More specifically, he hated the Army base outside of Clovis, New Mexico, which was smack in the middle of the desert. It was a stretch to even call it an Army base. There was nothing there except endless sand dunes and an assortment of huts where the soldiers lived. During the day, the desert sun made working on the airplanes a miserable experience, and if a windstorm blew in, the sand got into everything—the airplane engines, clothes and, worst of all, eyes. Even Peter’s thick glasses provided little protection from the relentless sand. At only twenty, Peter was already a sergeant in charge of a company of mechanics, most of whom were into their second hitch with the Army. They had plenty of on-the-job experience and also plenty of attitude. The fact that none of them had made the rank of sergeant, despite many having been in the service for eight or nine years, said a lot about the mechanics. Peter had evaluated them after his first week and had decided: “They’re a bunch of screwups!”
