|
Hicks Field to England, 1917-1918
(Dictated by J. E. Pybas, cleaned up by his wife, Barbara Pybas)
My father, Jordan Cain Pybas Jr., volunteered for the U.S. Army in 1917.
He was twenty-seven years old and was assigned to the Army Signal Corps.
At that time there was no Army Air Corps, but it was soon created and
used that designation as a branch of the armed services.
He was
sent to Hicks Field, which was north of Fort Worth, Texas, bordering the
Santa Fe railroad. Many of the aircraft available to the government at
that time were being used as instructor planes. A number of servicemen
were being trained as pilots. They said my dad was too old to be a pilot
and placed him as a mechanic. This was a very exacting job. At that time
the mechanics were encouraged to fly in the planes they had worked on
and probably to solo. He said that practice eliminated many mistakes.
The army pilots wanted the mechanics to make the test flights to be
certain the plane was in good condition. If the take-off and landing
were successful, you automatically became a pilot. With that procedure,
Dad learned to fly.
Hicks Field lay on the east side of the Gulf,
Colorado and Santa Fe (GCSF) Railway. On the weekends, when many of the
servicemen were given a pass or furlough, they would line up along the
railroad track. There might be as much as a half-mile of soldiers. The
freight car doors were open and the engineer went as slow as possible so
that all the men could climb aboard. They could stop off at many small
towns. But Purcell, Oklahoma, was as far as they could go. The rail line
changed to the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe (ATSF). The bulls, the rail
police, would run them off and make them buy a ticket to go any farther.
It went against the grain of the servicemen, and they hated them walking
the line, swinging a club and threatening them off the train.
Dad's parents, Jordan Sr. and Lydia, lived on a farm east of Oklahoma
City, only about forty miles from Purcell, so he bought the ticket for
the rest of the trip, which didn't cost very much. I asked him how he
got back and he said they'd always give him enough money at home for a
ticket back to Fort Worth.
One of Dad's friends with the American
Legion told me a story as late as 1947, after I got back from the
Marines. Dad didn't deny it so I guess it was true.
In late 1917
Dad, a mechanic, and another pilot apparently purposely got lost and
flew all the way to Oklahoma City from Hicks Field. They were encouraged
to do some cross-country flying, but this was beyond the prescribed
distance. Dad told the pilot where his home place was and they landed on
the Pybas farm, which was definitely against regulation. They were gone
two or three days. It was necessary to find a telegraph to tell the
officer of an unfounded mechanical problem. In the meantime they enjoyed
his mother's home cooking and good beds. On the third day they found
some car gasoline, refueled, and made their way back to the army base.
Evidently there was neither recrimination nor demerit. At least this was
the story told.
There developed a great camaraderie and
comradeship among the World War I veterans. They were a close-knit group
and formed an allegiance to their organized veterans groups as well as
to simple gathering as friends who had served during the war. They were
very patriotic and proud of their service for their country.
Armistice Day, November 11, 1918, was strictly observed and remembered
by the World War I veterans. As a kid I remember my Dad making the
rounds, talking to his cronies, and later being involved with memorial
ceremonies by their service organizations at the cemetery.
By the
mid-Thirties I was allowed to tag along. After we got the chores and the
necessary work done, Dad started out. He knew all the local veterans;
they'd meet and stop and talk, and somebody would have a drink of
whiskey or maybe home brew. Then they would reminisce. I was a small boy
but I would sit and listen to their stories, fascinated by tales from
France and Germany, the battles, the trenches, even deaths of friends
they knew.
Then there was the all-important question: Where were
you on this day in 1918? One said, "We were pulled out of the trenches."
Another said, "We were still in them."
Dad told where
he was. I heard his story many times. He served with an aerial heavy
bomb group as a mechanic. They were halted in England, ready to be
deployed to France. A big group of ANZACs (Australia-New Zealand Army
Corps) were encamped down the way from the U.S. air group. They had been
pulled back for R and R. Those poor guys had been all the way from
Gallipoli to western France, the survivors from a horrible number of
casualties there. On the morning of November 11 they drove down the
street with a big truck loaded with kegs of beer. "Come on, Yanks, let's
celebrate," they yelled. The American unit followed the beer truck.
Everyone was on the street, cheering and crying and pounding one
another. The war was over. They couldn't believe it. It was time for a
drink.
The next morning Dad reported to his camp. The commander
was trying to muster his unit. He had the corporal roust out every one
from the barracks for roll call. Some stumbled out half dressed, hung
over. The quartermaster reported, "Fifteen present, fifteen missing, and
ten Aussie visitors!" He finally shouted, "To heck with it," and let the
celebration wind down.
Dad died in 1975 at age eighty-seven.
Barbara Pybas
Gainesville, Texas
Published:
November 14,
2005
Categories
Related Handbook of Texas Online articles
Other My Texas stories by this author
|
