Growing up in a very rural area of Maine, having other kids to play with was the exception, not the rule. My social skills were slow to develop. Rural grade school was okay; but high school in the city was absolutely painful. Scholastically I was placed in the same classes with the A-list kids. But being an outsider and the son of a plumber, they were never going to cut me any slack socially. To make matters worse, I had the physical coordination and athletic ability of a top-heavy rock. I couldn’t make the B-list either.

By my junior year in high school I reached my full height of an even 6 feet. My legs were so short I wore pants with a 29-inch leg. My torso was so long I could not wear a hat while sitting in a car. I was a giant penguin!

I hated gym class. But it wasn’t just inability to keep up. It was the Athletic Director, Coach Grenda. Coach Grenda was one of the first adults I ever encountered who was truly cruel. Being the head football coach of a 4A school (as high as it went in Maine), Steve Grenda enjoyed considerable status in the community. To the jocks, he was a god. To those of us at the other end of the scale, he was the personification of evil.

The first time he ever hurt me was when I had to go to him for something after school – maybe to be let in to the locker room to retrieve some needed sneakers or something. As he waited for me, he asked, “Are you related to John Walker?”

“He’s my first cousin,” I replied. John was a star football and baseball player five years older than me.

“Too bad you aren’t more like him,” Coach Grenda replied, then turned his back on me and walked away.

I was crushed.

Later, after enduring almost three years of daily phys-ed classes, a good-looking jock – a wealthy doctor’s son – showed up for gym one day in black sneakers. Coach Grenda insisted we wear only white ones. The coach called Ricky out in front of the line and dressed him down for his lack of respect.

Ricky’s response was to divert attention away from the black shoes at my expense. With a grin, the handsome and confident A-list kid pointed me out and said, “At least I have the ability to do everything you ask of me, Coach. I’m not some fat klutz like him.”

The coach and most of the class all turned to stare at me. I wanted to throw up.

But it got worse. Coach Grenda glared at me for a second, shrugged his shoulders, and turned his back again. He let it stand. Class resumed and I was left standing by myself, my self-esteem in complete ruins.

Imagine my horror as a freshman at the University of Maine, to find I’d have to take two semesters of athletics or physical education to graduate. It was already a terrifying period in history. Our country’s leaders were pouring my generation into a war that made little sense while our World War II parents cheered them on. Make one slip in college and hello Southeast Asia, son.

I opted to get the worst part over with quickly. I reported to the Field House three times a week for PE 101. But it wasn’t so bad this time. The first thing I learned was that not all phys-ed instructors are evil and mean. The T-A was polite and treated me courteously. I was graded by my personal progress and never once compared with the others in my class. I got through that semester with a “C,” the best I felt I could hope for.

Early in my second semester, while taking PE 102, I had a series of accidents that involved violently twisting my right knee. The doctor at the campus infirmary sent me to an orthopedic specialist in Bangor who diagnosed stretched tendons and torn cartilage. Rather than operate – in those days there was no arthroscopic repair – he wanted me to wait and try to strengthen my knee by weight lifting and walking.

After 3 weeks of hobbling to classes on crutches, I limped into PE one afternoon with a note from my doctor. While I was standing there, another student walked up with a nearly identical note. Coach Grenda would have seized the moment to berate us for sloughing off. But our T-A was sympathetic. He said, “Alright, as soon as I get these other guys started, I’ll set up a weight room regimen for you two and you can spot each other. The second half of the hour I want you to jog, or at least walk around the track and strengthen those knees.”

For the rest of the semester I did leg lifts and walked around the gritty Field House track with the sophomore, Steve. Steve was a very big man, at least 4 inches taller than me. He, too, was funny shaped with very long torso, extra short legs, and barrel-chested. He was extremely hairy with a permanent 5 o’clock shadow. Together we must have looked like a pair of great apes stumbling around the dimly lit track. Physical “short straws.” Losers.

At first I was intimidated by Steve’s appearance. He looked gruff and imposing. I could never tell if his faded gym shorts and threadbare T-shirts were of necessity or an anti-establishmentarian statement. But he turned out to be gentle and, like me, a bit shy and withdrawn. We got along well enough, although I suspect neither one of us, for the same reason, dared open up very much in that environment.

