In June, shortly after my eighteenth birthday, I got a job servicing private airplanes for Clinton Aviation at the Denver Stapleton Airport.
     Even though I was eighteen, didn't have a driver's license and no driving experience that I would want them to know about, I was allowed to drive a 2000 gallon gasoline tanker about the airport and some very expensive airplanes.
     My job was, whenever a private airplane came to park in our area I was to direct him as to where he was to park, then tie the airplane down and chock it's wheels.  Whenever an airplane was brought in I always gassed it and checked it's engine oil.  It didn't make any difference if it had only been out for ten minutes, it got gassed and it's oil checked.
     Being around all of those airplanes for about four months got my adrenaline flowing.  I wanted to fly an airplane in the worst way and I didn't know of any way I could do it but to steal one.  I had been thinking along the lines of flying it back into the mountains, finding a valley where I could land and live.
     There were so many airplanes there it was hard to decide which one I wanted to fly.  I felt I could fly all of them, even the ones with two engines.  The first one I chose was an airplane with two engines.  The next problem I had to solve, was how was I going to steal it?
     The one thing I didn't think I could do was to talk on the radio with "Ground Control."  They would have spotted me as a non-pilot as soon as I opened the mike for I didn't know all of the pilot jargon.  I wouldn't know what runway to use if they told me, even if I was able to bluff my way that far.
     In making my plans I knew I would have to take the plane at night when no one was around.  All of the lights would be out in that part of the airport, meaning I would have to taxi the plane in the dark which would require a lot of room for me.
     Where could I find a runway long enough for me to take off?  That was the big and only question for me.  If I tried using one of the main runways without permission I would be stopped before I got halfway there.  No, I would need to make my own runway, somewhere.
     While I had been pondering this question, I was standing by the hanger, looking out over the  parking area where all of the planes were parked.  Looking east from the hanger I looked past several parked planes.  There, beyond the parked planes was a taxi strip used by planes coming and going from the main runway.
     "If that strip extended all of the way back here to the hanger, I could use it."  I thought, as I looked over several parked airplanes and right down the center of the taxi strip.  For the strip ran east and west, straight towards the north-south main runways.  I felt it was already long enough to use as a runway but I also felt I would be flying too low as I went over the main runways.  I needed the runway longer, to extend further west away from the main runways.
     Then I realized if none of the airplanes where parked where they were, I would have more than enough room to take off and be well above the main runways as I crossed over them.  That would be the easy part for usually I was the one who decided as to where the planes were to park.  I wouldn't park any planes in the area I wanted to use as a runway.  That would give me a runway from all of the way in front of the Clinton Aviation hanger to the main runways.  Almost a mile.  Brilliant!
     The next thing I would have to do was to park the airplane I wanted in the proper place so it would be easy to take when I wanted it.
     The day came when I thought everything was ready.  The airplane I wanted went out and came back a couple of hours later.  It was a big twin engine airplane.  I directed it to a spot near the hanger where it would be easy for me to take that night.

DC 3, similar to the airplane Larry Eugene thought he could fly.

     Getting the gas truck I drove it over in front of the airplane.  After hooking up the ground cables between the truck and plane I got the stepladder down from the truck and stood it in front of the right wing, then after the tank in the right wing was filled I  went to the left wing.  When I finished gassing the plane, the tanks wouldn't hold another drop for I had filled both tanks until they had overflowed.  The oil on both engines I had brought right up to the mark.
     Before I moved the truck from in front of the left wing I wanted to get inside of the airplane so I could get some sort of an idea as to how the engines were started.  I didn't feel I would have any problems once I had both engines running.  The truck had been sitting in front of the plane, blocking the view of anyone who could see me opening the door and getting into the airplane.
     Going to the door just behind the left wing I tried to open it.  The door was locked.  I hadn't thought of that.  It was a private airplane and the owner had taken the key with him.  I knew I wouldn't be able to take that plane.
     I was still determined to go that night.  The only place I knew where the keys were for some of the planes was in the office and those keys were for the company planes.  All single engines planes, mostly Cessnas.  The Cessna 150 was the type of airplane I had tried to fly a little over three years before when I was fifteen.  I was sort of set on one of those and the company had a Cessna 150 demonstrator I put in the hanger every night before I went home.
