Peter Leibert's Page

Someone must have had little to do one day because I got a message to report to Personnel. A yeoman there informed me that I was overdue to be sent back to the states. I knew that I had exceeded my two years, but I just assumed I would be in VP6 until June 30. That is when I would be completing my “three year” enlistment that began almost four years before.

So on April 2, 1952, I again was on the road to the Pearl Harbor Receiving Station, this time to await transit to the states. My stay at Pearl included four days of busy time while I awaited for transportation. My daily duty during this period was to assist in loading a truck with beer and hauling it to the Officers Club. Once we had finished our duty, we would then test a couple bottles of the product in order to make sure that we had not ruined any. After that we were off duty for the day.

But the day finally came when I got assigned to a flight. At the appointed time I climbed aboard a bus and we headed toward nearby Hickman Field. I had had some very good times on the islands and I actually think I had some sadness in my eyes as I took that final bus ride on the island (no, not a tear).

The assigned plane was a pretty large four-engine cargo plane - it was a C-97. The people on this flight consisted of mostly ambulatory passengers who sat sideways along the shell of the fuselage. I was getting used to that technique, but on this flight the entire center section of the plan was rigged with bunks. Lying on many of these bunks were passengers who were also going home, but they were the wounded coming from the battles of Korea. I thought there was a truce and the fighting had stopped by that time.

It was a long flight. I don’t remember how long, but it was long - about 10 or 11 hours. As we neared the coast there was a lot of discussion going on about where we were and where we would land. There were very few windows on the plane, so the passengers were mostly guessing. We landed at Travis Air Force base east of the bay area in Fairview, California. I was hoping that we would land at March Field which is near Riverside.

As we were walking down the stairs of the plane, I first heard, then I felt, and then I saw my first B-36. The B-36 is a plane that really lets you know that it is there. This plane was taking off and flew over at about 200 or 300 feet. It really shook up the place - noise was horrific. When the plane got overhead so we could see it, it was obviously huge by 1952 standards.

Wingtip to wingtip, that plane had to have nearly twice the wingspread of the “big plane” we were departing. Our C-97 was a plane that I had thought (when I boarded it) was a large plane. As the B-36 went over we had to hold our ears. Their six pusher-engines were making an awful lot of noise. That noise could actually be felt, in the air and from the ground.

The life of the B-36 did not last long in the Air Force. It was only eight or ten years later that the B36 started being replaced by the B-52. The B-52 had a 1/3 shorter wingspan, had 6 jet engines, and was much quieter. By that time, the B-36’s probably were falling apart from vibration.

I don’t recall anything about how I got home to Riverside, probably a Greyhound bus, but soon I was back at 10108 Magnolia Avenue. As part of getting my travel orders cut at VP-6, I had selected to take 30 days leave before reporting to my next assignment. After a day or so, I attempted to contact a couple of my pre-service buddies, but I soon learned that most of them were in the service, or none of them seemed to be living around the Arlington area. A lot had changed in this little town during my four years of absence.

I had saved “a lot of money” during my service years. I had selected an option to have most or all of my base pay shipped home to my Mom while I lived off of my flight pay, my income from outside activities, and from income that I will entitle “miscellaneous”. In other words, I worked at a lot of outside jobs. But whatever you call it, my Mom had stashed away enough cash money in the bank that I could then use to buy a “brand-new” car. I was 22 years old.

This major event in my life occurred on April 13, 1952. That is the day when I purchased a 2-door Woodsmoke Gray Ford sedan for about $2,500 cash. In my judgment, that car was the cat’s meow of those days. One dolla, two dolla, three dolla, four dolla, - - - 2,500 dolla - yeah, it is mine! Actually my Mom wrote a check.

Let’s talk about this car (shown below). My new car had a classy look, a V-8 engine and a transmission that came with a stick shift. It did have an AM radio, but no heater, no power this, no power that, no “extras” at all that I can remember. Oh, it did come with manual door locks and a spare tire. The front and rear seats were both bench seats.

Manufacturers of automobiles in those days just did not offer many types of extras. No tinted glass, no seatbelts, no power brakes, and no power windows! I don’t think that you could buy those types of things from a dealer at all.

Seatbelts were available at Sears and Roebucks, but not from the local Ford agency. I could have selected the heater option, but that wasn’t macho for a kid from California.

