited around for a half hour, hoping to see him, but to no avail.
I asked Dad if he wanted to walk around down by the brush pile where I had seen him.
He said, "Let's wait until tomorrow."
The rain was coming down steadily by now and we were both pretty wet, so we finished wiring the bait and headed for the Jeep. On the way back to the cabin, Dad wanted to stop by Mr. Frost's house to find out when he planned to bury the sheep and ask him about this mysterious being on Crow Hill.
By the time we got to the farmhouse, it was pouring and we both had a good chill. Mr. Frost saw us coming and invited us in. "You guys look a little cold, how about some homemade soup? Mother has a warm pot on the stove."
"Sounds good," we replied simultaneously.
We all sat around the kitchen table near the Franklin stove.
"Well, Doc," he said, "how's it going?"
"I think we have one on the move," Dad answered. "If the weather stays like this and the temperature drops, we should see some action within the next few days. We have a bear eating the scraps that we planted in the woods. With luck he's on his way back to finish what he started. The reason we stopped by was to find out how much longer we had before you planned on burying those decaying carcasses."
"The smell hasn't got to the missus or me yet, so let them lie if it will help catch that bear. I can't afford to lose any more livestock."
"My only concern is that we don't want him to start eating the dead carcasses. We want him to get good and hungry so he'll go to our baited sets."
"I can close up that shelter if you want."
"It might be the best thing to do. We'll help you."
"Don't worry, I can take care of it tomorrow. You fellas get some dry clothes on."
Dad nodded and started to get up. I tugged on his sleeve, and he stopped, looked at me, and said, "Oh yeah, what do you know about a man who lives on the back side of Crow Hill, underground."
"Why, that's Old Man Hall. Didn't I tell you about him?"
"No," we both replied.
"Hell, that old hermit has been homesteading on my land for nearly sixty-five years. I got tired of fighting with him and let him be. Why do you ask?"
"Well, Matt saw him come out of the ground this afternoon, and it gave him a start."
"I guess it would." Frost laughed. "He's harmless, but I'm surprised you got an eye on him. Nobody, and I do mean nobody, has seen that old bastard for years. He usually spots you first and goes underground. He has quite a maze of tunnels under the hill."
"Mr. Frost, how old do you think he is?" I asked.
"We figure he's almost a hundred."
"How do you know that?" asked my dad.
"Well, he used to live up in these parts with his family, and one day he went off the deep end and they put him in an institution down in Boston. Within six months he was back up on Crow Hill. I didn't know for a year that anyone was back there until I saw some wood cuttings. I caught him out of his hole one day and we had a hell of an argument and he told me he would burn my house down if I didn't leave him alone. I got the sheriff after him and that didn't work, so I just let him be. He's become sort of a legend up here, I guess. Everyone calls him the ghost of Crow Hill."
Dad and I finished our soup, paid our respects, and headed for the camp. After we got into some dry clothes and cleaned our guns, we fixed dinner. As we sat around the dinner table talking Dad began to show some interest in this old hermit. He wanted to make friends with him and find out what drove him to give up society and live in the ground.
I said, "He probably wanted peace and quiet."
Dad laughed. "He sure as hell will find it up on Crow Hill. I'm going to check this guy out after we finish trapping season."
Dad had promised me the bear hide if we caught one this year. I wanted a bear rug made, and if he was big enough I would get my wish. By the looks of his paw prints, he would be the right size for a rug. Every bear we ever caught was always spoken for. Usually one of Dad's patients wanted the meat and someone else got the hide. I had waited ten years for this opportunity and prayed we would bag one.
We were awakened early by someone beating on the cabin door. It was still dark out and we hadn't heard anyone drive up. Dad hopped out of bed first since his bed was close to the door and opened it. It was Mr. Frost. He was all in a pant.
"What's up?" Dad asked.
"The sheep are going crazy in the pen. I was on my way to feed my cows and I could hear them making all kinds of noise. I'm afraid they're going to hurt themselves."
"Sounds like we got a bear close by. We'll get dressed, and head down there. Don't go near the set, Mr. Frost, you could step in one of the traps."
