I had been flying sub patrols off the Florida Coast for months in P-40s; and I really enjoyed that plane. But flying submarine patrols was about the most boring thing a fighter pilot could do. Little did I know, that there would be times when I would have gladly traded a little boredom for some of the "excitement" that would come my way.
        Towards the end of 1944 (I was 20 years old at the time) I I and some other younger guys finally got shipped to Europe. We had been scheduled to fly P47s. After crossing the Atlantic, we got off the ship at Le Harve. We boarded a train bound for who-knows-where for about a day and a half. We finally got off near the Le Bourge Air Drome while the higher-ups decided what to do with us.
        Well, the 9th AF had all the Jugs pilots they could use, but P51 pilots were needed in England. Turns out somebody had fouled up and had cut our orders to France instead of England. It got straightened out, so we flew out of Le Bourge Air Drome for London, but we did get some "open-post" time and I used it to take in the Follies and the Bal Tabarine.
        Just arriving in London and having a few hours to spare, I was checking out the lay of the land when I ran into a couple of infantryman who had just been come off the front lines.

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