I enlisted at Jefferson Barracks in St. Louis a few months before Pearl Harbor. From there I went to Delgado Trade School in New Orleans, to learn the mechanics of plane engines. I excelled at this (graduating 23rd out of a class of 25), and when I got my diploma, they sent me on to Savannah, Georgia to complete my training on detached service.

I wasn't supposed to end up with the 89th Attack Squadron. I went to Savannah expecting to be assigned to the 16th Bomber Squadron. After the hour-long trip from New Orleans, I was met at the depot by a little man driving a very big truck. Musselman, as he proved to be called, told me as we drove along that he could drive "just about anything." But he had to pause in his bragging every now and then as he strained down to reach the clutch.

When I got to the base, no one knew what to do with me. It seemed the 16th had already left for the West Coast to embark for the Philippines, and I was just too late to join them. "Send him to the 89th," someone said finally, and once more I had a chance to admire Musselman's driving. It was late by then, so the squadron clerk found me a bunk and I turned in.

I expected to be put to work on the planes, but instead it was anything but. Part of the time I spent at the guardhouse - at, not in - as a guard, patrolling inside the stockade. The rest of the time I spent in real GI work - digging ditches and doing K.P. I didn't mind the digging, since I'd done a lot of shoveling coal for my dad at the lumberyard. I was usually the only one working at digging, but I liked joking with the kibitzers.

Later, though, I got assigned to Staff Sgt. Senn, who was crew chief for a new plane - the A-20 Havoc. Nobody knew much about it yet - how to work on it or how to operate it - so we mechanics were going to be trained by a rep from the firm, using the new manual.

We GIs sat around on the floor while the lecturer explained the "PD" carburetor and its linkages, and the venturi tubes. All at once I realized that what I had learned at Delgado was not quite what the Sergeant was telling us. Being a smart alec, I couldn't resist raising my hand. "Excuse me, sir," I said to the NCO, "that's no longer true. At Delgado, the most recent developments ..."

I held forth for awhile, impressing everyone except Sgt. Senn. After he dismissed us, the other mechanics gathered around, asking questions. I basked in the attention, thinking I'd really made my mark and that I'd be on a crew in no time.

The next day, I was back on K.P.

It wasn't that long, however, before I got assigned. Some of the squadron were going to New Hampshire, to bring back several A-20s to Georgia. I was to go along to Manchester to help ferry one of the planes to Savannah.

One of the first things was to get all my flying gear together - heavy, thick jacket, pants, and boots, topped with a fur-lined cap. From now on, I was told, I would need to keep all this together and take it with me wherever I went if there were any chance I'd be flying. It seemed pretty bulky, and, in Georgia, downright unnecessary. But I was assured I'd need it later, when we were at 30,000 feet.

Ten officers and men, including me, set out for New Hampshire on the Silver Zephyr from Savannah to New York City. The Zephyr was about as plush as you could get, and we really enjoyed the trip - me and my buddies Harris Ward and Ford. The major who was going to fly our plane back was a great guy too - when I came into the dining car for breakfast, he sat with us and began to describe the sights of New York City. "I grew up there, son," he said, "and it's a great place. Wait till you see Grand Central Station!"

It was impressive, all right. It was also about the only part of New York we saw, since we started out on the next leg of our journey right away. This time we went by air, a C47 to New Hampshire. Waiting at La Guardia, I got to see a jumbo seaplane set down and come in up a ramp. To a land-locked Iowa boy, that was the most exciting thing yet.

We enjoyed a meal on the C47, served by a pretty stewardess wearing a silk scarf. She told us it was part of a parachute used by a Marine NCO when he'd had to bail out for some reason. She was quite proud of it, and I'm sure all of us new airmen considered getting some parachute silk of our own, to adorn the necks of pretty girls. Especially if we could get it without bailing out.

I was having a pretty good time, but by the time we got to Boston I was regretting that meal. During the two-hour wait for the final flight to Manchester, I sat in the airport feeling restless and miserable. The major came over to check me for fever, but I didn't want to miss the departure and said I was OK. I sure hoped I wasn't going to get sick every time I flew!

Luckily I made it to New Hampshire with the rest, without getting sick. We were to spend the night in the Manchester barracks, but first Ward invited some of us on a side trip. His folks lived about fifteen miles away, so we rented a car and set out. To me, the New Hampshire landscape looked bleak, spare and rough; it was covered with snow and after Georgia it was bitter cold. But the Wards' welcome was warm and friendly, and more than made up for the climate. We had a pleasant evening, then started back to the barracks, stopping along the way to roll back the speedometer.

