2-B

That's not a Corsair! It's an F4F, or Wildcat, the typical fighter of the Navy and Marines when World War II began. 

For some time I've known what 4-F meant in the jargon of World War II. It meant a man of draft-eligible age had some sort of physical handicap that prevented them from qualifying for military service. Sometimes the handicap was minor (such as flat feet). Being rated 4-F might mean a young man would live with the perceived shame of not being "brave" enough to fight. Anecdotally, we hearf form the World War II era that some young men took their lives upon getting the news.

From learning of Vic's story, though, I've learned what 2-B status meant. It meant one was employed in work considered necessary to the war effort and was therefore exempt from the draft.

Vic was assigned 2-B status. He had worked for more than a year at an aeronautical hydraulics manufacturer when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. His skills were in need there. And when one things about the astounding number of aircraft the U.S. manufactured during the war (more than we'd ever have the crews to fly) and the astounding number of parts on each of those planes, one can see why work at a firm like Vickers was so important.

Vic forfeited that status by enlisting in the Marines to become an aviator.

When I spoke with Vic's son, he told me that his dad wanted to be a Marine because he could be ensured he'd go where the fighting was. Vic's daughter told me that her dad preferred the Marines because he hated the idea of landing on an aircraft carrier. By the way, he had been a pilot before the war, so he knew how to fly but . . .

. . . there was no guarantee that he would pass flight school. How often is it that when one is self-taught, or at least taught in a non-traditional setting, that one ends up with bad habits and gaps in skills. Being an amateur pilot was no guarantee against Vic failing at his first flight school in Iowa, a program known as "wash-out school."

He took an even more unconventional path to becoming a Marine aviator because he hadn't had a college education. Under the rules of that time, the path for such a young man to become an officer and pilot was a tougher one. And, contrary to what one might think, the U.S. military was fairly stringent about who it would accept in those early years of the war.

Vic's commitment became even deeper. At one point, the government changed requirements for his program and took away a promise under which Vic had enlisted. Vic had to permanently forfeit his 2-B status, agreeing that if he washed out of school he would remain in the Marines in a post suiting Uncle Sam. He could have found himself assigned anywhere. And he chose to remain regardless.

A plane from Vic's squadron atop the U.S.S. Rendova.

I don't think Vic ever flew one of these. Helicopters were new instruments of war in Korea. 

An irony I found in Vic's story was that he loathed the idea of landing on a carrier, yet that's exactly what ended up happening in the Korean War. In World War II, Marines flew exclusively land-based missions. In fact,it's for that reason that Marines received the new F-4Us in advance of the Navy fliers: the Corsair's long nose made its visibility on landing poor, which delayed its deployment as a carrier fighter.

But in the scramble to find adequate numbers of qualified pilots in World War II, the Department of Defense got creative. Vic and his squadron mates qualified in December 1950 for carrier landings and takeoffs. His daughter told me that her dad took so many flyovers on his qualifying test that the landing officer threatened to shoot him down if he didn't put his bird on the deck.

He qualified.

Vic was a very hard working and resourceful man. He thrived in fixing things and improvising solutions to ugly problems. But I also know from his kids that he would never ride in a plane someone else was flying. And I can see why he wouldn't trust a heaving carrier deck, too.

Before retiring, Vic qualified to fly one of these jets. Jets weren't even invented at the time Vic signed on to be a Marine aviator. 

As I study these veterans I find myself increasingly humbled at the open-ended promise they are making. One can enter the armed forces with any sorts of promises about assignment or MOS or whatever. But ultimately, Uncle Sam can order you where he sees fit. Once trained, a soldier or Marine is an asset with a skill set that might best work in a place that wasn't originally imagined. Vic's path went some slightly uncertain directions, a fact that contrasts with the certain promise he gave up in 1942, a promise that he could stay at home if he wished.

One of my favorite photos of Vic. He's working here on a Model A Ford that he restored.