"Thanks for the warning."
Dad was hurrying like he does when he has a maternity case and has to get to the hospital. As we got dressed he said he was sure that a bear was close by. "Get the rifle, son. I'll get the Jeep started."
The rain had stopped, but it was still overcast and cold. Dad had known what he was talking about when he said we needed some weather to get these bears on the move.
By the time we got to the shelter, dawn had broken. We looked inside at the carcasses and could see right away that they had been disturbed. We could see bear prints in the dirt and parts of sheep that had been eaten.
The penned-in sheep were at the end of the field. Dad loaded the .30-06 and took the lead down across the field. The sheep were in a frenzy, running into the wire around the pen and making all kinds of noise. As we got close to the pen it appeared none of the traps had been tripped. We walked around the outside of the barbed wire and all the traps were still set.
"Hey, Dad, look here," I said. I had spotted some bear droppings and prints close to the set.
"A bear was down here all right, Matt, and he's a clever son of a bitch. Something spooked him and he moved on. But we've got his attention, he'll be back. We have to get this shelter closed up today so that bear doesn't get a gutful and leave the area."
We stayed around the penned sheep until they settled down, then headed over to the other trap. As we approached the bear set our hearts started to pound. The area was destroyed. We had a bear!
Now all we had to do was follow his path through the woods and find where he was hung up. The cubby was completely flattened and the first strand of barbed wire had been ripped from the tree. This bear was big.
The trail was easy to follow and we found our victim about two hundred yards away. The toggal pole was wedged between two trees and the bear was lying still, ready to spring when we arrived on the scene.
The first thing you do is to check to see how well you have him caught. The ideal location to snag a bear is the front paw up by the wrist. This ensures he can't get away. You must be very cautious as you survey the animal because he can come at you at any moment. Dad had gotten too close one time and a bear took a cuff at him. He had to have twenty stitches in his leg. Bears are powerful animals and they can hurt you, especially after being trapped.
This bear weighed close to six hundred pounds and had the most beautiful fur we had ever seen. It was bluish black in color. I wanted to stare at him but Dad reminded me that the time had come to put the bear out of his misery. Since it was my bear, I got to shoot him. I tripped the safety off the .30-06, took careful aim just below the right shoulder so as not to damage the pelt, and squeezed the trigger.
It was a direct hit and the bear died instantly. Dad stayed with the bear and I got the Jeep and our equipment to reset the trap. We took the trap off the bear, gutted him out and tied him to the Jeep's hood, and headed back to Dexter to get the bear tagged by the game warden and set up a date to ship him for tanning.
As we headed down the road a lot of heads were turning. The bear covered the whole hood of the Jeep and then some. It was one of the biggest black bears Dad or the game warden had seen.
And I had a trophy and a hunting trip that would stay with me for a lifetime.
2
PENSACOLA PRESSURE COOKER
I had ten days before I had to report to Pensacola for flight training. My orders and plane ticket had arrived while I was hunting. There was a welcome-aboard packet with some do's and don'ts prior to arriving in Pensacola. We were advised to get into some sort of shape, not to be late checking in and to review the enclosed study guides on math, physics, and aerodynamics.
Don't bring a suitcase, the letter warned, just a small duffel bag for personal items and make sure you have your orders.
I spent my last few days of freedom working out and visiting my close friends. One day David Sailsbury and I took a ten-mile canoe trip down Main Stream and did some duck hunting. The stream ran through North Dexter about six miles from my house. Dad dropped us off at the stream's edge and Dave's father picked us up downstream in Harmony, a small town southwest of Dexter. The trip was enjoyable and we shot several wood ducks. Dave was my closest friend. We had grown up together and had done a lot of hunting over the years. As the days before my departure dwindled I also made a few courtesy calls on friends of the family.
The introduction package that was sent to me gave a breakdown on what to expect while attending the Naval Aviation Schools Command. The Aviation Officer Candidate, or AOC, program was thirteen weeks long. This was the recruiting plan I had signed up for prior to graduating from college. The AOC training schedule included two weeks of indoctrination, nine weeks of classroom academics/training, one week of survival training, one week as a candidate officer supervising the regiment, and, finally, commissioning day, when we became officers in the United States Navy. Once this program was completed, we'd start our flight training.
