Memorabilia

Wayne says….

“One of the sudden surprises in my life is the letter to me from Mr. Taliaferro, factory manager of Chance Vought Aircraft (CVA).

CVA had received a large order from the US Navy/Marines for F4U Corsairs. Since I was the youngest experimental pilot, my first year in 1946, I flew mostly production testing which discovered and corrected malfunctions, however small, that would make the F4U Corsair unacceptable. We had four hours flight time per plane to accomplish that.

By working directly with line mechanics, especially if problems were nagging, my learning curve and a good working relationship ensued. Many times the mechanics joked about how demanding Taliaferro was and how glad they were that it was I, not they, that had to talk to him.

For sure, my meetings with Taliaferro normally were short and to the point, but he demanded to know all the facts, regardless of time involved. I stood at all meetings until he motioned to me to sit. He was the product of a large Detroit manufacturer.

At our last meeting, he stood, which was a shock to me, shook my hand like a vise, and said, “Thank you.” It could have been my imagination, or the shock, but I detected a twinkling of a smile in his eye.

Wow! What a man … what a surprise – that letter.”

Below is Wayne Harding’s commentary on this newspaper article – it gives the background to Waite, the novel’s main character, and his Hog Calling throughout the novel:

Bridgeport [CT] Sunday Post
February 29, 1948
“Squeals Give Departing Chance Bought Pilot a Gay Send-Off”

“Since I was from Arkansas, I tried to make the most of it. Hog Calling was at the top of the list, plus my Flight Name: Ozark.

When I resigned from Chance Vought in February ’48, our Flight Office Manager, Bernie Anthony, organized a farewell party, which, he warned, included a surprise that would prove to all New England that my Hog Calling was a farce. Being close friends, I told Bernie to “go for it.”

At a great dinner full of laughter and toasts, Bernie took the podium which was the center table of three long ones. The other two touched each end to create a large U-shape.

“All right, Flight Ozark,” Bernie said as he rose. At the same time, two fellow pilots at the far end of the U table pulled up a crate which held a pig, and they took off the top. “Call him, Ozark. Call him.”

I knew I was cooked, but raised my hands for quiet and began my soft, melodious, “Soooo Pig, Soooo Pig, Souie, Souie, Soooooooooooooooo Pig.”

After 5 or 10 minutes, during which Mr. Pig seemed to be completely disinterested and my throat became increasingly sore, I was about to give up and seek everyone’s empathy, but no. The little fellow gave a grunt and jumped out of the box or made it turn over, and began running mid-table towards me, shaking his filth of two days onto diners on both sides. When he hit me, he was reasonably dry but smelled like unaired garbage of two weeks, not two days.

The next day, I shipped the pig to my Ozark friends, Owen and Isabel France, in Arkansas. When I saw him three months later, they had named him “Connecticut Bernie,” and mountaineers from all over came to see this polite pig from Connecticut that sat when he ate. The truth was his back legs had been frozen in shipment, and he had to sit down to eat.”