George was a mighty proud man, not willing to take sass from anyone. He never lost that streak of pride, but he discovered there were some things more important. On a Saturday night in Jacksonville, Florida (1942), George was out looking for a good time for himself when he walked into a dance. He was now a sailor in the Navy, was earning steady pay and had invested the vanity necessary to grow a long handlebar mustache. George thought he looked pretty good that night, nevermind that he was drunk. In his overconfid[...]