The Texas Lifeguard

Bright Angel Trail, Grand Canyon - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman

In 1972 Mineral Wells, Texas, the site of the first phase of helicopter pilot training school, did not conjure visions of a choice military assignment. It’s remote, fifty miles west of Fort Worth, near Possum Kingdom Lake, but also home to some the planet’s most pleasant people.

Several months ago I was looking at some old flight school records and found the graduation order of merit. The class consisted of both U.S. Army and Air Force junior officers and four foreign pilots, and with few exceptions the top graduates were all married. There was a good reason for this.

After the day’s flight training some of us single officers went to the base gym, but most invariably ended up at the Officer’s Club eating and drinking with abandon. My roommate Num and I soon met Lt. Dan Summer, a polished and fun loving National Guard officer from Connecticut, who was assigned to our class. Unlike the simple tastes which Num and I cultivated, Dan had been exposed to life’s finer edge and took it upon himself to teach the class to drink scotch. “It’s an acquired taste,” he advised, as we sipped the corrosive liquid. So with these nightly activities, studying and a restful night’s sleep took a backseat to laughter and camaraderie.

Besides the Officer’s Club, the base swimming pool was one of the few diversions in Mineral Wells, and it was here during my first week on the base that I met Royleen. She would later tell me her father wanted a son named Roy, so when Royleen was born, the “leen” simply was added.

Royleen was beautiful and vivacious. I tried to study at poolside, but it was hopeless. Who cared about grades? A passing grade would do just fine. We talked during her breaks, and a few days later I asked her to go on a date. She gave me her address and told me to pick her up at eight.

Mineral Wells is a small town, and I found Royleen’s house which she shared with one of her parents in a ramshackle neighborhood. Considering the way she spoke and carried herself, I thought there must have been some misunderstanding, and I had come to the wrong address.

I walked onto the porch lit by a tiny light bulb surrounded by thousands of insects, and not finding a doorbell, knocked on the door. A few moments later a tall, gorgeous woman answered. She was dressed immaculately with her blood hair permed and makeup meticulously applied to her face.

“Excuse me, madam, there must be mistake, but I’m looking for Royleen, the life guard who works at the base pool.”

A big smile erupted over her face, “I am Royleen, you silly boy.”

I had found a goddess in the most unlikely place, and considering my good fortune, earning a passing grade in flight school might very well be out of reach.

Cowboy Football

Moreno Glacier, Argentina - photo by JoAnn Sturman

W.R. Priskna
fliesinyoureyes.com

Fort Wolters, Texas - of all the places to attend flight school this must be the shortest straw. Situated near Mineral Wells, Texas, ninety miles west of Dallas near Possum Kingdom Lake, this was the only location where Air Force helicopter pilots trained. It would be home for the next four and a half months until I was reassigned to Fort Rucker, Alabama, for instrument training. Ironically, when training concluded, I would be sorry to leave Texas.

From the 1960's through the early 1970's, the U.S. Army trained thousands of helicopter pilots to fly in Vietnam. Although the war effort was winding down when my friend Nume and I arrived at Ft. Wolters in the July 1972, there were still plenty of military pilots and their families shuffling in and out of Mineral Wells. Apartments were hard to find, so many of us rented mobile homes packed closed together in trailer parks that ringed the town and were owned by local entrepreneurs. Nume and I chose the Bodiford Trailer Park and selected a much used two bedroom model for $100/month.

Football is a big deal in Texas. On Friday nights we went to a few high school games in towns of 10,000 people with football stadiums which held 20,000. The fanfare and energy rivaled college games where football is taken seriously. Scores of cheerleaders, pompom girls, color guards and bands of 200 musicians were choreographed to perfection. If this was indicative of mid level high school football, what would a Dallas Cowboy football game be like?

Nume and I became acquainted with the Jackson brothers, Danny and Andy, who ran the maintenance department at the trailer park. They were fun loving, hard working black guys in their thirties or early forties who had been around the block a time or two. In the evening after flight training Nume and I grilled steaks outside our trailer and washed them down with a couple of cold ones. If Andy and Danny were around, we'd ask them to join us. After barbecuing with them for a few months they paid us the ultimate Texas compliment:

“We have two extra tickets to the Cowboy-Steeler game in Big D this weekend. Do y'all want to come with us?”

The Cowboys and Steelers were the best two teams in the NFL and fierce rivals. Roger Staubach and Terry Bradshaw were the quarterbacks, and each team was loaded with all star talent.

“You bet we'll go. Can we pay for the tickets?”
“No, man. You and Nume have been real good to us. We'll pick you up Sunday morning at 9 AM and drive to the game.”

At 11 AM Sunday morning a huge Cadillac screeched to a halt in front of our trailer. Danny rolled down the driver's window. “Get in! We're going to the game.”

We opened the back door of the car. Including us there were now ten in the car. Danny and Andy were in the front with their girl friends, while Nume and I shared the back seat with four other very big people.

“You guys want some rum and coke?” Andy asked. This was Sunday in the Bible Belt but all bets were off.
“Sounds good to us.”

It was two hours until kickoff, and we were 90 miles away. How were we going to get to the biggest game of the year, park the car, and get to the stadium with so little time and so far to go?


The question was laid to rest when we launched onto the I-20 on ramp. With a glass of MD 151 in one hand and the steering wheel in the other, Danny accelerated the Caddy to 130 miles per hour. Only minutes ago we were dragging ourselves out of bed and now we were part of a surreal world streaking down the Interstate at hypersonic speed, listening to MOTOWN at 140 decibels, and drinking rum and coke. Forty- five minutes later we were in Dallas and walking into Texas Stadium.

Neither Nume nor I were Cowboy fans. In fact we hated them and planned to root for the Steelers. We rejected this ill considered idea when we reached our seats deep in the end zone. These were die hard Cowboy fans who had been drinking for hours and observed Cowboy football as religion. A few of the spectators knew the Jacksons and asked who we were. We hoped to receive a strong, positive endorsement from the brothers.

“They're cool, man – fly boys from the Air Force.”
“You guys Cowboy fans?”
“They're our favorite team – been cheering for them for over twenty years. We hardly can wait for them to kick the Steelers' asses.” Nume and I were only 23 three years old, and the Cowboys' franchise was not close to twenty years, but the testimonial to long term fan loyalty was not wasted on the crowd.

More rum and high fives followed. I remember the teams taking the field but little else. America's team was on the gridiron, but it was party time in the end zone. Who won the game? I couldn't tell you, but it seemed to last only a few minutes. There was some talk about going to the clubs in Dallas after the game, but for some reason the plan lost momentum. Lucky for us, because Nume and I were not in any condition to say no to anything, and we had to fly early the next morning.

After the game we left the stadium, found the Cadillac, and crawled into the back seat. It was more cramped than ever but at least it would be only forty five minutes back to Mineral Wells.