You Meet The Nicest Friends On  A CBI Golf Course

   The only R&R I ever received in the Army Air Corps while stationed in the paradise of China-Burma-India during a short stay was on a nine-hole golf course where I came upon two former high school friends from my hometown.  It was August, 1942.  And two months later, like ships that pass in the night, both were lost in flights over the HUMP.

   I'd wandered over from my duties near the Big Hangar at Karachi, or more correctly, New Malir (the Limeys said) onto a nine-hole golf course just outside the Karachi airport administration building.  I cannot recall if I'd ever golfed before but it apparently looked inviting to get away from monotonous drudgery and waiting to be moved up "the line" to Assam.  The layout, of course, was flat, arid, the nearby Great Sind Desert contributing to the terrain and providing "sandy greens."

   My disgruntlement with my lot in military life that particular day was indigestion sparked by lousy cream-filled and sugar-laden tea and straw-laden afternoon cake.  Frankly, I was hungering for some of Mom's chocolate cake back home!

   I'd sipped the tea and gnashed my molars on the concrete in the airport's main administration building.  I was out of sorts, to speak frankly.  I'd rented a set of clubs and teed up my ball.  I straightened up and preparatory to warming up my driver, I glanced over to a nearby jeep.  Two men caught my eyes, standing in deep conversation.  Their profiles looked familiar, to say nothing about their uniforms.  I proceeded to swing my driver, when my mind opened up.  On impulse I strolled over to them.  My instincts proved correct.  The uniforms and profiles belonged to two first and flight lieutenants from my home town of cortland, 30 miles south of Syracuse, New York -- Douglas Hartranft and George Humphrey Hadley.  They were starched and fuzzy-jowled.

   "Hey you pokes, what'cha doing way out here in the sticks?" I chided.

   My voice startled them and interrupted their conversation.  They recovered from their surprise, staring at me with round eyes that spoke their disbelief.  We got right into it, my teed ball notwithstanding.    We excitedly conversed, catching up with each other's lives, with side effects of merriment, chortling and braggadocio.  All three of us spoke constantly.

   Hartranft and Hadley informed me they were with our sister ferrying squadron -- the 3rd at Chabua, Assam, and would be reporting for duty next week.  They'd fly C-47's over the mountains.  We conversed about our home town, girl-friends and friends.

   Doug was the Casanova of high school  and aspired to be on Broadway someday.  His companion, "Humph" Hadley was 26, two years ahead of Doug in school and four ahead of me.  He played saxophone  in jazz bands in school.  He was tall, lean, of supple body, good looking and taciturn of nature.  Hadley was born in Peking 1916, son of missionaries to China.

   The Hadley's had another son, Carmen, who attended Cortland High, went on to college and settled down in California, pretty much an athlete and student of art and history.  The family resided in the upstate New York City from 1933 until 1942.

   It was the only time in my brief military career that I met anyone from my hometown, and I reveled in the experience that day on the golf course.  They later played the course with two others.

   Two months later, I heard through the "grapevine" that both were lost separately on missions over the Hump, and nothing was ever heard of them again.

   In 1984, after our granite memorial at Wright Patterson AFB was dedicated, I wrote Humph's mother who was in her high 90's, describing the ceremonies.  I'd advanced her son's name in the Book of Remembrance.

   I've always  treasured remembrance of that "chance" meeting and brief how-dee-do with my two friends from my home town.  In my mind, they've never disappeared.

By Malcolm "Mac" Alma, Flight Operations, 13th Ferrying Squadron, Sookerating & Kunming.  Related in Vol. 3, China Airlift - The Hump.