Winter was uncomfortable on the flight line. Anywhere along the Mississippi the air was damp. The dampness seemed to exaggerate all condition be they hot or cold. After we started the planes and had them aloft, they'd be gone for two hours. We could return to the Ready Room a quarter mile away.
Sullivan, the most irresponsible of our group, (you must admit that is quite a title) suggested we haul a crate near to our spot on the flight line.
New Continental engines arrived in crates about three foot high and eight foot square; just high enough for four men to sit Indian style.
We placed it back forty feet behind the planes and made a short table whereas we could play Pinochle and boil a pot of coffee with a coca cola cap of gasoline acting as a stove. It made living comfortable for a month.
A new CO took command of the base and called for an inspection tour of the flight lines He inquired of the box left out on the grounds. There were only four men on the base who might have answered that question, but thank goodness no one asked. Sullivan saw them coming and tried to put out the cola cap stove. It wouldn't go out so he sat on it. And he burnt his Getalong. The air smelled of burnt dungarees and coffee. "Get rid of it!", were the orders.
Every thing has an ending, even good things.
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