When you got a new car in the 1950’s, you were instructed by the dealer to take it easy. Do not ever drive your new car over 50 miles per hour during the first 500 miles, and certainly you are to vary the engine speed so the motor parts do not wear at any one spot. They also provided other great advice that I quickly found myself able to ignore.

My first long trip in this new car of mine was to Santa Monica in order to visit (and perhaps to show off my new car?) my aunt Sister Amelia Marie who was the principal of St. Anne’s school there. I do not remember the actual visit with Sr. A. M., (I’m sorry, Sister) but I do remember a situation that arose within a few minutes after we left the convent.

Whatever the street was, we were leaving the convent and driving south through this residential area toward a major avenue, maybe Santa Monica Blvd. - or Colorado Blvd. There was a signal there, and when it turned green, I commenced to make a left turn onto the major street. As I started to make this turn the engine of my “brand new” car started sputtering. You know - it was acting like it was running out of gas, or otherwise not running right. As good luck would have it, there was a service station - a Standard Oil Chevron station - on the far corner and I was able to coax my “brand new” car into that service station.

My immediate thought - I must be out of gas. But when I looked at my gas gauge, I could clearly see that my car had about 1/3 of a tank of gas remaining. So up comes the hood and I begin checking for loose wires, or other unusual things. Soon a young kid, about 16 or 17 comes out and inquires if he could help me.

I told him a short version about my situation. His quick conclusion. “Sounds like you are out of gas”. Hmm! I slowly raised my eye and without facing him, I began an expanded long-winded version of my situation. About half way through my narrative, the attendant takes the fuel hose and puts a gallon of gas into the car, and says - “okay try it”.

The moral of this wonderful story is, “even with NEW CARS, don’t trust the gas gauges”. The next day I took the car in for service and they readjusted the gauge. From then on, it never indicated FULL even when it was full, nor EMPTY even when it was empty, but at least I felt comfort that I likely had some fuel in the gas tank - if the gauge was showing somewhere near a half tank.

When I left Barbers Point, there was no doubt in my mind that I would need at least 30 days to visit with all my old friends who surely would be waiting in Riverside for me. This meant that I had 30 days (plus a few days transit time) before I had to report in at my new duty assignment, FASRON 112, which according to my travel orders was located at Sand Point Naval Air Station in the state of Washington.

So, after a week or two of trying to connect with old friends, I finally gave up on that lost cause and decided to start my trip to Washington so I could report in early. If I did that, I felt that I would be able to save some precious “leave time”, but also I was somewhat anxious to find out what this new outfit called FASRON 112 was all about.

During those days there were not that many “freeways” as we know them today. You either went to Washington via highway 101 near the coast, or via highway 99 through the San Joaquin valley. During 1952, it was a relatively slow trip north, by today’s standards, as you went through all the little towns along the way. Most of them were two lanes - one lane each way. There were some three-lane sections, but by then I had learned from experience that those center lanes might have been more appropriately named - the suicide lane.

Another thing that made it slow driving was that I did stop a lot and took pictures with my trusty Argus C-3 of places that I had never seen before. Where those pictures are today, I do not know. But I do remember green trees and more green trees. Sure there was green trees in California, but this was mile after mile of very beautiful greenery. Then there was miles and miles of following a river, and then I began to see a big beautiful lake. I just had not seen much of this type of scenery anywhere - Memphis, Hawaii, Japan. No where.

About my second day of this road trip, I started coming across sections which were involved in heavy road construction. This was during 1952 and there were a lot of new roads being built in northern California. As I remember it, in this section of the state, I must have spent 100 or more miles on dirt bypass roads that were going around the construction areas. In Oregon it was not much better. As I got into the state of Washington, the construction was also going on, but the old roads were mainly off to one side or the other from the areas that were under construction.

I eventually got to Seattle and I had no problem finding the Sand Point Naval Air Station. This was the place where my official travel orders told me to report. When I arrived at NAS, Sand Point, I found a parking place and went into the office at the gate. After about an hour, I was “again” informed that the squadron to which I was to report, was no longer located at the place where I had been told they would be located - in this case, Sand Point NAS. Another hour later, they finally were able to tell me just where this outfit was now located. You know, you get tired of that.

“FASRON 112 was now assigned to Ault Field, which was about 50 miles north of here”. This air base was located on Whidbey Island near the town of Oak Harbor at the northern section of the island. (At least it was located in the same state). I returned to my “brand new” car and searched the map for this island of Whidbey. I wanted to verify the oral info I had received before I left that parking lot.

