Well—at least he was in far better physical shape than the other academics. When people want to know why I hate the military I don’t know where to begin.
Meanwhile, even though I had finished basic, my shipping orders had not arrived. So I took basic a second time. I discovered that I was slated to go to a highly secret technical school, but the orders had not come in. No lazy bodies in the army! I breezed through basic this time—and a third time—until my shipping orders finally arrived. Before I could take basic training again—and let me tell you, was I in great physical shape!—the orders finally came. I was off to Denver, Colorado, to Lowry Field and a secret military school there.
It was almost Christmas by this time and I remember looking out of the train window at the snowy Rockies—absentmindedly scratching at the remnants of my heat rash.
3
I was on a troop train loaded with GIs, all heading for air force schools in Denver, Colorado. It was an endless, comfortless trip that went on interminably. Eventually we stumbled down to the freezing platform after five wearying days of two to a bed and a diet of stale white bread and leathery bologna. This had been loaded aboard in Mississippi in GI cans, galvanized metal cans used for food—or garbage, nice. It had to last for the five-day trip and was a little hard to choke down toward the end.
Now, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, our guts concrete-solid from the revolting diet, my cadre stamped in circles to keep warm and, as fate would have it, we were the last ones to be trucked out to the technical school at Lowry Field.
My squad of budding technicians were all eager and willing to go to tech school. To study … what? We did not know, nor were we told. After all, there was a war on—a fact driven home by the dire warning stenciled in large white letters on the latrine mirrors: “If you talk—this man may die.” Talk to whom, about what? We were never told.
Since we arrived on a weekend we actually had a chance to rest and eat some marginally better chow than we had at Keesler. Attached to our chow hall was a GI cooking school. So in addition to our normal food we were served some of their successes—few—and their failures—many. I shall never forget a large pan containing apple pie that was five inches thick at one end—and a half inch at the other.
Back in the barracks we found our orders posted. We were to fall in on the Monday morning, when all the details of our future would be revealed, but what was first revealed was the usual military attempt at spirit breaking. Our first class was to be at six A.M., so of course reveille was sounded at three in the morning. Dress on the run with the sergeant’s barked commands lashing you like a whip. Then we had to open all of the windows, stack the footlockers on the beds, and mop the floor. The fact that it was twenty degrees out and the water froze before it could wash anything clean was beside the point. Do it by the numbers and don’t ask questions. Then out into the snow to freeze while a barely literate corporal worked his way through the roster of jawbreaking foreign names of our New York contingent. Then a mile’s walk in the snow to the gratefully heated chow hall. Appetites sated, there was another mile to the school building for our class assignments. What technical secrets were to be revealed? Warmed and full of food we fought to stay awake long enough to find out.
“That is a Norden bombsight,” the corporal said, pointing to the bundle being carried by two MPs who were passing through the hall where we were assembled. They carried the bombsight between them, holding the leather handles of the wash pail–sized, well-wrapped object. More impressive than the shrouded bombsight itself were the .45 caliber automatic pistols that they held ready in their free hands. This was a military secret all right!
Very impressed, we filed into a classroom and waited eagerly while our names were called out, ready and willing to learn the top-secret secrets of the Norden bombsight.
I was among those not called. Half the squad trooped eagerly away to delve into the mechanical mysteries of this secret device. The corporal turned his attention back to us.
“Okay. Next is Power-Operated Turret and Sperry Computing Gunsight School. Step out when I call your name. Harrison…” What on earth was a turret—or a Sperry gunsight?
I had a sinking feeling that I was soon to find out. We entered a classroom, found seats, and looked on with eager anticipation as our sergeant instructor locked the door and went to the front of the room. He pointed to a large square of blank cardboard with his index finger.
“This is the Sperry Mark 3 computing gunsight.”
He turned the board over and there it was.
