Four years as an Air Force air traffic controller during the Korean War was my introduction to the gender wars. Upon discharge in I returned home from Alaska unannounced.
You know those heart-tugging TV scenes we see of loving wives and children greeting returning veterans? A babysitter let me in and hurriedly left. I kissed the two sleeping little ones, and waited until my wife and live-in boyfriend returned from carousing at a nearby VFW club of all places. I had suspected something like that. I called a cab, threw my wedding ring in a nearby swamp, paid the driver handsomely to get me a after hours bottle of whiskey and take me to a sleazy hotel in downtown St.
Thus began a decades-long nightmare. I was shocked by the animosity directed at a male who dared buck the system. I struggled with depression and alcoholic self-medication. The situation affected my work.
On some days inbound aircraft would come in great waves, as depicted in the movie, Pushing Tin. After work some of us controllers might go across the street to the NCO Club now long gone for a few drinks to relieve tension. Three or four scotches usually did the trick. I had cleared the military jet to land, forgetting about the airliner sitting out of sight on the runway awaiting takeoff.
I still have occasional nightmares reliving that near miss. Now it could probably be called PTSD. I practically lived out of my car briefly, sometimes surviving on peanuts and water. I hired on for several years in Gulfport Mississippi as commercial pilot and flight instructor.