Yes, Whidbey Island was on the map just a few miles out in Puget Sound, but Whidbey Island is a relatively large island and getting to Ault Field by road was going to be a trip of over 100 miles from Sand Point. No freeways in those days, remember! Seven nights on the road since I left my home town of Riverside and I finally got to Ault Field and FASRON 112. It was a good thing I left early.

When I reported in, I quickly learned that I was to become an “instructor for radio operators” on P2V’s. Oh boy! Back to the code training board again. I just did not have the physical or mental capability to send or understand basic Morse code faster than 10 words per minute, and I was now to be an instructor for brand new radio operators?

When I found out that I was to be teaching new radio operators, I immediately searched out where I could brush up on my Morse Code. Sure, I knew the basics of the code, but advancement in my rate of Aviation “Electronicsman” had been restricted by my lack of ability to pass a test requiring me to demonstrate my capability to send and receive messages at a code rate of 16 words per minute.

Let’s be blunt and clear about this. I had taken the second class AL advancement-in-rate test on two occasions. I failed the code part both times. I had no problem with the technical, but code - ohhhh! This is the dah, dit, dah dah, dit dah, dah dah dah dah etc - in a form that was supposed to mean something at the receivers end. I just did not have that talent.

After a few feverish days of working hard on my code, I was assigned to my first flight with the FASRON unit. I was to accompany two students during this flight. The students would man the radio station, and I “would just fly along as a back up” to show them how to do their duties, or God forbid, to man the radio in case of emergencies. I could always do that. Right? Rigghhhtttt!!!

Actually this procedure worked out find. I may not have been able to successfully pass a Morse Code test, but I could understand when someone was trying to communicate with our plane. Each plane had a unique set of calling letters. I could easily recognize our own call letters and would point out to the student that we were being called and they would do their thing.

There came a day when I got an additional assignment. I would be accompanying other crews which were to fly down to NAS Alameda, California, and pick up some new P2V-5’s. Three radiomen were in this group because there were three planes to be flown back. Oh, oh! I had been practicing my Morse code quite a bit by that time, but as we approached Alameda, I was getting somewhat nervous.

We were supposed to send a position report back to our Whidbey base when we departed NAS Alameda and every hour during our return flights. Departure was no problem, no numbers, just your ident with a short code for I have departed. But come the appropriate time for a position report, I heard the messages go out from the other two planes, and so I swallowed deeply and started sending my message with position information.

About half way through the message, I stopped and started sending a series of dots - meaning I made an error. After a minute or two I tried again, but quickly aborted adding the code for bad weather. This was bad enough, but when we landed, one of the other radiomen came over to me and queried me about my code capabilities. I just told him the truth.

These P2V flights with FASRON were primarily designed to give pilots flight training with two-engine aircraft. Most of the things that I now remember is the simulation of possible emergency situations. This resulted in making some of our flights very, very exciting. The P2V’s were a good aircraft for this as these aircraft could fly on one engine if the situation arose.

Typical of a pilot training scenario would be where your plane was flying along and suddenly the power to one of the engines would be chopped by the instructor in order to simulate the loss of one or the other engine. The student pilot was then supposed to demonstrate that he could quickly adjust the airplane engine controls and locate a place for us to make an emergency landing. We would then make a single engine “high-altitude approach: toward that landing site. That meant we would fly along at 1,000 feet or so and then as we got near to the landing area, the pilot was to nose over and make a steep descent to the field. That was the theory.

You soon got used to that routine, but there was another of the simulated failures that proved to be more exciting. The designated problem was to simulate the loss of an engine “on takeoff”. One time during that type of simulation, it really turned into a thrilling event. The landing strip we most often would use for actual touchdowns was named Coupeville, which was located in the center of Whidbey Island. The air strip was a narrow one and surrounded by lots of trees. My definition of narrow is that tall trees were quite close to the sides of the paved runway.

During our take offs from there, the flying instructor would periodically “throw a lesson to the student pilot” by chopping the power to one of the engines. One time as we just lifting off, the instructor cut power to the port engine. The trainee pilot totally lost control of the airplane and himself. Suddenly we were heading straight toward a big 200-foot-tall Douglas fir located on the left side of the runway. We missed it, but I don’t know how. I should have taken pictures.

After I had been at Ault Field on Whidbey Island for a few weeks, I decided to take a trip to the closest big town and see the big city. Mount Vernon was about 40 miles northeast of this naval base. In those days, the region between the city of Oak Harbor and the city of Mount Vernon was covered by tall trees in what is commonly known as a forest. The road was narrow (two-lanes). That means one lane each direction, and on Friday afternoons everyone on Whidbey wanted to get off the island.