It was a lumpish black object with an angled piece of glass on its top that was framed by a metal cage. Nothing about it resembled any device I had ever seen before. I realized with a touch of panic that I had a lot to learn. The instructor flipped over the first card to reveal an even more interesting one. It could be seen now that the gunsight was mounted in the top of a tublike revolving turret, ominously close to two gigantic machine guns. There was a complex handgrip, and a folding seat for the gunner. Our instructor tapped the computing gunsight and informed us that it worked on the same principles as the bombsight—there were just no MPs with guns involved. With the aid of the computer the gunner aimed and fired the two .50 caliber guns that framed his head.
We were mystified. The instructor must have seen the blank looks on our faces; we hadn’t the slightest idea of what he was talking about.
“Look—it’s just like hunting birds with a shotgun—or shooting skeet.”
He was talking a foreign language. What did a bunch of New York teenagers know about shooting a shotgun? Our instructor was remorseless.
“Just think about it. When you fire at the bird—or the clay pigeon—you’ve got to aim ahead of it because it’s moving. You shoot at the spot where it’s going to be, not where it is or was. Got it? That’s called leading your target.” He tapped the computing gunsight. “This does the thinking for you. The computer is a brain in a box. It solves the problem of where you have to aim, then tells you what to do. Now isn’t that simple?” The answer was firmly no. He frowned at our gaping jaws and obvious stupidity. “I’ll give you a for instance. It should be obvious, even to you bunch of adenoidal morons, that you have to allow for bullet drop. Grope through your feeble memories and try to remember your high school physics—and your basic training. Gravity pulls everything down at the same rate, right? So when you were firing on the range you were taught to aim your sights high on your target so the bullet would fall and hit the target. But what happens if you are firing from an airplane?”
He waited for an answer; none were forthcoming. His sigh was audible.
“I’ll give you a clue. Another factor now enters the equation. The higher you go the thinner the air, the thinner the air the less resistance for the bullet. So as you fly higher it goes farther for every unit of drop. The computer allows for this with this rotating cam.”
He held up a five-inch brass disc with a rising slope machined into it.
“As the plane gains altitude the altimeter controls the movement of the cam, which rotates. The higher it goes the thinner the air. The cam follower measures this drop in air pressure and feeds the changed reading into the computer. So the height of any point on the cam is analogous to the density of the atmosphere at that altitude. One is the analog of the other. That’s why we have here a mechanical analog computer. There are other data inputs that you will learn about. All of them are used to compute the future position of the target. The optic head rotates and tilts so while it is still framing the enemy plane the guns are aiming at the point where it will be. It’s just that simple. Do you understand?”
Hopefully, yes. Vaguely, but simply, no. Just what did the computer do to process the information? I had the fearful sensation that we were going to have to find out and that there was a long way to go.
In the weeks to come we would indeed learn not only the secrets of the operation of the computing gunsight, but all the faults and foibles these complex machines were heir to. And it
was not only the gunsight that would be our responsibility. We discovered that we would be required to master all of the technology and secrets of the power turret itself.
And, if that wasn’t enough, ours was to be an armament rating. Meaning that we would also learn the gunsmith’s art of servicing the .50 caliber machine gun. Our Air Corps military specialty would then be a 678 power-operated turret and computing gunsight specialist. If we became proficient and worked diligently, after a year’s experience in the field we could tack a 3 on the end of the number, making it 678-3, that is, a 678 skilled.
By the end of spring the survivors had finished the course and with the minimum of ceremony we were ready to be shipped out. I was now the proud owner of a triangular patch with a bomb on it—representing my new ranking as an armaments specialist. I sewed it onto my sleeve. Having qualified on a number of weapons during training I also wore a sharpshooter’s medal on my pocket with pendant details: .50 caliber, Garand rifle, Reising submachine gun.
My orders were cut and I joined the next shipment to the air bases in Texas. I went first to a replacement depot—repple depple—in Kelly Field, San Antonio, to await my next assignment. It was boring just sitting around waiting for my shipment to come up. For the first time I actually volunteered. The detail sergeant wanted an assistant; that was me. We passed out all the jobs needed for our unit, sweeping up the company area, and such assignments. Also, completely by chance, I was wearing a faded blue class X jacket that I had grabbed from the pile (class X clothing meant almost-worn-out uniforms with some life left in them; grab what you want). It also had a faded blue patch where a sergeant’s stripes had been.
