My name is Beryl Grubaugh, and quite often war stories involve someone getting wounded, killed, or airplanes getting riddled with flak. I remember such incidents all too well. Those stories give me the shivers. I would like to balance off those stories with something pleasant and amusing. So, I summit this story as something everyone can relate to, the men, the wives, and even the grandchildren.

In the Fall of 1944, I was sent to the Replacement Training Unit (RTU) at Greenville, South Carolina. I had flown B-25's in Advanced Training at Brooks Field, San Antonio. This helped hurry me on to RTU with very few flying hours. As an "Airplane Commander" I was assigned a crew to train for early combat assignment. To make matters worse, I was given an instructor who had been on one of the original 488th crews. After being a pilot for three years, and returning from combat, he was still just a Flight Officer. He was understandably bitter about that situation. Also, he was much shorter than I. He set about with a vengeance to prepare this tall, green, 2nd Leuitenant, kid, for combat. I think he did a good job, but it was like having the enemy in the cockpit with you. He would slightly lift the wheels after I had checked them down and locked, etc. etc. His teaching tactics were extremely stressful.

One Saturday night I felt the need to escape the military scene. So I got out my brushed beaver hat, put on my olive drab shirt with my "slick" wings and wearing my "pink" slacks, I drove out alone in search of adventure. I stopped at some mill town that was having a dance at the local high school. There was quite a large crowd of small town folks and not one military man in sight. I strolled around the inside of the gym with my hat tucked under my arm. I smiled and nodded to all the "old ladies". These women were probably in their forties. They were the mothers of the girls who came to dance . I knew that I had to make a good impression with the mothers if I wanted to dance with any of those girls.

Then I picked out the prettiest thing in sight. Even at that tender age I was a great judge of women. I was flexible and acceptable as to physical attributes. Anyway, having accepted my invitiation to dance, we proceeded to get acquainted as fast as possible despite the noise, jousting, and frequent interruptions. This young lady was giving me just the sort of diversion a soldier needed, and my admiration was obviously reciprocated. After three or four dances, we were approached by a husky middle-aged man, and two big guys in their twenties. She pleasantly introduced them as her father and brothers.

Her father said, "We'd like to invite you outside", and then turned to head for an exit. Actually, the words seemed more an order than an invitation, but I followed him very dudbiously with the two brothers bringing up the fear. I began looking around frantically, but no fellow airmen were there to witness my abduction. The man led me out the door, and around the corner, into the darkest possible place. They all three gathered around me a "little" too close for comfort.

Her father then said, "We just want to offer you a drink", and brought out a fruit jar of clear liquid. They were all bright eyed and wearing big smiles. I responded with thanks and relief, but explained that I was too young to drink. They all asked, "How old are you?" Trying to make it sound better, I said, "I will be 20 next month". They all chorused incredulously, "You are nineteen!"

Having gotten over that hurdle, the next question was, "How do you like my daughter?" I told him that liked her a lot, and that she was the finest young lady there. I knew enough not to call her a pretty "thing" when talking to her father. Then I added, "But, she's also a thief". Of course, this prompted the question, "Why do you call her a thief?" I said, "Well, she has already stolen the Leiutenant bar off my left sholuder, because it scratches her arm, so I am worried about what she will take next." They accepted that as a great joke, and agreed that it was best that I didn't drink their moonshine because it was pretty powerful stuff. They escorted me back inside to dance the rest of the evening with my dream girl. As it turned out, I didn't even take her home. They had driven in from a town call Ninety-Six, and I would have never found my way back to the base. Besides, she was only 16, and just half way through high school. We corresponded a few times. Those letters probably helped to verify her stories to her girfirends. At that age, day dreams are much more important than reality. One Saturday dance is not much foundation for a lasting relationship, and we eventually took different paths in life, but this is a World War II war story intended to bring back pleasant memories.