Everything in the packet seemed pretty straightforward, except for the math, physics, and aero. I had been an economics major in college and these subjects made me break out in hives, but I tried not to worry about what was coming, until I had to face it. I had heard horror stories about Navy flight training and how tough it was, but I was determined to get through it, because I wanted to fly off aircraft carriers.
The Monday morning I was to leave started off quietly, but got pretty emotional before I left for the airport. Everyone had a little advice.
"Don't worry, you can do it."
"Call if you get homesick."
"Always be prepared."
And so on. It was starting to get to me, and I couldn't wait to get on the road. Dad had to work, so Mom and my sisters drove me to the airport. Dad and I were both tearful as we hugged each other and said our good-byes.
The trip to Bangor, where the nearest sizable airport was located, took about an hour by car. As the time to board the plane got closer, I could feel the tension building. I wasn't good at saying good-bye, so I cracked a few jokes to my sisters to break the stress.
"Hey, Mary-Ellen," I asked, "did you hear the one about the two bums walking down the railroad tracks?"
She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. I guess maybe she knew what was coming, but didn't want to let on. I didn't let that stop me.
"One bum says to the other, 'Did you shit your pants?' The other bum says, 'No.' They walk for a while and the first bum asked the other bum again, 'Say, did you shit your pants?'" I was laughing now, and it was hard to get the words out. Mom didn't look too happy at my language, but under the circumstances she wasn't about to make a fuss. I pushed on. "The other bum says, 'No.' 'Okay,' the first one says, 'the next time I have to ask you, we're taking a look.' They walk down the tracks for twenty minutes or so and the smell got to be overwhelming, so the first bum tells the other to drop his pants. Well, sure enough, there was a big load in his drawers. The first bum said, 'I thought you said you didn't go in your pants?' The other bum says, 'Oh! You mean today!'"
By the time my sisters stopped hitting me and telling me how gross I was, the announcement to board came over the loudspeaker. I gave each of them a hug and a kiss and went over to my mother, who was standing near the window. She had started to cry, which got me going. I tried to hold back the tears as best I could, but it was no use. After hugging my mother, I headed for the jetway and Mom called me back.
"Matt, I want you to take this with you," she said, reaching into her pocketbook and pulling out my baptismal scapular medal. "Wear this or have it with you when you fly. Our Lord will protect you." Mom handed it to me as I gave her one last hug. I put the scapular medal in my pocket and walked to the jet way, turned, and waved one more time to everyone, then boarded the plane.
The flight to Boston was uneventful. I had an hour layover, then caught a plane to Atlanta. From Atlanta I had a direct flight into Pensacola, which arrived at 2:45. I had never been as far south as Atlanta, so the Navy had already given me the opportunity to travel.
The Atlanta airport was much larger than most airports I had been to and it took me a while to figure out where my next gate was located. I got directions, then found an empty seat in the waiting area and watched people come and go until it was time to board. As the time drew closer to my flight, I began to see a familiar sight. There were at least five passengers carrying a small duffel bag and a brown manila envelope. I put two and two together and assumed they were also headed to flight training.
The plane took off on schedule and we had an hour flight to Pensacola. The weather was warm and clear when we got off the plane. This airport was more my style: it was small like the one at Bangor and easy to find your way around. I headed over to the information booth and asked the charming attendant if there was a bus to the naval base. At that moment an announcement came over the PA. "All aviation officer candidates assemble outside. A bus will be by to take you to the naval air station in thirty minutes."
I made some small talk with the young lady, then walked over to a large picture of the Blue Angels hanging on the wall. Under the picture was information about Pensacola. The article said that Pensacola was the "cradle of naval aviation" and that it was the country's first naval aviation station. Pensacola is on Florida's Gulf Coast, just south of the Alabama line.
In 1910, the first naval officers were ordered to learn to fly under the instruction of the Wright brothers and Glenn Curtiss. With that kind of history behind the program, I broke out in goose bumps as I walked outside to meet the bus.
