Johnny Cloud took hold when I lived on the Navy base in the mid-1960s: NAS Atsugi, Japan. The Vietnam War was raging, and everyone was either coming or going. No one was out of uniform except the local day workers. The air was abuzz, literally, with jet engines howling all day – we had to shout to be heard.
Yet, it was an idyllic time for a freckle-faced nine-year-old. I roamed the base freely with few responsibilities. Everyone was hurried but me. Dad was especially busy: Up early, home late, standing tall in a crisp uniform edged with gold. A Commander. He worked at the airstrip, an engineering officer in charge of fixing F-4 Phantoms and F-6 Intruders.
And so, left to fill long afternoons, I had to find ways to connect. It didn’t help that I was an introvert. But I wasn’t lonely. I played army and built forts with the other boys. Still, I was a loner at heart with my own cadre of imaginary friends. Suffice to say, I was primed for Johnny Cloud.
Dad got me started. He set the course early on with his orange flight suit and gold helmet. I put the helmet on once; it was huge and heavy and quite intimidating. Now add the orange suit, blazing from neck to ankles … really now, how many Dads get to dress up like they are out to save the world?
But mostly, Dad helped me build my Air Force: P-51 Mustangs, P-47 Thunderbolts, P-38 Lightnings, and let’s not forget the Luftwaffe’s Me-109s and Fw-190s – plus a few unusual wings, like the Italian CR42 Falco or the Polish P.11C. Hurray for Airfix and Monogram. I saved my nickels and dimes to build my Air Force at forty-nine cents a pop.
“Let’s build them all,” Dad said. And we did. But then he was off – back to the Phantoms and Intruders.
So, I gathered up my squadron and laid out my battle plans. I flew with Johnny Cloud and his Happy Braves. But, let me be clear: I was actually flying with Dad.
I checked the Navy Exchange every week to get briefed on the next mission. The comic stand was along the back wall next to the Milk Duds, six shelves stacked with bright, glossy covers. I always kept a dime and two cents in my pocket. Ready. Waiting. And what a long wait it was … weeks!
I have to admit that sometimes I got a Superman or Batman comic to fill the void. But All American Men of War was the prize! So, imagine my joy: A fresh stack (usually three or four) AAMOWs hot off the truck with full-color action and bold callouts: Death Dive of the Aces or Tag – You’re Dead or Death was the Co-Pilot! Who could resist! I had to act fast, as the sailors liked them too!
Twelve cents spent and out the door I rushed. Oh, and if I was rich, I grabbed a nickel box of Milk Duds too. Walking fast, I fondled the cover, pinched the thickness, rolling and unrolling and flipping it over in my hands … but I didn’t peek! Like mom said, “Don’t eat the chocolate until you mash it into the marshmallow.” I took my usual spot in the snack bar, a back table, and then, with a Dud on the tongue, I turned to the splash page – here was the preview, and like a movie trailer, the action was immediate.
And now … at half past sixty, I am feeling the urge to get the details of the next mission.
No comments:
Post a Comment