Traffic was terrible that day. It hardly got above 25 miles per hour. After about a half hour of following this long line of traffic heading toward Mount Vernon, I finally decided I could pass a few of those slower cars up ahead. At the appropriate time, I started to pass about four or five cars. When I saw a car approaching in the oncoming direction, I began to pull back into the eastbound lane. But lo and behold, the cars in that eastbound lane had come to a complete stop.

This put me into the position of not having wheels for about 3 weeks as it took that long for the Mount Vernon Ford dealer to repair the front end of my “brand-new” Ford. But even worse, I quickly began getting letters from “Allstate Insurance” nicely demanding that I pay them for the repairs to their customers car which I had hit. In my wisdom of those younger years, I had decided to only purchase insurance to cover damage to my own car. Let the other driver take care of his own car must have been my theory.

But after talking to others in the FASRON squadron, I found that almost all were of the opinion that I would eventually have to pay for the damages to the car I hit. So, since my “legal advisors” seemed to make more sense that I had made, one of the first steps I took after I received my car back was to pay Allstate Insurance the $250 they claimed that I owed them.

With my wheels back, I was now able to explore the big city of Mount Vernon and even drive all the way to other nearby cities, such as Everett. So the weekend came when I made the decision to travel all the way down to the city of Everett - about 60 or 70 miles away. This time I would take a couple of fellow sailors along, as legal and social advisors.

The first time that we went to the city of Everett, we considered that we had been quite successful. This is defined in naval terms to mean that we met some very nice young ladies and they allowed us to take them to a movie. The next weekend these same three sailors again headed for Everett because of our demonstrated success in meeting women there. We quickly learned that two of our newfound lady friends would be working up at Scenic that weekend. My buddy Cliff Rice and his newfound lady friend, Janet Barstad, did not seem to appreciate that two of us disappointed sailors were expressing feelings related to going back to the base.

Before we were to leave, Janet asked if we could give her a ride over to the city of Marysville to see some of her friends. We did and soon we found ourselves at a home surrounded by dozens of women. Not one or two. I mean dozens. It turns out that the annual Strawberry Festival dance was to be held in the city of Marysville that night and these ladies were planning to go. But, they were quite concerned that there would not be enough men at the dance to make it worth going. Could we possibly be there?

Reluctantly, we decided that perhaps we might change our plans and attempt to help them out. But since we didn’t have any nice clean clothes, we would have to wear our uniforms. During all of this process, there was one gal that didn’t come out of the house to meet those sailors. However, she eventually quit her prancing up and down in front of the large bay window and reluctantly came out to be introduced. Her name was Virginia something or another, if I remember correctly. The date was June 14, 1952 and the time was about 2:42pm.

Cliff and I went back to Everett and checked into the YMCA, took a shower, put on our navy uniforms, and found our way to the Marysville dance. Inside the auditorium was this same group of women, and we quickly were able to find our friend Janet and a few other familiar faces. After a short while, the band started playing a nice slow song – my style - and I turned to the girl on my left and said, “Helen, can I have this dance?” Thus, it was the beginning of a great evening.

The band was playing some very nice music - the type that was popular during the early 1950’s. You remember, the big band soft and slow stuff. When the first song was over and it became time for a second dance to begin, I asked another nearby lady if I could have the honor, and she said, “yes”. The rest of the entire evening it was Virginia and Pete dancing the night away.

The next day, it was then Sunday, I phoned Janet Barstad to inquire whether Janet thought if that young lady, Virginia Daines, might be interested in going to a movie with me that evening. Janet, in her own bashful manner, told me to call Virginia up and ask her myself. She then gave me Virginia’s phone number. I reluctantly made the phone call and Virginia told me she would love to go to a movie with me.

I don’t remember yelling “Whoopee” or anything like that, but soon I was at the door of 3515 Oakes for my first time. I was introduced to her mother, and a few cousins who were visiting. One of them was Lila Williamson. Much later, I was informed that on Lila’s way home that evening, she informed her husband, Eddie, that Virginia was going to marry that one. Nah, there was no way that was going to happen!

Almost every day over the next two weeks, Cliff Rice and I would travel the 60 to 70 miles from Oak Harbor to Everett just to spend some time with those two special Everett girls, Janet and Virginia. The four of us went to movies, talked a lot, ate a lot of fish and chips at the Totem drive-in, drove around the countryside, had great times, talked a lot more, and just enjoyed one another together.

