Fun times at March AFB, Calif.

Published 2:00 pm Monday, October 21, 2024

Getting your Trinity Audio player ready...

By Bonnie Bartel Latino

Columnist

Two funny things happened at March, but only one involved me. When Tom had finally been assigned a World War II-era base house, our neighborhood wasn’t on the main base. Our housing area for company grade and field grade Air Force officers was about 2 miles off base.

Sign up for our daily email newsletter

Get the latest news sent to your inbox

Senior officers lived on base in infinitely nicer and more attractive homes, not to mention more conveniently located to the base hospital, commissary (a huge grocery and vegetable store), and base exchange (BX). If Sam Walton had invented Wal-Mart by the early 1970s, the BX would have been the military’s version of it.

Homes for full colonels and general officers were as lovely as they were large. They were built before World War II, but in the style and earth tones of Spanish haciendas. I spent a lot of time visiting with Col. John T. Phillips’ wife, Pat. She had beautiful potted plants and flowers mixed among their antique furniture and heirlooms.

I didn’t yet fully understand how base housing was assigned as it was our first time to live on base. One day while I was visiting Pat, I had the brilliant idea to call base housing. A Carolina gal, Pat was making sweet tea. “May I use your phone, please.” She replied “Of course,” from the kitchen.

I used their base phone book next to her house phone, the kind people today call “landlines.” I quickly found a number for Housing and dialed it.

A man answered, “Housing. How can I help you?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pat come into the sun porch with two glasses of iced tea on a bamboo tray. “Yes. I hope so,” I said into the phone as I winked at Pat. “Can you tell me when we can expect to move into one of the villa type homes on the main base?” Pat nearly dropped the tray but said nothing.

“What rank is your husband?”

“Oh, he’s a first lieutenant,” I proudly replied.

I heard male laughter on the line. Between chuckles, the voice on the phone said, “Lady, your husband will never get a house like that.” And then, the nasty man hung up on me.

“Well, that wasn’t very nice,” Pat said, before asking what happened. When I repeated our conversation, she handed me my sweet tea before stifling her laughter to explain that the system of assigning military housing was one of those things referred to in the time-honored phrase “Rank has its privileges.”

“Oh,” I said, knowing at least enough to understand that I had embarrassed myself. (However! I also told myself that never was a long time. Remember that, faithful readers.)

“Don’t worry.” Pat assured me. “There’s no rule against asking questions about housing.” I sighed in resignation. “Our home is spacious and clean. It’s just so old.”

The other funny thing that has stood the test of time happened in our neighborhood. Five or six couples in which the men all worked in communications, moved into our block. They were all cute and funny couples – and we never had to crawl under anyone’s buffet table at parties.

One of our favorite couples were Elizabeth and Danny, darling newlyweds from New York. Both were fair-skinned with blue eyes and blond hair. He was a second lieutenant, and they lived across the street from us.

After several months, Elizabeth unexpectedly had to go back to New York. Her mother had suddenly become seriously ill. Danny didn’t know a thing about housekeeping. Elizabeth was afraid of what she would come home to. Laundry was her primary concern. Before she left, she gave Danny “Laundry 101 OJT.”

Elizabeth’s mother died five weeks later. Danny flew home for the funeral, and they flew back together the following week. She probably hadn’t given Danny’s dirty underwear another thought since she left for New York.

On their drive back to the base from Los Angeles International Airport, where Danny had parked his car before he flew to New York, he tried to prepare his wife for what to expect at home.

“Oh, Danny, how bad could it be? I know I was gone six weeks, but you only have seven pair of underwear.” She laughed as they entered their home. “Not exactly,” he whispered as she walked straight to their guest room and opened the door before shrieking, “Danny! What is this? There must be 30 dirty T-shirts and 30 dirty Jockey shorts in here. They’re everywhere!”

Danny hung his head. “I didn’t exactly understand your laundry instructions, Honey.”

“Don’t you ‘Honey’ ME, Danny Smith! What happened here?”

“Well, er ah,” he stuttered. “It’s not that hard to figure out.”

“Try me!” she demanded. “Well after I used the first seven pair,” he explained, “I thought about washing them, but I just ended up going to the BX and buying more. . .”

“And seven more sets every week until today! Right?” Danny’s sheepish grin in his ghostly-white face told her that’s exactly what her husband had done. As she started out of the guest room door, she turned and glared at him. “The least you could have done was stuff them into plastic bags!” She stormed out, leaned against the hall wall, and burst into laughter.

When life is good in the Air Force, it’s very, very good.