Boy, was I popular!
Hi, Sarge.
Can I get you a beer, Sarge?
This privileged position only lasted a few weeks—but it was fun while it lasted.
My next assignment was a short trip south to Laredo Air Force Base in Laredo on the Mexican border. My home for the next two years.
I have written of the military mind elsewhere, particularly in my novel Bill, the Galactic Hero. I shall not cover that ground again here, other than to say that, like most other draftees, I managed to survive. Some years later, the war well over, I received my honorable discharge. But that was still in the distant future. The war was on and I was doing my bit. Of course I never saw an aircraft instrument again after being assigned to the aerial gunnery school in Laredo, Texas.
Laredo, Texas, was a specialist air base devoted to turning draftees into aerial gunners in eight weeks. There were thirty thousand GIs devoted to this task in one capacity or another, and I was one of them. I was assigned to the ground range where the students fired live ammunition for the first time. This was done from a Martin upper gun turret that mounted two .50 caliber machine guns. The turret was mounted on a steel frame bolted to the chassis of a six-by-six Chevy truck. There was a shortage of drivers so I was assigned to drive one of these monsters.
“I’ve been assigned here by mistake. I can’t drive.” He scowled at me grimly over his clipboard. “What sort of chicken shit is this? All patriotic American kids can drive.” He reached out a great claw of a hand and reeled in a pudgy, gasping GI who was passing. “Grab one of those six-bys over there and Grubinsky here will bring your driving up to snuff.” Muttering and rubbing his shoulder, Grubinsky found a truck with a key and hauled his lardy bottom up into the front seat. “Okay, kid, get in the driver’s side. That’s it, bang on. Now turn the key.”
I learned to shift, to double-shift (much needed in those days before synchromesh) to brake and accelerate. The truck bucked, the gears ground noisily, the engine died. My instructor fell asleep. I practiced some more then punched him awake.
“You really got it now, kid.” He yawned. “Road test. Head out toward the gunnery range road.” He fell back asleep. I drove out into the desert. When I had enough of the cactus, I found a wide spot in the road and, with much heaving and bucking and killing the engine, I turned the truck around and headed back to the base. It was almost time for chow. I found the fleet base, parked, turned off the engine, and left my instructor peacefully sleeping. I went to chow.
The working day began before dawn when, in convoy, each truck was driven to the ground range some thirty miles from the air base. I came last, bucking and braking—terrified. I made it eventually and once there I was lined up with fourteen similar rigs and the working day began.
The guns were serviced by an armorer who cleaned and bore sighted them, and loaded the ammo. The student climbed into the turret where an instructor taught him how to fire the guns at a cloth target mounted on a remote-controlled jeep. I had no complaints when a driver was assigned to our truck. I had enough to do maintaining the turret and servicing and adjusting the Sperry Mark 4 computing gunsight that was mounted between the guns. We used cotton earplugs because when the firing whistle blew thirty guns firing twelve shots a second each made a soul-destroying sound. An easy job, until someone with an IQ a bit above vegetable life noticed that there was one warm body too many per truck. The driver could be sent to the field of combat and the armorer could drive the truck, as well as service the guns.
It didn’t stop there. Now that the rot had started someone else noticed that since I had been to armament school I could service the .50s as well as work on the turrets and computers—and after a bit they decided that I could drive the truck as well. (The mere fact that I still couldn’t drive did not bother the army. Next day in the dark, white-knuckled and absolutely terrified, I was once again driving out of the base in a convoy.)
The handwriting was on the wall. In about a month I knew just as much about instructing as did the instructor—he was overseas like a shot. I—and the other 678s stayed on at the range, each doing four jobs. We were so valuable that we were all frozen in category and grade for the duration. Meaning we couldn’t change jobs, or get promoted or transferred from the airfield, until the war was over; wonderful.