By the time the bus arrived, fifteen of us were waiting. The bus was white and the windows were tinted over so you couldn't see in. As it came to a stop in front of the terminal, a large man wearing a Smokey the Bear hat got out and asked, "Are you gentlemen all reporting to flight training? If you are, please have a seat on the bus, and welcome to Pensacola, home of naval aviation."
As I climbed onto the bus and took my seat halfway down the aisle, I thought what a nice greeting it was.
The doors slammed shut and the bus jerked away from the curb. Within two minutes the nice man with the Smokey the Bear hat turned into a goddamn wild man. He stood up in the aisle and said, "Okay, sweethearts, the fun and games are over. My name is Staff Sergeant Varney and I am going to be one of your drill instructors—your mother, your father, your babysitter, and your worst fucking enemy—for the next thirteen weeks—that is, if you last that long.
"From this moment on, you are lower than whale shit at the bottom of the ocean. You will only speak when spoken to, and you will answer, 'Yes, sir' and 'No, sir' when spoken to, do you understand me?"
We whimpered a weak "Yes, sir."
But Varney wasn't satisfied. "I can't hear you, sweethearts."
We tried again, this time louder. "Yes, sir."
"Take a good look outside, sweethearts. It's going to be the last of your eyeballing around. Once we pass through those gates at the base, you fuckers are all mine and I am going to do everything possible to make you quit. DOR, remember that term. DOR. That means 'dropout on request,' and when you can't hack it anymore, just request to DOR and you will be gone so fast you'll think lightning has struck you in the ass."
After Hitler sat down I wondered what in the hell I had gotten myself into.
The ride to the base took almost thirty minutes. The scenery along the way was quite pleasant and Pensacola looked like a nice town. Once on the base, we drove to the southwest corner and stopped in front of Building 699, an old wooden barracks.
Staff Sergeant Varney stood up and told us to get out of the bus. "All right, sweethearts, I want you to line up in single file, nut to butt, and face the building."
As we were getting off the bus I was trying to figure out what he meant by "nut to butt." It became apparent once we were in line. If things weren't bad enough already, within minutes two more drill instructors arrived on the scene.
I was the seventh body in line when the order came from Varney to file into the building. Most of the candidates looked pretty clean-cut, but there were a few who had long hair and mustaches. Once we were through the doors, the DIs started in on the long-hairs and the shit hit the fan. While we stood in line to get our orders stamped by the candidate officers who were in their final week before commissioning, the DIs started trimming the long-hairs with a pair of scissors, and once that was accomplished, they shaved off one side of the mustache on those who had them. It wasn't a pretty sight.
Building 699 had two stories and was horseshoe-shaped. After our orders were stamped, we were sent to the second floor to get our bedding, towels, and green coveralls. As we filed up the stairs we ran smack into a big eyeball painted on the wail at the head of the stairwell. In front of it a DI started barking out orders. "Don't be looking around or shooting the shit with your neighbor. Get your arms outstretched and square your corners."
As we entered a space on our right we filed past several more candidate officers lined up. They filled our arms with sheets, a pillow and a pillowcase, a heavy blanket, a washcloth and towels, and a green flight suit. At the end of the line we were instructed to find a room, select a bed, and await further instructions.
After receiving my gear, I shuffled down the hall to a room that had three men in it, unloaded my stuff onto the only remaining bed, and introduced myself. "Hi, I'm Matt Sullivan, how're you doing?"
"Okay. I'm Dale Morely."
"Hi, I'm Mark Sasson."
The last guy said, "And I'm Bob McFadden."
"Glad to meet you," I replied.
Once the introductions were out of the way, we stood by for the next surprise. Just as I started to catch my breath, a DI started pacing up and down the passageway, yelling at the top of his lungs. "Thirty minutes to make your racks. By the way, ladies, they had better have hospital corners and be tight enough to bounce a quarter off. After your racks have been made, get into your green 'poopie suits,' put your civilian clothes in your duffel bags, and stand by for evening chow. Your duffel bags will be collected while you are at chow and placed in a personal storage locker. Make sure your name is on your bag. That's all."
