WW II -- FOUR HOT DOGS OUT TO GET LAID

A SAN ANTONIO HOTEL ROOM 

I was at the next step for all new cadets regardless of specialty: Preflight training; ten weeks at the San Antonio Aviation Cadet Center (SAACC) where we added Morse code, aircraft recognition, target practice (with pistols this time), and rudimentary navigation among other skills, to our bag of tricks. One highlight was the idle time allowed us after reaching 20 words-a-minute Morse code proficiency. This came fast for me -- and introduced me to the lure of the right incentives for getting things done.. 

Preflight was also noteworthy for the decreased level of stringent discipline, never my favorite -- and also for several weekend passes to remind us that civilians still walked the earth. After a year with no leave we frolicked like puppies allowed outside without a leash after being penned up all day. 

There came my halting and unsuccessful introduction to sex. The ugliest kind. Commercial sex. Our $50 a month pay had expanded fifty percent to $75 so we could splurge. Become real men. Four hot dogs out to get laid, we rented a two-room suite in a San Antonio hotel. 

Our ring-leader asked a bell hop to send up a prostitute. A colossal woman old enough to be our mother knocked, entered and stood among us. An embarrassed silence followed, fathered by our ignorance in such matters. Then, pointing at me she asked “You first honey?” I slumped like a blob of mud into the easy-chair behind me, my nerve cells firing up a determined “no” head shake. 

None of the others volunteered, until our brashest soldier-of-fortune moved to her side and cupped his hand over her ample breast-filled dress. She brushed it aside. In a bored station-agent tone she said that would cost him more than the rest. None of us knew what she meant or what to do next. Breaking the flustered silence, someone asked if she had a younger sister. Concluding we were wasting her time she left, closing the door behind her. 

The bellhop broker, consulted anew, agreed to send another, younger per our specification, candidate. A petite woman knocked and was invited in. Like her predecessor, she stood center stage. In a crafty maneuver to sidestep being the lead hitter, one of our foursome asked who wanted to go first. For my part, I was now certain I was not first, last or ever. My initial apprehension had become sadness and dismay. 

One of the others stepped to the plate. He led the young woman into the next room -- and returned in a short while. I sprawled glumly in the chair. My mind drifted. Was this what I had been waiting for? I felt more like a blob of lard than a hot dog. 

So ended my first sorry try at growing up, never to be repeated in this way. Back then I felt sorry only for myself. Now I'm thankful for my reticence. And bemoan the fate of those poor women and there sisters everywhere. 

I had learned a great deal during Preflight training. More about life than about flight. I was ready to become an aerial navigator. But neded a lot more training in navigating the rest of life.