Your Class Notes Editor will put here contributions from members of the class as they come in. Do you have a memory of our time at Yale that might please, enchant, or otherwise engage the rest of us? Something stimulated by the accounts being published weekly from the Yale Daily News of 1942? By the class notes themselves? Something you've been telling your closest friends for 60 years, but not telling us? Send it to me by e-mail or snail mail: Todd Furniss, 685 S. La Posada Circle #902, Green Valley, AZ,85614. todd.furniss.je.42@aya.yale.edu
[Return to Class of 1942 website]
My earliest recollection of my four years at Yale was the very first night in late September, 1938. Earlier in the afternoon I had met my two roommates, Herb Greaves and Ed Logue. Our room was #10 Vanderbilt Hall, on the fourth floor with both bedrooms overlooking busy Chapel Street down below. My family home on Long Island was in a quiet suburban neighborhood and I was unprepared for the noisy city nights that lay ahead. I spent a very sleepless first night listening to the street cars lumbering back and forth down below. I feared for the worst for the many nights ahead but, happily, on each of the following nights, I slept more and more and after the first week I seldom heard the clang, clang, clang of the trolleys again.
Trolleys played a part in all of our lives as we were growing up in the 20's and 30's.
They were the first mode of mass transportation to follow on the heels of horsecars and the forerunner of trackless trolley buses and, later, buses as we know them today. They were the prime form of urban and inter-urban transport in cities and towns throughout the country. New Orleans had its streetcar named "Desire" and who can forget the long running comic strip "Toonerville Trolley?"
The open car Chapel Street trolleys that took us out to the Bowl on Saturday afternoons in the fall also stand out in my memory. As people piled on to the running board the cars took on a decided list to starboard. I recall the street urchins along the way who scrambled for coins tossed out by the passengers. The last run of the old, open cars to the Bowl was made soon after we all left New Haven. Car # 840 lay moldering in the woods along with many others until it was lovingly restored some years ago. It is now on exhibit along with nearly a hundred other restored trolleys ranging in time from cars built in the 1880's until 1936. They can all be seen today at the Trolley Museum in East Haven, CT.
A final incident involving New Haven trolley cars occurred the night of December 7, 1941. We had learned that afternoon of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. That evening hundreds of students marched out to President Seymour's house on Hillhouse Ave. where he came out on his front steps to address the crowd. The unruly mob then made its way downtown where we snake danced through the lobby of the Taft Hotel and then had a sit-down in the middle of the College and Chapel street intersection. The trolleys were backed up in all directions for nearly an hour until the police could muster enough force to clear the tracks.
In 1944 in the movie "Meet Me in St. Louis," Judy Garland sang "The Trolley Song," that blithe ode to the joys of riding "to the end of the line."
My CPT instructor, Charles Bradford, had briefed me the night before. He watched me draw the course on the topographical map from New Haven, to Hartford, to New London on the coast, then back to New Haven, a Triangular cross country. It was designed to wrap a student pilot's flying and navigational skills in one neat package. Different magnetic headings, corrected from true north for deviation, variation and wind, provided all the elements to test your mathematical skill. If you flubbed one and visibility was poor, it was easy to get lost.
The solo cross country was a prerequisite before you got a license. Without it, you weren't allowed to fly. By then, barnstorming was almost obsolete. I showed up at the hangar ahead of schedule at 6:00 a.m. Charlie wasn't about to be up at that hour, so I didn't wait for his moral support.
"Don't worry," Charlie admonished as we parted the night before. "Just follow the map. Joe will help you wheel out the Taylorcraft." Joe was an auto mechanic who had been bitten by a different bug. He was learning by doing, and, in the process, becoming a very good aviation mechanic.
We didn't have a radio, so there would be no air to ground communication. I hadn't heard a news report since the previous evening, so I hadn't a clue what was happening.
When I arrived at the field, frost and ice were on the ground. I could tell it was frigid by the tiny clouds of vapor forming in front of my mouth. I started the preflight, going through the checklist carefully, despite the cold. The Taylorcraft's Continental A-40 engine started after a few tentative hiccups and after a short taxi, I was poised at the end of the frozen turf strip, ready for the great adventure.
At takeoff, I would have a 20 mph headwind. Joe waved and headed back to the warmth of the hangar's pot bellied stove. Inside the cockpit, it was so cold I wrapped a wool scarf around my face. The Taylorcraft had a heater, but until the engine warmed up, it wouldn't be much good. My feet were numb on the rudders.
The freezing temperature provided one advantage. This little bird was going to have no problem at all rotating. Cold air molecules are closely packed. Dense air provides greater lift. At least, that's what I was learning in ground school. Climbing to attitude should be a breeze. I figured I might as well get on with it. I pushed the throttle forward carefully with the heel of my hand, maintaining steady control with my forefinger. The tiny craft surged forward, impatient to fly. The tail wheel lifted almost immediately, and in less than 200 feet we were aloft. And I do mean "we." Most male pilots develop a kinship with an airplane. It's always thought of as feminine in gender. The plane becomes a "she" and flying becomes a marriage, similar to the relationship between captain and ocean vessel.