The next morning we stood around in the cold, watching the Manchester crew working feverishly to prepare the A-20 we were to take back with us. "Sonny" Craig of the 89th was to be the pilot, and a master sergeant from Manchester was coming along too. This sergeant was running the whole show, getting the plane fueled, testing the engines. Craig stood by observing, dressed in his flight gear. I had my gear on too, and the thought of being part of a real aircrew was exciting. At last the master sergeant shut off the engines and turned to Craig. "She's all yours, sir!" he said.

Craig, an old time cavalry officer, was more than ready to go. While personnel from the base all gathered around to watch, we climbed in and took our places, me in the nose compartment, too excited to be scared at my first trip in a military plane. The snow cleared from the runway made a sort of tunnel down which Craig gunned the plane, in a take-off that seemed rough enough to shake me out of my shoes. Once in the air, flying down the coast, I could see why we had to wear all that heavy gear - it felt at least 40 below! Luckily, I was too excited to be either scared or sick.

We passed Boston, and landed in Newark, New Jersey, supposedly to refuel and check the plane. Craig, however, took off again almost at once. "Plenty of gas," he said. "Let's see what it can do." He fitted the popular picture of pilots as mavericks that could be rough on planes, pushing the limits. He was going to ferry the A-20, but he was also going to check it out.

From my place in the nose, I could see it getting darker and darker. On one side was the empty horizon of the ocean, and on the right, the approaching lights of Washington, D.C. All at once there was bright daylight as the searchlights of Bowling Field found us. As we curved in to land, the Washington Monument stood out below.

We landed safely, but as Craig shut down the engines one of them backfired, spraying the cowling (and one of the ground crew) with oil. One of the pilots with us, Captain D. P. Hall, left us to continue the journey in a plane of his own. The rest of us, meanwhile, got cleaned up and prepared to spend a night seeing Washington - all except Hanby, who spent most of the night working on the engine and cleaning out the oil tank. My own evening didn't work out much better - I had plans, I had the number of a pretty girl in Washington, but I didn't have any money, at least not beyond the basics - and I'd borrowed that from Hanby. So I had to content myself with a phone call to the girl and a sandwich at the field.

In the morning, before we prepared to take off once again, we spent some time looking around Bowling Field. It was a showplace then, a beautiful setup with all the modern equipment. As at Manchester, crews stood around watching as the A-20 was prepared. It was bitter cold - 10 below - and the engine didn't want to cooperate. The batteries were getting pretty low by the time the engine started, and it shuddered violently each time Craig gave it some gas. They finally had to resort to a heater before the oil warmed up enough to let the engine run smoothly.

The flight from Washington to Hunter Field in Savannah was the last leg of the journey. The A-20 was supposed to be the fastest new plane, and there were a few bets being taken as to how soon we would get to Georgia. Once the engines were going, Craig was anxious to take off. Someone from Bowling handed him a flight plan with his ETA for Savannah, but after a single glance at it he tossed it out the door and it fell to the ground. The crewman picked it up, looking surprised, and started to hand it to me. Everyone else was scrambling into their places in the gunners' seats, and I had gotten the hatch to the nose compartment open prior to climbing in. Being a nice guy, I took the paper and then had to scramble in myself as Craig gunned the engines impatiently. All my heavy flying gear slowed me up so that I barely had time to get the hatch closed before the brakes were off, the flaps down, and we were zooming down the icy runway with Craig ignoring the flight plan, the tower, and the radio.

Thankful that I'd gotten in before the prop could make hamburger out of me, I settled into my bucket seat. We were flying pretty low today; I could see the ocean below, looking misty at the horizon. I was almost sorry we would be getting back to Savannah soon; this had been a real adventure for me. However, since we had only been able to bring back two planes instead of the ten we went up for, maybe I would get the chance to go again.

We landed triumphantly at Hunter, and my adventure was over. The only sour note was that I couldn't pay Hanby back; for some reason connected with my transfer to the 89th, I didn't get paid between November and March!

A month later, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.

Ernie Nennemann and I had flown out to a base in New Guinea one day, giving and AP writer a ride, and as we were waiting for the plane to be refueled, we stood around talking. Ernie and I were both from Iowa, and had gotten friendly, so I told him about a girl in Australia I had met, and how I was thinking seriously about asking her to marry me. Ernie mentioned that the Steak and Eggs Special went to Sydney, Australia for extras like beer, phonograph records, and other treats, and that a different crew went along each time. "Keep me in mind next time you make a trip, I said casually.

Ernie was a busy guy, so I didn’t really expect that I’d get on the Special. Not too long after that, however, there was my name on the assignment board to go to Sydney with Steak and Eggs. George F. O’Neal was the pilot. "Have a little fun," the engineering chief told me. "Take some time for yourself if you get the chance." We got into that old A-20 Steak and Eggs and set out for the overnight trip to Sydney.

