I was born near Lovilla, Iowa, Sept 23, 1919, and that's a fact. My Mother was 18 years old and my dad was 24. I spent the next 21 years of my life on the farm, and a great deal of that time was spent behind a team of Missouri mules. I learned a lot about them and they learned a lot about me. Mules never learned to like anybody. They would do their work with a minimum of effort, then expected to be fed and watered. They had more stamina than a horse and conserved their energy; they were smart, but would kick the bell out of you if they got a chance. They were fractious, mean and ornery, but they worked hard in the hot Iowa summer sun, pulling a turning plow acre after acre. I spent many hours alone with them. Tom and Jerry was the last team I worked before going into the Air Force, and always attributed my success as a pilot to them mules. They were big Missouri mules, colored sort of bluish gray with white hair sprinkled through their coats. They were handsome mules, and I spent much time running a currycomb over their sleek coats. I was proud of them and liked to show them off.

In the thirties, farm boys were expected to work. School was a secondary nuisance, and not taken too serious. I got through the ninth grade of country school and was pretty proud of myself since I could read and write. I could figure how many bushels to the acre, and how much seed corn it took to plant 40 acres. That was about the extent of my formal education. We got to town only on Saturday night; that's when all the farmers went to town, sold the eggs, and bought supplies for the next week The women and girls would do the shopping and the men and boys would walk around the square looking for friends we hadn't seen in a week. It was a ritual, and as long as Ican remember we went to town on Saturday night. It was a good place to look at girls. We didn't go to school, so our contact with farm girls was limited to Saturday nights.

I was tall, weighed about 200 pounds, and was in good shape from all the walking, lifting, pulling, and straining from farm work. We didn't have tractors, and everything was done with a team of horses or mules, and by hand. We put up barbed wire fencing, and cut our own posts from timber on the river bottom. We butchered our own meat, usually killing a hog when it got a little cold in the fall. We cut and stacked hay, planted corn in the spring and picked it in the fall, and always after dark, milked 14 cows. There was no electricity or refrigeration so the hogs we butchered had to be cut up, fried into sausage, salted down or frozen outside. We dressed in overalls, usually with no shirt, and the big brogans for foot wear. In the wintertime we wore long handled underwear, and almost every male farmer in Iowa wore a sheepskin coat bought out of the Sears and Roebuck catalog. I didn't have a white shirt or dress pants until I was 21 years old, and always felt self-conscious when I had to put them on.

We used kerosene lamps, had no radios or TV sets so reading books stimulated my imagination; took me into wonderful places and situations far away from the hard physical labor we were subjected to. I loved stories of the First World War, especially those dealing with aviation. I bought the dime pulp fiction magazines titled WAR BIRDS, SKY FIGHTERS, SKY BIRDS, and DARE DEVIL ACES and read them with a passion. I soared among the clouds engaging the evil "Baron" in mortal combat always coming out the winner. I'll never forget Robert Hogan and his Smoke Wade stories. Smoke was a sun-burned Arizona cowboy, with a ninth grade education, flying his Spad fighter and is jumped by three German Fokkers. His guns jam, and Smoke is at the mercy of his enemies.

"Angry curses sprayed through clinched white teeth. The pilot slammed back in his seat in disgust. Controls moved with lightning speed. His right hand flashed to his right leg, far down. It came up in a blur and brought with it a big, old-time Western six-gun.

"That was Smoke Wade in a tight spot. The Arizona sun-bronzed cow-poke whirled in his seat. His big six-gun spoke.”

"Blam! Blam!

"The cracks came almost as fast as the answering Spandau rattle about him. One of the three remaining Fokkers leaped into the air and plunged to hell."

Old Smoke utilized every trick in the book against the Hun, but he lived to fight another day.

I devoured this pulp fiction, and looked for more. I couldn't get enough of them, but since they only came out once a month, and I devoured them sometimes in a single evening, I had to look for more reading material. That's when I discovered the public libraries in the little towns around our farm.. On our Saturday forays into town, I could usually be found in the library. All of rny life I have been thankful that I discovered books and magazines at a young age. I have never been lonesome or depressed, as long as I have something to read.

In 1940 war clouds were forming, and the martial music was playing with lots of drum rolls and occasionally "Taps" was heard on the radio (by this time we had electricity). Occasionally President Roosevelt would have a “fireside chat," and we would crowd around the radio, and listen in rapt attention. That's where I first heard about the draft. I wasn't too worried about being drafted, because farming was a critical occupation and the draft board classified me as essential to the war effort. After December 7, 1941 things started to change. My draft number was 852, and I told my dad, "Don't worry, my number is so high they will never get to me."

