young charges a month-long tour of postwar Europe. They had already visited Cologne, seeing a city so flattened by bombs that it resembled the well-known pictures of Hiroshima. Soon they would visit Berlin, then Austria, Rome, Greece, and a dozen other places. For their transportation and living quarters Bukema had arranged the use of one of Hitler's private railroad cars.
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Among Bukema's students was a twenty-one-year-old third year Cadet Corporal by the name of Frank Borman. Borman, raised in Tucson, Arizona, had never imagined that such deprivation was possible. The young man stared with dismay at the refugees. Their clothes were ragged and thin, and they had a beaten, tired look about them. Whole families were crowded into the dormitories, using blankets to cordon off their meager living quarters.
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Nor were these the only horrors that he had seen. Beaten, occupied, and nothing more than shattered plunder for other nations to fight over, the citizens of Germany in the late 1940's could barely find enough food to eat. Cities lay in rubble from Allied bombing, and the lack of food had been worsened by a severe drought in 1947. Compounding these problems was the ceaseless tug-of-war between the Soviet Union and the other allies for control of Berlin and the reconstruction of Germany.
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To this destitute land came Frank Borman, a blond, small-boned man whose friendly face belied his intense, dedicated and relentless mind. Born in Gary, Indiana in 1928, he had been a sickly child, with serious sinus problems. When their family doctor told his parents that their son had to leave the industrial Midwest for his health, his father gave up his successful auto repair shop and, in the worst years of the depression, moved his family to Tucson, Arizona. Unable to make a profit with a new gas station, Edwin "Rusty" Borman was forced to take odd jobs changing tires at someone else's garage, while Marjorie Borman rented out rooms in their home.
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For Frank, however, these problems didn't exist. His childhood in the warm desert country of the American Southwest was like being in heaven. He wandered the countryside, bringing home strange pets, from goats to tarantulas. He and his father built homemade model airplanes, some with wingspans as long as six feet, and each Sunday morning they took the planes out to the wide open windswept desert fields and flew them far and high.
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