As I looked around the room I realized everyone had the same look on his face—total bewilderment.
At precisely 5:00 P.M. a drill instructor ordered everyone out into the passageway. He started barking, "When you hear me say get out in the hall, I want you all standing like wedding cocks with your heels and asses locked up against the bulkheads in front of your rooms. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, sir!" rang up the passageway.
"You are class 34-70 and from what I have seen in the last couple of hours, you are the hoggiest bunch of whale shit I have seen come through here in years. Look at you!"
Some of the guys started to look up and down the ranks and the DI went nuts. "Quit eyeballing around down there," he yelled.
Another guy had a smirk on his face and the shit hit the fan all over again. The DI screamed, "Push-up position. Everybody!"
We all hit the floor.
"So, you sweethearts think this goddamn program is a joke? Let's see how many push-ups you lowlifes can handle. Everybody up! Begin! Down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up." This went on until everyone was laid out. "Now get your fat asses outside."
There was a fire-escape ladder at the end of the passageway that we had been instructed to use when told to get outside. The ladder brought us out on the back side of Building 699. After we spent five minutes standing around, three DIs appeared from nowhere.
"All right, herd, listen up!" one of them barked. He appeared to be the most senior drill instructor. "My name is Gunnery Sergeant Fisher and along with Staff Sergeants Varney and Bergman, I am going to teach you how to march. I want five men across the front and the rest of you fall in behind them. Move! Hurry up! Hurry up!"
Once we were all in some sort of order, Fisher said, "When I give the order to march, I want this herd to start off on your left foot, understood?"
We all replied, "Yes, sir!"
"Class 34-70—forward . . . march! Your left, your left, your left right left, your left, your left, your left right left," Fisher barked.
We got about fifty yards, when one of the DIs yelled out, "Whoa, herd."
"Hey, sweetheart," yelled another. No one dared to look around. I knew it was Varney because he always called us sweetheart. "Hey you, pretty boy, you with the half-ass haircut and harelip . . . yes, you—get over here."
I didn't move an inch, but I could see peripherally that the man he was singling out was to my left, three over. The DI was speaking loud enough for everyone's benefit.
"Your hair, candidate, is distracting the rest of the herd. They think they're marching behind a she-cow. Let's tie that rat's nest into a pretty little ponytail. Tomorrow you won't have to worry about this mess, because it will all be shaved off."
By this time the young man was back in ranks and we were off and marching again. As we marched forward, out of the corner of my eye, I could see one of the DIs goose-stepping in cadence with the barking. His swagger stick was neatly tucked under his right arm and he looked pretty sharp. I began to chuckle, and the more I listened to the marching cadence the more I began to laugh. The only thing I could think of was a scene when the DIs were trying to teach Gomer Pyle how to march, and the more we marched, the harder I began to laugh, until I heard, "Whoa—herd—whoa."
Within seconds I had a DIs mouth one inch from MY face. It was Varney. It happened so fast, for a moment I didn't realize he was yelling at me. "You think this program is funny, sweetheart, well, I will show you what funny is. Get over here, hurry up."
He pulled me out in front of the formation and he wasn't worrying whether he ripped my arm out of its socket. "Assume the push-up position."
I did as I was told and waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing happened for about a minute. Then Varney said to the rest of the class, "Are you going to stand there and let your classmate do these push-ups alone?"
Before anyone could say a word, he told them all to assume the position. "Now, sweethearts . . . begin. Up, down, up, down . . ." Ten solid minutes. After everyone was completely exhausted and out of breath, Varney made me march the formation the rest of the way to the chow hall. Of course, I didn't know what I was doing and made a complete ass out of myself, but it taught me a valuable lesson. This program was for real.
We had duck for dinner. In Navy parlance, as we learned, it meant we ducked in and ducked out. I think the DIs planned it that way. It took so long to march to the chow hall that we hardly had time to eat before they closed the serving lines. Half the class didn't get anything to eat, and once the line closed, the DIs made everyone line up outside for our march back to Building 699.