This, of course, reminds me of a few stories that I might tell. At the Totem drive-in, I quickly realized that the drive-in’s of the Northwest had a lot better Fish and Chips than Southern California drive-in’s. Inquiries about this uncovered indications that the Totem used Halibut as their fish and that the Ruby’s drive-in in Riverside used Codfish. A big difference.

Another big difference between my previous experiences and Washington could be exhibited by this story. We were at the Totem and had finished what must have been a fish and chips snack when one of the Washingtonians rolled down the rear window of MY new car and threw out some of the trash materials that had resulted from the meal. I found myself instructing this person to “go pick up that trash and put it in the trash barrel.” I won’t mention who that person was, but I still clearly remember that event. Anyway, she did get out of the car, pick up the trash, and dispose of it appropriately for which I thank her.

Once in a while, the city of Everett would receive a lot of heavy fog. You might be inside of some facility - no problem, you might be driving down a road - you slow way down, or you might be in a drive-in theater when it might or may not be a problem. If you were watching the movie, it would make it difficult to continue to follow the plot. If you were not watching the movie, it did not make any difference.

During this period of our involvement, there was an evening when I did not get to see Virginia. My aunt Celine and uncle Hod from Lewiston, Idaho had sent me a letter requesting that I meet them on a Monday evening in Seattle as they would be attending a Kiwanis convention in that city. So, I drove to Seattle and went to the convention center and met them there that evening. After the convention’s session, the three of us went to dinner at a restaurant called the Dog House. Celine and Hod urged that I also come down the next evening. I told them that I could not do that as I had the duty, or some other lame excuse like that.

Of course, whatever the excuse, it was a falsehood as the next evening Cliff and I were again heading toward Everett. A suggestion was made that we go to Seattle and see a movie of some sort. Yes, we went to Seattle, saw the movie, and then I made the stupid mistake of talking about the interesting place where I had gone for dinner the previous night – the Dog House. So where did they all want to go after the movie - the Dog House.

As the four of us entered the restaurant, out of the corner of my eye I see this arm waving from near the rear of the restaurant, and someone seems to be yelling “Pete!” I tried to ignore it, but that did not work. The real moral of this story is: “don’t tell lies to your aunt and uncle from Lewiston”. I even made the mistake of not taking my friends back to my aunts’ table near the rear of the room in order to introduce them, so she very quickly came up to our table and nicely chastised me for that and introduced herself.

Two more short stories and I will get off of the general subject of Washington for now.Following one of those almost daily trips from Oak Harbor to Everett and return, Cliff and I were driving back to the base about 10 pm or later. Since it was my car, I was usually the driver. One night, about half way between Everett and Mount Vernon, I suddenly realized that I was driving on the wrong side of the two-lane road. I might have nodded off to sleep, maybe. But as a result of that startling event, Cliff and I started making a stop each night at a coffee house in that section of the road. Those are the types of things that you seem to remember, even 50 some years later.

Okay, now for that final Washington story of this timeframe! I had met that special girl named Virginia Daines on the afternoon of June 14, 1952. That date was only two weeks before I was to depart from the “Fourth Year” of my three-year enlistment in the US Navy. But after 22 years of my being around on this earth, I had become sure that this special girl was the one. I mean she was a SPECIAL girl!

It all boils down to this. We met, we courted, and now we were down to that “final” day before I was to travel 1,500 miles south to southern California. I can’t! I just can’t leave her, not Virginia. Sure I had talked a little with my sailor buddy about my quandary, but it now came down to that day. It was June 29, 1952. Virginia and I spent the entire day together. Most of it was in Seattle.

On the way toward Everett, I exited from the old highway 99 into a place known as Woodland Park. It was off to the left side - the West side - of highway 99. We parked, we talked. We sat in silence. It seemed to me then and it seems to me now that we were there a long time. I looked at her, she looked at me. We kissed. Yes, I had kissed her many times before, but following this kiss I said to Virginia - “I am coming back for you.”

Virginia knew and I knew. I was coming back for this special lady.

This completes the story about the military portion of my life. The next day, on June 30, 1952, I received my honorable discharge from the U.S. Navy and began driving over the Cascade Mountains heading toward Lewiston, Idaho, where I would be able to apologize to my aunt Celine for not introducing her to my future spouse.