So I serviced my computer, and my power turret, drove the truck, changed barrels and cleaned the .50 calibers and went slowly deaf, as we did ground-to-ground firing every day. This went on with monotonous repetition until the war was over and the airfield closed.
I have very few memories of this period—good or bad. It was very much like serving time in prison. You put up with it, one day at a time, and looked forward to the unbelievably happy day when your sentence would be complete, your time served. The army food was terrible, but a bit better on weekends when we went into town on pass. Laredo was an overcrowded dump, but we had passes that allowed us to cross the Rio Grande to Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. The food was good and cheap there, drink the same, and the zona roja, also called Boys’ Town, beckoned to the GIs who wanted to try out their government-issued rubbers.
But wait—one memorable thing did happen. There was to be a lecture one evening at the post church about Esperanto. I remember that my father had some Esperanto books and I was intrigued so, for one of the very few times in my life, I went to church. The lecturer, a fellow GI, was an ardent Esperantist—and he told us why.
Esperanto is a simple second language that is quite easy to learn. It does not attempt to replace natural languages but instead supplements them. It was invented by the good Dr. Zamenhof in 1887 and has grown from strength to strength since then. I was intrigued. For seventy-five cents I bought a booklet titled Learn Esperanto in 17 Easy Lessons. I could and I did. I ordered books and read them with pleasure, then began to correspond in this new language. Not to Europe, of course, with the war on, but there were plenty of waiting correspondents in Central and South America, all of this without ever hearing a word of it spoken aloud since that first lecture. I remedied this in New York after the war, and became quite an ardent Esperantist. This linguistic hobby paid off tremendously when I first voyaged to foreign lands. You will hear more about Esperanto later.
In Europe, great fleets of American bombers were blasting the Third Reich. An impressive number were being shot down as well
and we were certainly doing our part to man the new bombers. We worked a twelve-hour day and a seven-day week. (That’s working seven days in a row with the eighth day off—then starting the whole thing over again.) Working, sleeping, and getting drunk in Mexico on that day off. We were so busy that we scarcely noticed that the war, even in Laredo, Texas, was about over. A fact we really began to appreciate when they closed the whole thing down. Bang. That was it. No more gunners needed, at least not in Laredo.
We had a few blessed weeks of just lying on our bunks and drifting down for chow now and then. The army couldn’t have that. They must have heard a rumor that the gunnery school in Panama City, Florida, was open, so they shipped some of us down there, but when we reached Tyndall Field their gunnery courses had been canceled as well. I wondered what the future held. I believed, with good reason, that when I got my discharge no one would really want to employ a power-operated turret and computing gunsight technician, skilled. Nor, as it happened, did anyone in the Air Corps, where I was still serving my time. After the years of servitude I had slowly crawled up in the ranks to buck sergeant. Back at Panama City the assignment officer frowned over my records, turning the pages and muttering to himself.
“Don’t need any 678s, Sergeant,” he said. “It looks like you’re going to be assigned to the stockade. They’re short of MPs.” I didn’t like the sound of it and told him so. The officer made my position very clear. “KP or MP, Sergeant. That’s your choice.” The choice was easy. “I’ve always wanted to carry a gun for my country, sir.”
It had been an easy choice; I loathed kitchen police and had pulled it almost every month that I had been in the army. Whatever happened in the military police would be better than the kitchen. It turned out to be the happiest part of army career. You must realize that at this time most MPs were from the Deep South. They sneered with contempt at anyone from north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Chortling with glee they saw me and reeled me in. A Yankee—from New York! They gave me the worst assignment they could possibly think of, but one that was just perfect for me. I was going to the black stockade. Remember that this was a completely segregated army. Even the jails were segregated. But what these ridge-running cretins didn’t realize was that I had finally joined my peer group.
Harry Harrison! Harry Harrison! Page 5