Shortly after Vinci and I were married on June 26th, 1945, my orders were to report to the above named facility, where we were billeted in a hotel just across the street from the beach. It would have been a treat but for a very hot July and no air conditioning in the hotel.

One day Vinci and I decided to spend some time in Miami checking out the city. We got back about mid-afternoon to find an order that I was to present myself immediately for a physical examination. Not having time to change out of my dress uniform, I rushed over to the Medical building.

Everything was going along fine until an Eye, ear and nose specialist noticed that my eyes moved back and forth involuntarily. I have congenital nystagmus and it had never caused me a problem, but he was making a big deal out of it. And then, he looked down at my wings, the DFC, Air Medal and other decorations and just about flipped his cork. "How the hell did you even get in the service at all," he asked.

He had me read several eye charts, which I did with 20/20 accuracy; he must have thought I had them memorized, because he took me into his office to read several others, ending in the same result.

Also, he must have thought there was a neurological connection, because he had me take off my shoes and sit on a stool. While talking to me, and without warning, he raked an instrument across the bottom of my foot and I damned near went through the ceiling. I was probably lucky that I didn't get court martialed for the cursing I gave him at that moment.

After all this, he told me that he would like to admit me to the hospital there for several weeks of tests. I couldn't believe this and told him, "Doctor, I have been married less than 3 weeks, and the last place on God's green earth I want to go at this time in my life is to some Air Corp hospital." A few minutes of conversation convinced him to drop the idea, and I left feeling much relieved. That much rehabilitation I didn't care to have.

One of my buddies, Jim Bullard, was with us during our stay in Miami Beach. We lost touch after that, and recent attempts to find him (after 54 years) have come to naught.

Copyright 1999 H. Thomas Flanagan