     That night when I put the Cessna 150 in the hanger I put it in last so it would be just inside of the big hanger doors.  I had a key to the to the offices which had an entrance into the hanger so getting in later would be no problem.
     After I had done everything I was suppose to do before I went home for the day, I locked all of the hanger doors and seeing I was the last one to leave I also checked all of the outside doors to the offices and the show room area to be sure they were locked.
     I walked over to the bus stop and took the bus to downtown.  Usually I went home right after work but tonight I wasn't planning on going home.  My plans for the night were back at the airport but that wouldn't be until after ten o'clock that night.  So all I had to do was to stall for time.
     Much of that evening was spent walking around downtown looking in the store windows. About eight o'clock I went to a restaurant and ordered a hamburger.  After eating the hamburger I went to a pay phone there in the restaurant.  There was a girl about my age, maybe a little younger, sitting near the phone and I knew she would be able to hear everything I said while I was talking.  To make sure she would hear me, I had talked extra loud when I called the airport weather and asked for flying conditions to Chicago.
     She had asked as I had hung up the phone, "Are you flying an airplane to Chicago?"  In kind of an amazed voice.
     "Sure I own a Cessna 150 and I have to fly up to Chicago tonight."  I said as though I had done it often.
     She said, she would like to go with me but she was sure her mother wouldn't let her.
     I had sat there for over an hour bathing in her admiration for me.  I could tell her anything about flying I wanted to and she would have believed me.  It had really made me feel good.  I had wished I could have gotten the same effect without lying but I felt there was nothing I could tell her truthfully about myself that would get that kind of admiration of me.
     It had been getting late as I caught the bus back to the airport and by the time I arrived at the airport the girl was only a pleasant memory.
     Arriving at the airport I walked down the street that passed the west side of the hanger.  From the street I could look into the show room and offices on that side of the building.  The offices had been dark and though the lights were on in the show room there was no one about.
     Circling to the north side of the hanger I went to the east side of the building where there were other offices.  Those offices were also dark.
     The keys to the airplane I wanted were inside of one of the east offices but first I had to get the number off of the plane so I would know which keys they were.  I had the key to the east offices, the door between the hanger and the offices, was never locked.  Unlocking the door I walked into a small reception area then down a hallway to the door leading to the hanger.
     I hadn't been able to see into the hanger from the outside so when I had opened the door to the hanger I did it carefully, peeking in as I opened it.  The hanger was dark so I knew no one was there.
     Working my way through the airplanes that were parked in the hanger, most of them in for repair, I worked my way towards the plane I wanted.  The plane was gone.  All I could think of was, a salesperson must have taken the plane.  Looking around, I could see there wasn't another plane there I could take.  I would have to wait for another night.
     Walking back towards the offices I remembered that the company limousine was parked outside in front of the east offices.  I knew the key for the limousine was also kept in one of the east offices.
     Going into the office where the keys were kept, I went to the key cabinet, opening it I quickly found the key for the car.  Leaving the offices I locked the outside door.
     I started the car and drove it over to the gas truck.  Unlocking the little shack I worked out of, I had gotten the keys for the truck and filled the gas tank on the car.  It was aviation gasoline but I knew it would burn just as good in the limousine.
     Turning the gas truck off and returning the key to the shack, I locked the door.  If someone came by while I was gone I didn't want them to find any unlocked doors.  At this point all I was going to do was to take a "joy ride" and bring the car back.
     The car was black and on each one of the front doors, in large white letters, was a sign, "CLINTON AVIATION."  Below that in smaller white letters, "COURTESY CAR."
     Leaving the airport I drove until I came to U.S. Highway 6.  I turned north, not knowing that it was a highway.  Soon I was out in open country but still I didn't turn around nor did I have any particular place in mind as to where I wanted to drive.  I was still just driving around.
     It seemed before I knew it I was in Sterling, Colorado about a hundred thirty miles north of Denver.  Here, as I sat at the junction of U.S. Highway 6 and 138, I realized I was only fifty or sixty miles from Nebraska and I had thought I was several hundred miles from Denver.  At that age, I wasn't too good of a judge of distances.  To the east of me I could see the sky was getting light and the sun would soon be up.  I knew I couldn't get the car back before they came to work and found it missing.  I guess that was when I had decided to keep the car and drive it back to Iowa.