In Washington DC, Secretary of War Stimpson put on one of those high silk hats, a frock coat, goin’ to a wedding pants, and new patent leather shoes. In front of the Newsreel cameras he reached into a little fish bowl, and the first draft number he pulled out was 22. The second was 852. My draft exemption was canceled, and ten days later I was down at the courthouse for my physical. There was five farm boys like myself and the old Doctor who gave the physicals had helped in the birth of all of us. In spite of that he made us strip down, and put big red numbers on our chests. "Hell, Doc, you know all of us, why do we have to put these numbers on?"

"Cause that's the way the Army wants it," Doc said. "You fellers will all be numbers in a couple weeks anyway. You might as well get used to it."

Doc. checked us all for flat feet, and that was the extent of the physical examination. He told us to get dressed, and said we would be inducted into the service in ten days. I wanted to fly. I wanted to fulfill my dreams, and be in the cockpit of an airplane. It was time to head for Des Moines and try to enlist in the Army Air Corp.

Far from Iowa, in the very early stages of the war in Europe, the Army Air Crop. had a big decision to make. The Generals, who decided such things, were looking at heavy bomber to strategically bomb the enemy. They had ordered 340 B-18-B Douglas bombers, but Boeing had come up with the B-17 and it was ordered as the premier bomber to carry the war to the enemy.

Flying an airplane in the pre-war Army Air Corp was considered so important and difficult that only West Pointers were allowed to do it. These fellows were educated at West Point. They had to be perfect specimens. They had all their teeth, their features had to be perfect. So many hairs on their head, and the ears had to lie close to the head at an angle of not more than 10 degrees. The pupils of their eyes must be 2 ¾ inches apart, no bags under the eyes, and the head had to be round and well formed; no pinheads were allowed. They were highly educated in English, military history, mathematics, and discipline They were also taught the social graces, and above all taught to be gentlemen. The term “officer and a gentleman” was common in the service.

The military planners had figured out that getting a bomb on the target was going to be a difficult proposition. The pilot had to hold the plane straight and level for the bomb aimer to get the bombs on the target. It was determined that the pilot would have to hold the plane straight and level for at least 10 minutes. In that 10 minutes every gun the enemy had would be aimed at the airplane. There would be much shot and shell, strife and bloodshed; there was no way to estimate the losses. The truth was, there would be losses, and many of them would be pilots. Rank, education, station in life, officer and a gentleman didn't make a bit of difference. A bullet didn't recognize an officer from an enlisted man.

When word reached all of the West Point pilots there was consternation. "We're the leaders," they said to one another. "It seems foolhardy to send the leaders into such a nightmarish situation." They were concerned, and reports flew from one office to another regarding the risk. One clerk typist, playing a joke, typed in a report “It has been estimated that ten minutes on the bomb run in a heavy bomber is equivalent to ten rounds in the boxing ring, or having your testicles squeezed for 10 seconds in a walnut cracker.” That did it, the West Pointers decided something must be done. It would be dangerous to run the risk of decimating the leadership ranks, the highly educated upper echelon officers (West Pointers), and have them fly that extremely dangerous 10 minute bomb run.

After much discussion, it was decided to have a study done by a group of high level professors. Their mission was to find out what type of American youth was dumb enough to set in that big airplane for a ten long minutes on the bomb run. They would be like ducks in a shooting gallery, while everybody shot at them with every conceivable type of weapon intending to kill or maim them.

They engaged professors from Yale, Harvard, Princeton, Columbia, Cornell, and Penn State. The Army put them up at the Waldorf Astoria in New York, and gave them a simplified question. "Find out who's dumb enough to fly a heavy bomber on the dangerous ten minute bomb run."

The professors felt obligated to do their best. They ate big meals, and enjoyed the sights and sounds of New York while they pondered the question. They met during the day and debated the qualifications of various groups of young men. They eliminated lawyers immediately, knowing they were to highly educated to participate in a dumb thing like flying straight and level for 10 minutes while the enemy shot at you. They argued pro and con the merits of college educated against high school educated young men. They debated for days and weeks that it took a highly educated young man to fly the mighty Flying Fortress, or the Liberator heavy bombers. After all, up to this time, only the highly educated West Pointers had been allowed to fly in the Army Air Corp.

They struggled with the question of “Who would be dumb enough to get in the cockpit of a heavy bomber, and fly straight and level for ten minutes on the bomb run?” After much sweating, straining, and soul searching, and much disagreement among themselves, they come up with a report. It had taken six months, and cost \$2,000,000 dollars, but the professors felt they had given the Army Air Corp the answer they required. They were more then happy that they had found a small group of people in the United States who fit the criteria. The only enigma in the whole report was that if this classification of folks were dumb enough to fly the bomb run, were they so dumb they couldn't be taught to fly? The professors threw up their hands on this question, they had all gained weight (eating the Waldorf Astoria cooking), they were tired and wanted to go home. Let the Army Air Corp figure that one out they reasoned, as they filled out the report, signed it, and handed it to the General in charge. The professors scooted for home happy that they had done their duty for humanity and their country. The money didn't matter after all it was for their country.

