We had been airborne several hours. This was my first flight and I was petrified. Suddenly I felt sharp, steady pangs. I pressed the call button. The stewardess came over and as she leaned down, I whispered, “Stewardess, this is my first baby and I don’t now what labor pains feel like.  Do you?”

“No, but I think you better start timing those pains.” As she walked toward the cockpit, she shouted, “Excuse me everybody. Is there a doctor or a nurse on the plane?"

No one responded. As my timed pains continued, I held back tears. I was on a MATS flight (military air transport plane) filled with dependent wives and children. It was October 16, 1956, and I was joining my husband who was stationed in Munich since June. The Korean War was in progress. My husband had been deferred until he graduated from Dental School. We considered ourselves fortunate that he was not sent to Korea, but now I was worried. The army would not pay for wives that were more than six months pregnant. We couldn’t afford to pay for my ticket to Germany, and when my obstetrician said it was okay for me to fly, I lied and told the army I was six months pregnant instead of seven and a half. 

The stewardess returned, patted my arm, and said, "Don’t you worry honey. We refuel soon in Newfoundland. The pilot radioed them to have an ambulance waiting. Has your water broken yet?  Have you had a show?”

 I said, “I‘m so nervous, I forgot everything. My pains are twelve minutes apart. I better check."

 The stewardess nodded, helped me up, and pointed to the toilet. "Go back there. Do you need help?”

 I nodded no and waddled up the aisle as the sympathetic eyes of the other dependent wives followed me. I felt my hands being patted as I passed. I scrunched myself into the lavatory, and tried to remember what I was looking for. I saw nothing unusual. As I headed back to my seat, I heard words of advice and encouragement.

One woman pulled me down, sat me next to her and began chattering incessantly for at least an hour. She pointed out the window, "We’re coming in for a landing. I can see the ambulance outside. When was your last pain?”

 I looked at my watch, pressed the call button, and as the stewardess came towards me, I grinned and said, "Last pain, twenty-five minutes ago. I guess that was false labor, but it sure felt real enough to me.”

As the stewardess headed for the cockpit she whooped, "It’s okay. False alarm!” The plane was filled with hurrahs.

We landed in Gander, Newfoundland and the passengers deplaned. A doctor boarded the plane, did a cursory examination, talked to me, and agreed it was false labor. I deplaned and then remembered to send my mother a promised postcard from Newfoundland. I was her only child. We were close and I didn’t want her to worry.

I wrote, "Mama, flying is great. Wonderful trip, so far, no problems.” 

           We boarded the plane and were airborne for about an hour. Suddenly the loudspeaker was crackling and the pilot informed us that the anticipated seventeen-hour New York to Munich flight might be longer because Munich was fogged in and we might go to Frankfurt. I sure hoped my husband would be somewhere to meet me. I was bloated and very uncomfortable and had two heavy suitcases. I was also bringing goodies from home: a head of provolone cheese, feta cheese, and homemade baklava.

           We landed in Munich and I grabbed my tote with the smelly cheeses. I took out a rose from my purse. I had written my husband that because in four months my appearance had changed drastically so I would stick a rose between my teeth. As we deplaned, the pea soup fog made me even more anxious about where my husband would be.

I started down the stairs and panicked because with the fog and with everybody in uniform, I couldn’t find my husband but he saw me, grabbed me, and kissed me. We claimed our luggage and quickly walked over to a sea of Mercedes’ in the parking lot. Everybody in the Army of Occupation in Germany seemed to have bought one. Our Mercedes was a black sedan that my husband had bought brand new for $1,000. We called it Black Beauty. I forgot how frightened I was in the air when I got in and sunk into the soft leather seats for the first of many trips. The most memorable were the two trips to the army hospital. The first, to give birth in December 1956, to George, and the second, thirteen months later, in January 1958, for Lisa’s birth. At seven dollars per delivery we figured we could afford to have two kids.

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