     Going north on U.S. 138 I stopped in North Platte for gas and headed east on U.S. 30, stopping in Omaha for gas then onto Des Moines, Iowa.
     Arriving in Des Moines, seeing I still had money, I decided to stay in one of the downtown hotels.  It had been a fairly nice hotel and it had it's own garage inside of the building.
     Driving the car into the entrance of the hotel, I parked the car near the large double doors leading into the lobby of the hotel and went in to check-in.  Making out the hotel registration card, I wrote my real name and the company I represented as, Clinton Aviation of Denver, Colorado.
     "Will this be charged to Clinton Aviation Sir?"  The desk clerk had asked me.
     That had somewhat startled me but I had tried not to show it as I had answered him as calmly as I could, "Yes."  Then added just as calmly, as though it was an after thought I suppose to make the situation look more normal, "Oh, by the way, would you have my car washed and the oil changed?"
     The next morning I signed out and the car was brought up to the door for me.  The car had been washed and the oil changed.  From there on I decided not to spend any money on the car but to charge everything.
     I found that was easy to do with the sign on the side of the car.  At that time I didn't know the meaning of "Courtesy Car."  I told people who asked, it meant "Taxi, sort of cross country."
     I drove north into Ames, Iowa, about thirty-five miles north of Des Moines, then I headed east on U.S. Highway 30.  Going through Nevada where my grandparents lived.  For fear of the sheriff I didn't stop but kept going on east.
     I hadn't planned on stopping at the juvenile home but as I approached Toledo from the west, the urge to drive there and see my old home came over me.
     I had driven the car to the juvenile home and had parked it right in front of the administration  building where it was very easy to be seen.  I wasn't a bit scared as I stood in front of the car and surveyed the institution.  The main building was behind me and to my right.  The one I had known had been torn down and a new building had been built in it's place.  In front of me, to the left were the girls' cottages and to my right were the boys'.  Straight in front of me, about three or four hundred feet was the dining hall.
     I had been fourteen years old when I had been sent to the training school from the juvenile home, that had been about four years before.  I guess a lot had happened to me in those years, I suppose a lot more than what should have happened to a boy.  I never understood why but I had always felt everything that had happened was my own fault.
     As I was standing there one of the staff members came by who knew me.  He had asked, "Aren't you Larry Peterson?"
     I wasn't frighten that he had recognized me.  I don't know if he realized I was driving the car I was leaning against.  I was out of the car and in my mind the car didn't exist.  If he had asked me if I was driving the car, I would have told him I was driving it.  That was how calm and sure I was of myself.  Looking back on it, I didn't feel nervous about the car.  I felt very normal about it for I didn't feel I had stolen it.
     As we stood there and talked for a few of minutes, he told me the Anderson brothers were still there.  They were twin brothers and they were the only boys left that had been there while I was there.  They had gone to the institution about the same time I had, about seven years before.  A long time for a couple of boys to be locked up for no fault of their own.
     He had asked me if I wanted to have lunch with them and I told him that I would like to.  So taking me over to their cottage (they were now in the oldest boys' cottage) I sat and visited with them until it was lunch time.
     I had told them I lived in Denver and some of the things I had done since I had left the juvenile home.  I didn't tell them anything about cars, airplanes or anything like that.  But more or less where I had been.
     At lunch time I had gotten in line with all of the boys and marched to the dining hall with them, sort of like old times but now I felt no one there could hurt me and I knew I could leave any time I wanted to.
     Even though I had a lot of bad experiences at the juvenile home, I felt in some strange way it was still one of my old homes.  Even today, should I pass that way, I will regress back to those times and get a sick and scared feeling inside of me but I will also get a sadness behind my eyes.  I will feel, "This was my home but I am not welcomed here."  It is something that is hard to explain for I really don't understand why I feel that way.
     I have this same feelings for all of the institutions I have been in, the orphanage, juvenile home, training school and all of the institutions that followed.  A feeling of rejection, as though I was only allowed to live there for a while then I had to give them up.  Growing up, I had no place I could really call home.