I wish I could say we became close friends. As it was, after that class saying hello when we met on the sidewalk was about the only interaction I had with the guy.

Life went on. With the conclusion of that gym class my obligation to physical education mercifully ended. I stayed within my shell through all eight semesters of college and graduated in 4 years. It was the only way to do it in the 1960s without taking a sabbatical for Lyndon Johnson and Robert McNamara. By 1970 the war in Vietnam was winding down a little and Uncle Sam was getting more picky about who he drafted. My knee kept me out of the Service through two consecutive draft notices.

I stayed in my shell and brooded out my undergraduate years. My former gym partner began to come out of his. His forte was the pen. By the time he was a senior, Steve wrote a weekly column in the campus newspaper that had everyone scrambling for the free periodical as bundles of it landed on the steps, just to read what he had to say. We all thought he had great talent. Rumor had it that Steve wrote at least a thousand words every day.

It took me another decade to realize I had potential of my own. It took even longer to gain the self-confidence to comfortably approach people and initiate conversations. By that time, Steve Grenda was just a bad memory – a very small man who didn’t matter. The other Steve – Stephen King – proved to me that it is possible to be very successful in life without ever wearing an athletic uniform.

THEY CALL HER “DOUBLE UGLY”

Peter Walker

What would you get if you put wings on a combine? The result couldn’t be much uglier than the funny-looking twin-engine airplane that spent a great deal of time at the Fort Morgan Airport Saturday morning practicing landings and takeoffs.

The unmarked grayish aircraft, it turns out, is a recent acquisition of the United States Air Force. Four young pilots from the 318^th Special Operations Squadron at Cannon Air Force Base in New Mexico have been assigned to familiarize themselves with the special plane.

Made in Poland under a Russian license, the plane is a PZL M28 Skytruck light utility transport, a copy of the very rugged Antonov An-28.

Why a Polish-made Soviet design for USAF? Just ten minutes watching the ungainly appearing contraption perform and one can readily see its advantages, especially for special ops.

Joe Rigli and I stood with 1^st Lieutenant Louis Gabriel of the 318^th while his buddies put the plane through its paces. Lt. Gabriel’s enthusiasm was infectious.

The lumpy machine can’t go very fast due to its lack of aerodynamics. But it is powered by two US-built Pratt & Whitney PT-6 turboprop engines each generating about 1,100 horsepower. With that kind of power, Gabriel says, a pilot can bully his way through situations that would otherwise call for finesse.

According to Gabriel, the plane’s greatest advantages are its short-takeoff-and-landing (STOL) capabilities and its general solidness. Making a steep decent at about 100 mph the plane flared out at the last second and plopped on rough prairie on its rugged fixed landing gear. A quick reversal of both engines and the aircraft comes to a stop in a cloud of dust in little over 200 yards.

Standing about 200 yards down the field from the Skytruck we watched a pilot build up rpms. The aircraft’s nose dropped as it strained against its brakes. The pilot released them and the machine bumped forward on the rough ground.

Before the plane reached us the nose wheel lifted and the nose came up. Still 30 yards away the main gear left the ground as well. The pilot held the plane close to the field for another 200 yards, then the 8-ton aircraft suddenly jumped skyward at an astonishing rate of climb.

The M28 is equipped with a large door on the rear of the aircraft that would doubtless facilitate quick loading and off-loading in the field as well as parachute jumpers.

Lt. Gabriel, a Hawaii native who graduated from the Air Force Academy last year, was one of only three pilots in his class to receive jet training. Although he wanted to fly fighters, he is clearly delighted with the mission he has been given.

“It’s an absolute blast to fly!” he told us.

The contingent of pilots and airmen from Cannon are temporarily assigned to Buckley AFB in Aurora. When asked if they will be using Fort Morgan Airport again, Gabriel said he thought they probably would. It has both paved and unpaved strips and minimal air traffic most days.

What do the three ships in the photo have in common? They are all fully commissioned warships in the United States Navy. From left to right they are USS Constitution (42-gun frigate), USS Halyburton (FFG-40 – guided missile frigate), and USS Ramage (DDG-61 – guided missile destroyer).