The flight over was serene, with the Pacific below and, over the radio, the song from Casablanca, "As Time Goes By." We flew into Sydney on a rainy day, and as we passed the Sydney Bridge it seemed we were the only plane around for miles.

At the Mascot Aerodrome the permanent personnel chocked our wheels. As soon as I could I checked into the Haymarket Hotel, a cheap but clean place, and I called my girl. George and I had to spend some time that night getting our ship ready for the return trip the next day, as well as getting the supplies we had come for, but we managed to get in some dancing and champagne in town.

It wasn’t until the next day that the blow fell - my girl told me she’d been seeing someone else, and it was all over for us. Sadly, I went back to the ship to help load our cargo.

We had two passengers along for the return trip, a nurse and a Marine major, the major covered with a poncho against the rain. He sat in back over the tunnel door, while the nurse settled on the deck behind the pilot. Disappointed in my girl, with champagne fumes still bubbling in my head, I settled down for the long trip back to New Guinea.

Then O’Neal’s voice crackled over the intercom. "O’Donnell! We’re losing power from the right engine, and the oil pressure’s dropping," he said. "See if you can check it out."

I looked out. Oil was pouring out of the right engine over the cowling and nacelle at a great rate, and I wasn’t surprised when O’Neal called again to say the oil pressure was dropping pretty fast. "We need to set down somewhere," I told him.

"Where?"

"Somewhere close."

We headed back toward Sydney. I thought about the sharks we had heard about outside Sydney Harbor, and tried to plan how we could get the nurse and the major out and still get out ourselves, along with our life raft and the two Mae Wests we carried.

Once again we passed Sydney Bridge through a thick, misting rain, hoping that both engines would keep going until we made it to Mascot at last and started down. On the approach, the wheels were down and the engines were low, when suddenly O’Neal threw the engines wide open. We were coming in too slow, and had to come around again. Finally we were on the ground, with the personnel chocking the wheels after we had taxied over to the parking area near the tower.

I got out and started to work on the engine. Oil was still leaking out through a crack in the oil cooler, and I could see that the ring and cowling were burned. I told the major it would be at least tomorrow before we could leave. That was the only time one of my planes had to abort. Once again I checked into the Haymarket Hotel.

The next day I resumed work, installing a new oil cooler, with the help of two of the civilian mechanics from the Aerodrome’s permanent crew, who said they were called Bill and "‘Arry." After the oil cooler was replaced, we started the engine up for its pre-flight test. Smoke poured out all over the engine.

We found that the number one cylinder wasn’t firing, and there was no compression in any of the other cylinders either. The nearest replacement cylinder was in Brisbane, so we sent for it and settled in for "a few more days." The major and the nurse, needless to say, found another ride.

Unfortunately, the new cylinder didn’t help. We discovered the entire engine was burned out and would have to be replaced - from Hawaii Air Depot. It was going to take two or three weeks for it to arrive, so we covered the ship with canvas and left it parked next to the tower.

Some of my wait was spent on Sydney beach, but when I needed to go to the Aerodrome I called the military motor pool, where one of the drivers was a beautiful blonde. But at last the engine arrived and was installed. Since O’Neal had gone back to New Guinea, I asked for a test pilot to give it a test hop. "Stick around tomorrow," the master sergeant at the Aerodrome told me. "The Third Group commander is coming in from New Guinea tomorrow."

By now it had been nearly six weeks since I had set out on Steak and Eggs for an overnight stay in Sydney. I got word that I was going to get jumped on for spending that much time in Australia, when I should have been back in New Guinea.

When the B-25 "Fat Cat" rolled in the next day, I was there, ready to go. The Fat Cat pulled in next to the Steak and Eggs, and I stood at attention, waiting to be pounced on by Colonel Jock Henebry.

Henebry emerged from the ship and marched over to me. "Who are you, soldier?" he demanded. "Is O’Donnell here?"

"Tech Sergeant Augustine D. O’Donnell reporting, sir!" I replied, trying not to quake.

"What’s the story on this airplane?" the Colonel barked.

I gave it to him. "This plane was out of commission for about four weeks, sir. First we landed here from New Guinea, then when we took off to return, we aborted due to oil pressure falling in the right engine. We replaced the oil cooler that was causing the problem, and then the number one cylinder blew and was replaced after a long wait. During pre-flight testing, the right engine lost compression on all cylinders, so we had to get a new engine delivered from Hawaii Air Depot. That took at least two weeks, sir."

The Colonel blinked. "Well, is it ready to go NOW?"

I looked him straight in the eye. "Yes, sir! We’re waiting for a test hop, but it should be ready to take us all the way back home."

"All right! Get back up there - we’re leaving tomorrow."

So, my "overnight stay" ended at last. A couple of pilots already in Sydney rode back with us, one of whom sat back with me and rejoiced all the way that he was going home.