     Leaving the juvenile home I went through Iowa City, Davenport, stopping at the orphanage only long enough to see it from the street and onto Chicago, then north on Highway 41 to Copper Harbor, Michigan with the intentions of going to Canada.
     Copper Harbor I found was on the end of a peninsula in Lake Superior and Highway 41 ended there.  Retracing my route south to Highway 28, I drove west to Duluth, Minnesota and then north to International Falls, Minnesota.
     It had been late at night when I had arrived within a few hundred feet of the border crossing.  The check point at the border was well lighted and I was afraid to take the car through it.  I had no idea what they did at check points along the Canadian border but I was sure they would ask me to prove that I had a right to drive the car into Canada.
     Afraid to cross the border at International Falls I took Highway 11 west, hoping to find another road into Canada.  A way I could cross the border into Canada without going through a check point.
     Somewhere between International Falls and North Dakota, I ran low on gas.  I had been charging gas every since leaving Des Moines, Iowa.  Towns had been fairly far apart and there hadn't been any gas stations in between them.  The gas gauge was on empty when I had finally found a station.
     The gas station had been on the south side of the highway, the only other buildings that could be seen were about a half mile or more to the northwest.  I had presumed it was a town.
     A boy a little younger than I was, was alone in the gas station.  He had said, his dad owned the station and that he had gone into town, pointing off to the northwest and he didn't know if he could let me charge gas.  I told him, I only needed enough gas to get to the next town that had a telegraph office so I could wire my company for money then I would be able to come back and pay him.
     He gave me about a half tank of gas and I was on my way before his dad had gotten there.  I was fearful since the boy had questioned me as to whether or not to allow me to charge gas so would his dad.
     At this time I was eighteen years old but I looked more like sixteen.  So it amazes me, in all of the miles I had driven, all of the gas stops I had made, this thirteen or fourteen year old boy was the only one who even hesitated in allowing me to charge gas to Clinton Aviation.  I didn't have any identification, not even a driver's license.
     Somewhere that night in North or South Dakota I again ran low on gas.  Pulling into a small town off of the highway, I tried to find a gas station open but they had all closed for the night.  In my driving around town I had seen a gasoline truck parked in an out-of-way place.  So returning to it, I tried to get gas from it but I soon learned (based on my experience with the tanker back at the airport) I had to have the truck engine running to be able to pump gas from the tank.  I knew nothing about siphoning gas tanks of the tank-truck or cars.  Even if I had, I didn't have a hose to do it with.  The only thing I could do was to curl up in the back seat of the car and sleep until the next morning when I hoped I would be able to get gas from someone.
     It had been cold that night and I had gotten very little sleep.  Trying to keep warm I had ran the engine of the car off and on until I had ran out of gas.  I was easily awakened the next morning when the operator of the truck had started it's engine for I had parked the car directly in front of the gas truck with the rear bumper of the car almost touching the truck.  After the driver of the truck had started the truck's engine, he had sat there as the engine warmed up.  This gave me time to get out of the car and walk back to the driver's side of the truck.  As the driver had seen me approaching the truck he had rolled his window down.
     "I ran out of gas."  I told the driver.  I wanted to get gas out of his truck or anywhere else I could get it.  I had told him I needed to get enough gas to the next town that had a Western Union office so I could wire my company for money.
     He told me that none of the stations in town would be open for another hour or two but he would give me enough gas out of his truck so I could run my engine for a while and would be able to get warm.
     Opening one of the utility boxes on the side of his truck he had gotten a five gallon pail, filled it with gas and with a funnel he had poured the gas into my tank.  It had felt good to have heat in the car again and it had been enough to get me a few more miles down the road to the next gas station.
     Continuing south on Highway 81, I drove through Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Sioux City, Iowa and on to Ames, Iowa where my paternal grandmother lived.
     I was tired, hungry, I felt dirty and I was broke.  The only place I felt I might get help was at my paternal grandmother's.  Eight miles to the east was Nevada where I might have gotten help from my maternal grandparents but I didn't want to go there for fear of the sheriff, for Nevada was also the county seat.
     It had been dark when I had arrived in Ames.  I parked the car about a block north of my grandmother's house, then walking to her house I found she was still up.  I had told her, I lived in Denver and was hitch-hiking back to Denver when I had ran out of money.