Five Generals, two Colonels, three Lieutenant Colonels, one Second Lieutenant, and a private (their names are not important) were present when the report was opened. It was frill of therefore, whereas, henceforths and other related report gibberish, but it boiled down to this:

"Don't get city slickers to do this}ob. They are too smart to set 10 minutes nl a heavy bomber, loaded with 2800 gallons of gasoline, ten 500 pound bombs, 7000 rounds of 50 caliber ammunition, with an aluminum skin that burns with searing hot flames at the drop of a kitchen match. They will manage to evade this duty arid it will all be legal which leaves the only individuals that, in our opinion, fulfill all categories of the requirement: the dumb old farm boys from the farm states. The dumbest ones of all are those with a ninth grade education whose occupation was driving a team of mules plowing straight furrows for a cornfield. Therefore we suggest you code name your endeavor "Plowboy" and seek out at least 5000 of them for test over enemy targets".

Immediately orders went out to recruiting stations all over the United States to: "Direct your attention, and watch carefully for young men with plow boy experience, and little formal education. Commanders are ordered to survey your ranks for personnel in the above category, and hurry them into the Aviation Cadet program. The code name for this operation will hereinafter be labeled "PLOWBOY”.

The “Plow Boy” program was given top priority in recruiting requirements, with the stipulation “Make it without undue speed or excitement for them to enlist, but with a confident certainty that they will enlist Thus, the die was cast and plowboys become a valuable commodity in the recruiting wars.

With a ten-day notice to report for induction, I put on a clean shirt and headed to Des Moines. I took a bus to the federal building where the recruiting office was located, and marched right in. A Master Sergeant was behind the desk. He was writing on a piece of paper, and didn't look up. I was standing in front of the desk, and took to fidgeting, and scuffling my feet after about ten minutes of this inattention. Finally he looked up at me, and in a disgusted voice said, "Whaddya want?"

Well sir, I'd sure like to enlist in the United States Army Air Corp, and be a pilot."

I was dressed in my overalls, a clean work shirt, and my big brogan shoes, and he looked me up and down before answering, "What the hell makes you think you're fit to be a pilot in the United States Army Air Corp? You sure don't look like much."

”Well Sir," I responded getting mildly angry, "I think I have all the smarts to be a good pilot, and I can read and write."

He looked at me in amazement, "You need two years of college or you have to pass a college equivalency test. Do you think you can do that?

I was on the defensive now, "Well, I'd sure like to try."

He sensed he was trapping me, “How much education do you have?" He was scowling as he asked me that.

”Well Sir, I finished the ninth grade."

He slapped his palm to his forehead, and in exasperation said, “You need a hell of a lot more than a ninth grade education!”

”Well sir, that's all the schoolin' Smoke Wade had."

"Who the hell was Smoke Wade?" he retorted.

"Smoke Wade was an Ace in the World War," I replied.

"I been in the Army for 20 years and never heard of him. What kind of work did you do?"

”Well Sir," I said, "I was a farmer and plowed with a team of mules. We had to plow straight furrows, and my mules were named Tom and Jerry. You might say that I was a PLOW BOY."

There was the worst clatter and banging as a chair was turned over in the office next to the recruiting office. An officer came charging through the door. He exploded at the Sergeant, "I don't want to ever hear you talk to our future pilots like that again, and if any more of these PLOW BOYS come in here I want to be notified at once!"

The Sergeant responded with a meek, “Yes sir."

Taking me by the arm, the Second Lieutenant ushered me into his office, offered me a seat, which I took, and a cigarette which I declined. He shook hands with me twice, telling me how happy he was to see me. He asked my name, straightened up his chair, and sat down facing me. He was smiling from ear to ear, as he pulled out some papers from the middle drawer of his desk. He then proceeded to tell me about the order he had just received in the mail from his superiors telling him to sign up PLOWBOYS.

"Just put your name, date of birth, and your address on this paper, and sign it," he was smiling.

I took the paper and did as he directed, and signed it. He grabbed the paper and scribbled his signature on the bottom. He told me I didn't have to take a physical, no college equivalency tests, and all I had to do was show up for the train when they shipped us to Santa Aria for our initial training.

I was feeling pretty good about being a pilot, and he reached in the middle drawer, pulled out a big rubber stamp, and slammed it down on the paper I had just signed. To this day, I DON'T KNOW WHETHER IT READ "BP" FOR BOMBER PILOT OR "PB" FOR PLOWBOY!

The Ol' Plow Boy Himself

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