F-18 Hornets of the Blue Angels fly escort overhead as the grand old lady of the U.S. fleet made her way under her own sails in June, 1997 for the first time in 116 years.

Constructed in Boston from 7′ thick live oak and copper fittings and plating forged by Paul Revere, Constitution was first commissioned in 1797. Her unique internal bracing made her sides nearly impregnable to solid cannonballs of the day.

Superior design coupled with equally superior crew training humbled the Royal Navy repeatedly during the War of 1812. “Old Ironsides’” most famous battle was a one-on-one shoot-out with the comparable HMS Guerriere off the East Coast in 1812. Constitution deflected British shot meant to stave in her sides while her own gunners expertly sheered off the British frigate’s masts in one pass. Guerriere surrendered in just half an hour!

Constitution served as a training ship in the Civil War and a floating barracks until her 100th birthday. Public sentiment saved her from destruction and led to her recommissioning in 1925. She now resides on public display at Boston Navy Yard.

The 1997 voyage from Boston to Marblehead and return marked her 200th birthday and demonstrated her complete restoration to battle fitness. She now makes two scheduled “turn around” voyages each year.

A HERO’S STORY

By Peter Walker

One morning in 2003 I heard on KUNC that the hospital ship USS Comfort had embarked from the East Coast for the Persian Gulf. I am a student of history. This was by no means the first time a USS Comfort has set sail to offer care and shelter for American service personnel in time of war.

The present USS Comfort  (hull number TAH-20) is the third such ship to bear the proud name. She was converted to a hospital ship from an oil tanker in 1987 and might still be in reserve had she not been activated for the first conflict with Iraq in 1990.

The first Comfort (AH-3) was converted from a liner in 1906 and brought wounded soldiers home from the Western Front during World War I.

In 1943 USS Comfort (II) was built from the keel up as a military hospital ship. At just under 10,000 tons displacement, she was a large ship for her time. Resembling an ocean liner, Comfort (AH-6) was painted white with large red crosses and carried no armament of any kind.

During World War II, USS Comfort was jointly operated with a U.S. Navy crew and Army medical personnel.

I am going to leave the USS Comfort for a few moments to explain why this seemingly benign auxiliary ship means something to me.

I grew up in the little rural town of Poland in southwestern Maine. As a child and teenager, I attended the Congregational church in the village of Poland Corner. Abutting the west side of the church yard was a large, yellow, frame house that belonged to an older couple, Mr. and Mrs. Chesley.

About four buildings away is the Poland Town Hall, aside from three surviving Grange Halls the only auditorium in the 1950s for a widely dispersed population of some 1,200 people.

Virtually all of the ceremonies and functions of Poland Community School were held on the stage at the back of the Town Hall. At the back of the stage was an Honor Roll that listed the 250 or so young men from Poland, Maine that served in the Armed Forces in World War II.

There was just one woman on that list. Her name was Frances Chesley. Frances Chesley enlisted as a WAAC nurse. In 1944 and 1945 she served on the USS Comfort.

The Comfort was busy throughout the Pacific in 1944. She treated and evacuated wounded, including liberated POWs, from New Guinea and the Philippines and brought them home to California late in the year.

Early 1945 saw the Comfort in the western Pacific once again, this time treating and evacuating wounded soldiers and Marines from Okinawa in early April. After dropping off a load of patients at Guam, Comfort returned to harm’s way. Again she pulled close in to Okinawa to receive wounded. The operating rooms on Comfort were busy day and night.

Prior to April 23, 1945, Comfort led a charmed existence. Despite her clear markings as a ship of mercy and a noncombatant, she had been attacked by several Kamikaze planes and once by a badly mistaken U.S. pilot. The antiaircraft guns of escort ships successfully fought off the Kamikazes until that fateful Sunday morning when, to the horror of sailors on surrounding escorts, a suicide plane dove straight into Comfort’s aft operating room killing 28 personnel including sailors, wounded GIs, doctors, and 6 WAAC nurses.

Frances Chesley was one of four Poland, Maine citizens to make the ultimate sacrifice in World War II.

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