     She had made some soup and sandwiches and we had sat and talked as I ate.  She had told me I could sleep on the couch but I had declined the offer, telling her I wanted to get back to Denver as soon as I could.  Before I had left I had taken a bath, though the only clothes I had were the ones that I was wearing.
     This was the second and last time I can remember ever seeing my paternal grandmother.  The first time had been when I had rode my bicycle to her house a little over three years before when I was fifteen.  She died about a year later.
     Taking Highway 30 I retraced my route back across Nebraska, heading for Colorado.  I don't know when I had decided to go back to Colorado.  Maybe it had been when I was at my grandmother's or maybe I didn't decide at all to go back and that happened to be the direction I was going.
     Several miles into Colorado something happened to the automatic transmission and I couldn't get it out of second gear.  If I drove too fast the engine would start overheating.  So my top speed was only about twenty miles an hour.
     After driving for several miles in second gear I seen a town up ahead.  It had been Hudson,  Colorado, about thirty miles out of Denver.
     I knew I would have to stop and let the engine cool down some.  I couldn't have the transmission fixed for I didn't have any money and I was sure this close to Denver they wouldn't allow me to charge it without calling Clinton Aviation first.
     I had seen a gas station on the edge of town and I was slowing down to enter it's driveway when I heard a siren.  Glancing up at the rear view mirror I seen a state police car right behind me with his red light on.  He couldn't have been more than fifteen or twenty feet off of my back bumper.
     At first it had startled me.  I knew I couldn't outrun him, The engine was practically boiling as I was pulling into the gas station, otherwise I know from past experiences I would have ran.
     I had continued on into the gas station, pulling up to the pumps as though to get gas.  The police car following me in, stopped about three feet from my rear bumper.  The gas station attendant came out as I was getting out of the car.  "Yes Sir.  What can I do for you?"  He had asked as he approached the car.
     "Would you check the water?  It has been overheating on me."  Was my calm reply as though the police car wasn't there.  Just as calmly I had walked back towards the police car as though I was  checking the rear tires of the limousine.  I had been between the limousine and the police car looking for a way to escape but trying not to look like I was, when the state patrolman caught up with me.  I knew he was there but I wanted to ignore him as though that would make him go away.
     "That is a stolen car you are driving."  He had said, as though I didn't know it.
     My thoughts had been "Yes I know, I stole it and I am returning it to the airport."  Which I don't know if that was really what I was going to do.  I hadn't thought that far ahead.  I did have that feeling though that was what I was going to do.
     I replied as calmly as I could, "Yes I know, I'm returning it."  I had told him without telling him I was the one that had taken the car.
     I was still ignoring him with my eyes.  I was looking off to the north, behind the gas station, I could see there was an open field.  "Maybe I could make for that."  I had thought.  But then I felt that maybe it was too open for I had felt that if I had ran he would have probably fired upon me as I was running across the field.  At least I had learned one thing in life, the police would shoot at me if I ran.  I knew that it made no difference what I had done or how old I was, they would shoot at and possibly kill me.  That was something that was always so hard for me to understand.  Why everyone was always so angry at me.  Even to the point they would kill me.
     "Oh, it was recovered and you are returning it?"  It had been more of a statement than a question.
     I had been driving all day, I was tired, I really wasn't thinking too fast, maybe I had missed an opportunity when I had replied, "No Sir, it wasn't recovered.  I'm the one who stole it and I am taking it back."
     Maybe if I had tried to bluff my way through it, told him the car had been recovered and I was hired to drive it back, maybe I could have gotten away with it, maybe not.  I was just too tired at that time to really care.
     He had put his handcuffs on me and told me to get in the back seat of his car.  Before I got into his car I told him, there were some papers in the limousine I wanted.
     He let me go to the limousine and get the papers.  They were all of the receipts I had gotten when I charged gas to Clinton Aviation.  They showed where I had been and that the car had been out of state.  That meant I had broken federal laws.
     I hadn't planned it that way, to make it a federal case but now that I was caught I didn't want to be sent back to the state reform school.  I felt I had a better chance with the federal government than I would with the state.  Of course then I didn't realize I was too old for the reform school and would have probably been sent to the state penitentiary.
     I was taken to the Denver County jail and held there until I had a hearing about a month later at one of the federal buildings.