Hitchhiking summer
Crossing the country on planes and in cars, Ned Slaughter '53 meets
up with Pete Conrad '53
In the summer of 1951, when the Navy ROTC was still very much a part of the Princeton scene, those of us in the Unit could obtain "leave papers" during vacations which entitled us to fly on a space-available basis anywhere in the country on service or service-connected aircraft. It was only required that a midshipman have a rather ratty looking piece of mimeographed paper with something on it which made it look vaguely official and (the more difficult part) access to a parachute. Most service-connected planes carried a few extra parachutes and as a result "hitchhiking" on service or service-connected planes was possible at least for the lucky few who either could "pull rank" or had gotten there first. However, if one by some means could "sign for" a parachute in the possession of a traveler who had reached his destination-thus promising to return it to some remote point of origin (a promise which was, of course, never kept), it was much easier to "hitch a ride."
In the middle of August, after completing summer jobs, John Lee '54 and I had managed to hitchhike by this means to California. We each visited family members in Southern California, and then John stayed on while I went to the San Francisco area. Thus one morning in early to mid-September (too close to the opening of the university for comfort) I reported to the Alameda Naval Air Station near San Francisco to fly home. There I waited endless days, as nothing seemed to be flying east from Alameda. The wait would have been even more excruciating if (the first coincidence of the trip) Ed Waller, a long lost friend of mine from elementary school, had not arrived at Alameda that afternoon bent on getting back to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. As the days ticked by, we reached and passed the crucial point of no return when it became too late to take a bus or a train across the country (even assuming we had had the money) and of course airlines were prohibitively expensive
When I started to write this piece, I could not remember why returning to Princeton on time was so important. As the trip has been brought back to the forefront of my mind, however, I seem to remember that failure to report back to the NROTC Unit on time could result in a midshipman's discharge from the Unit, which in turn could result in his being drafted and sent to Korea. In any event, returning in time seemed extremely important.
At long last a plane came in that was going to Corpus Christi, Texas, the next day. Even better, a passenger on that plane had an old parachute (with silk coming from every corner) which he allowed me to "sign for." The flight was uneventful, and on our arrival in Corpus Christi, we were told to our delight that a Navy flying boat (a PBM as Ed has reminded me) was heading for Norfolk the next morning. We turned into the bachelor officers' quarters happy campers indeed.
FLYING COFFINS
Before dawn, we reported to the PBM. By that time our excitement at finding a plane to fly us home had turned to vague apprehension, because we had learned that several PBMs had recently crashed and they were thus known as "Flying Coffins." To our greater discomfort, we then learned that the pilot wanted to get home as quickly as possible because he had a date that Saturday night and had decided to fly over the mountains of Georgia rather than follow the coast-thus giving us almost no chance of ditching safely or even making an emergency landing in case of engine trouble. Nonetheless, desperate to get back to Princeton to avoid whatever awful fate would befall us if we were late, we climbed aboard and sat with our backs to the sides of the plane and our feet in the center aisle, parachutes on our laps. The more I eyed my parachute with its pieces of silk coming out in all directions, the more nervous I got.
Just at the point when the door was going to be closed, someone came racing down the dock to say that a college student had just arrived and was desperate to get back East or he would be late returning to college. As Ed and I were similarly situated we were not inclined to give up our treasured places and the other hitchhikers also had valid excuses along the lines of ours.
The person with the most valid reason to keep his place was a Marine sergeant who had been in combat in Korea since the start of the war and had been away from his family for a long time. He had been called home to Philadelphia on emergency leave because of a serious family problem. At the last minute, however, just as the messenger was about to return and report that there was no room aboard, the sergeant stood up with his treasured parachute and followed the messenger.
Further delay thus ensued, making those of us on board even more restive as we wanted to be underway, and we all felt somewhat guilty that it was the Marine sergeant who had given up his seat and parachute. Finally, at long last down the dock came a small figure wearing the parachute with a harness so much too big for him that it was almost dragging the ground. There was also more baggage than hitchhikers normally carried, because, as we were to find out, the person in question had not, like the rest of us, been touring the country but had gone to Texas with enough clothes to impress the girl he was visiting. As the small figure, almost hidden by the baggage and the parachute reached the plane, I recognized him to be my classmate Pete Conrad. I did not know Pete well, but the NROTC unit was sufficiently small that we all knew each other. Needless to say, Ed and I were glad that he too had been rescued from the awful fate of being late returning to college.
Again the flight was uneventful (the PBM did not add to the gruesome statistics for that type of aircraft by crashing into the mountains of Georgia), and happily we did not have to find out whether our parachutes would open (assuming any of us would have had the opportunity or the guts to use them). We arrived in Norfolk in the early evening in time for the pilot to be on time for his date. Pete, Ed, a third person, I believe, and I got transportation to the gate of the Naval base where the civilian ferry crossed Hampton Roads for Newport News (the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel was not even on the drawing boards). There, Ed headed south for Chapel Hill, and we remaining three crossed on the ferry,
TAKING TURNS AT THE WHEEL
Pete and our companion were heading to Pennsylvania, and I was heading for Charlottesville, Virginia, but as the evening wore on we became increasingly concerned that nobody would pick us up at night, even with our midshipman uniforms on. We were about to separate and each try our luck alone when an old Buick Super or Roadmaster pulled up and stopped. Inside were three gentlemen headed north and anxious to do it in the most inebriated condition possible. They had plenty of whatever they were drinking and, even by their standards, had realized that none was any longer sober enough to drive. Therefore, they struck a bargain with us. If they could get in the back seat and continue drinking until they passed out, one of us would drive and the other two could ride in the front seat To us that seemed an eminently reasonable arrangement, and off we went to Richmond. I do not remember who drove that leg of the trip (as I was getting off at Richmond, I may have been the first designated driver), but when we reached Richmond I abandoned ship at the intersection of U.S. Route 1 and U.S. 250, which then as now was almost in the exact geographical center of Richmond. My last recollection of that colorful crew is seeing Pete at the wheel of the Buick, laughing and waving as he drove off for Pennsylvania.
My luck held for the rest of the trip, because I shortly got picked up by what I think was the only trailer truck driving that night between Richmond and Charlottesville and was deposited within two blocks of my home. I do not remember ever asking Pete how the rest of the trip turned out, but apparently there was no grave mishap, because Pete and I both returned to Princeton on time and remained in good standing.
While, as mentioned above, I did not know Pete well, I obviously in my wildest dreams could never have predicted that he would reach the Moon. I feel certain that every member of our class (as well as millions of others the world over) have gone to the Moon vicariously through Pete Conrad. His untimely death was a genuine tragedy, but, as reported, he was doing what we wanted to do and was having fun doing it. My personal "best memory" of Pete will remain a younger Pete in a similarly carefree and devil-may-care situation, laughing and waving from the wheel of that ancient Buick heading north up Route 1 in the middle of the night with his three inebriated hosts and passengers "asleep" in the back seat.
-Ned Slaughter '53
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