The first leg to Hartford was a piece of cake. Time and distance flew by, on schedule. Landmarks popped up on time and in proper sequence. I landed without a bounce, ETA intact, right on the money. I wondered if Lindy felt this good when he touched down at Le Bourget? Probably not, he was too fatigued. No swarm of idolaters were at Hartford to greet my arrival, as they did "Lucky Lindy." The only person I saw was the grizzly faced FBO operator who came out of the hangar blowing on his hands. I heard him muttering to himself, "God Damned Yalies, and their God Damned Civilian Pilot Training!"
The old grouch reluctantly signed my log book to verify completion of the first leg, and I was on my way to New London. The second leg didn't go as planned. I had underestimated the prevailing tailwind. I was five minutes ahead of schedule. This wouldn't look good on my ETA calculations, so I figured I'd stretch the leg a bit by flying out over the ocean, before heading for the airstrip at New London.
I had descended to 1500 feet, and was circling offshore, when I casually noticed a long line of submarines stacked neatly side by side in the harbor. "Must be a naval base," I muttered to myself.
After completing a third 360 degree circuit, making sure I bled off enough time to adjust the ETA, I swooped out of the sky with a flair born of growing confidence. I landed at the New London airport smooth as silk, feeling pretty smug. All hell broke loose when I taxied up to the parking ramp.
Three jeeps loaded with MPs surrounded me. I could see rifles pointed in my direction. They surrounded the Taylorcraft like Indians circling a wagon train. One of them yelled at me.
" Shut that thing down and get out of there. NOW!"
Naturally, I complied and was immediately handcuffed. "For God's sake," I cried. "What in hell is going on? I'm a student at Yale on a cross country flight from New Haven, and I gotta get back right away!" I couldn't believe this was happening. The taller of three MPs again pointed his rifle at me and shouted.
"Shut your fucking mouth, mister. Don't you know we're at WAR?"
He proceeded to fill me in on world events, all the while pounding my chest with a rigid forefinger. "You damned idiot. You flew right over the Groton submarine base. You don't know how close we came to shootin' you down!"
I was searched for camera and film. Thank God, I had none in possession. I'd left them back in the hangar at New Haven. At least, I'd done something right, even if I hadn't meant to. Two hours later I was released, but they impounded the Taylorcraft. I had to take a train back to New Haven.
When I got back, news of my attack on the nation's largest submarine base had preceded me. Though I hadn't finished the third leg of the cross country, Charlie signed my book and I still got my license. I guess he felt sorry for me. Ten days later, under special military orders, Charlie was allowed to ferry the Taylorcraft back to New Haven.
Yes, indeed. I remember Pearl Harbor!
[After reading Todd Furniss's "Recollections"] I came to Yale from high school in a small Ohio town. I made the fatal error of living off campus our first year with an aunt and uncle (Harry Walker, an undertaker). Fatal, because I missed all the chances to really make friends. Moreover, I was a bashful quiet boy. My advice to prospective students ever since has been to live on campus your first year, even at the risk of having to go in debt.
I majored in math, got into an Air Corps meteorology training program, got my diploma in the mail as you did, ended up a fighter pilot in New Guinea and the Philippines, then went on to the business of college professor. Did some textbook writing as well.
Let me add one or two more. (1) I distinctly remember going to some Italian restaurants in a part of New Haven with some fellows to get pizza. Looking back on it, I am sure it was before most of the country knew pizza existed. (2) My uncle and aunt lived at 488 Norton Parkway. I lived in a nice room on their third floor. Most of the time I walked to campus. I especially remember many RAINY mornings when I cut across over to the Physics lab on Prospect. Do you remember that those were the days when NO ONE would carry an umbrella or wear a hat, but EVERYONE would have a Payne Whitney towel as a scarf when it rained? I am SURE of the NO ONE, but may be exaggerating on the EVERYONE. (3) I am sure you have the story about my finding a 1940 Christmas present for Ginx, the collection of musical instruments that I sent to her Ohio Wesleyan dormitory. What a flurry when she opened the boxes! Over 20 instruments, most of which are now in the Yale Collection of Musical Instruments. (Incidentally, Ginx and I met in fourth grade in Lebanon.)
Nov 8, 2001. Todd: Congratulations for assembling the Waterbury Tales material. I was one of the wayfarers on the tour, which was an experience rife with humorous incidents. One I remember with delight occurred during our performance at the Palmer Auditorium in Chicago. The theater was packed with Yale grads. The set was the garden side of the debutante's palatial home. A bunch of male guests came down off the steps into the garden. One of these was Tim Ireland. In response to a criticism one of the men had made of the debutante, Tim was meant to say, "Oh, I don't know, she's from a fine Kentucky family." A slip of the tongue and Tim said, ..."a fine Kenfucky family." The audience roared non-stop, and Tim blushed as only he could.
I was quite active on the stage crew of the Dramat, mainly, if I recall, and that's a big IF, in my Freshman and Soph years, but I thought you rang a bell by your mention in the e-mail.
However, after reviewing the information on your web site, I guess I was not involved with Waterbury Tales, and the great memories which yhou stirred up have to do with two other shows!
I helped with construction and lighting in "1066 And All That" and I think there was a show called "Too Many Boys" [there was. Prom show 1940]. I ran the follow spot in the former, and was on the main switchboard for the latter. Never on stage, but I did have a line in "1066..." when the actor on stage complained aobut the way the light was being run.