Finally the bus arrives, and we are driven the two miles along the vast flight line, passing row after row of behemoth jets with blinking lights and laughably small figures of people hurrying about them. Farther still, we pass racks of inert bombs, missiles, and other sinister munitions. Fuel trucks, cargo loaders, strange tractors of several varieties, and other buses filled with flight crews jam the roadway. Rows of fighters are being pored over by mechanics under portable floodlight units, tweaking them up for their departure to the killing fields.
We are delivered, finally, to the MAC command postthe CPand wait for our turn at the debriefing window. The hallway is alive with crewdogs. Some, like us, are inbound, as we can see from their ruffled hair, stubbled faces, and fatigued eyes. The "outbound" crews are a bit fresher, are pumping the inbounds with the latest rumors, and, with a hint of pleasure, are informing us of the ordeal ahead that is to be our "crew rest."
Finally the CP controller logs us in and, with a bit of a smirk, asks if we prefer eastbound or westbound on our next assignment. Of course we want to go east, or "downrange," as it is now dubbed. We're eager to get into the action. It could be over soon. We don't want history to pass us up. He dutifully notes our preference and sends us off to crew rest.
We arrive at the military hotel and step off the crew bus into Dodge City circa 1880. The lobby and walkways connecting the hotel with the officer's club are alive with shouting crewdogs, many toting bags, sucking San Miguel beer, and cavorting with one another, pistols strapped to their sides and shoulders. Weary pilots lean against the check-in counter, running fingers through sweaty hair. Someone has posted a large map of the Middle East regions, which is rapidly collecting graffiti and other scribbled gems of crewdog wisdom. The area is abuzz with activity. The atmosphere of crisis and the uncertainty of the coming days spawn excitement rather than foreboding. The place seems almost festive, as old acquaintances are rekindled and the stress of many hours in the air is released. But I have a hunch the festivities will be short-lived.
I look around for a familiar face but see none other than those of my own crew. We get our room assignments, two rooms for six of us with a single bath, and are told we're lucky; an hour earlier or later, and it could have been a cot in the recreation center ballroom. We drag our bags down the long hallway and up two flights of stairs, past housekeepers shouting at one another in rapid-fire Spanish, and find that the frenzied activity extends throughout the building. It seems impossible that anyone could sleep here. Crewdogs are their own worst enemy Coming in from a mission, they are often loud and boisterous, buoyed by the San Miguel and the relief that the mission is behind them.
Bones, Jeff, and I crowd into the small, two-bed, one-cot room. We don't care much for rank, privileges, and the like in the Guard, but Bones, the junior officer, insists on taking the cot, and I choose not to spoil his wishes. We strew our vast array of gear and personal bags in the only space available, and proceed to stumble over them constantly We soon discover that the air conditioning is out of commission, and we throw open the windows in a futile plea for relief. But then we reel at the roar of a C-5 engine test, the din pouring in as if the nozzle were backed up to the window, though the plane is a mile away The mechanic at the throttle powers the engine up to takeoff-rated thrust, then back to idle, again and again, as if on some mission of vengeance against us.
One of our loadmasters stops by the door and says that Tom Clayton's crew is out on the dayroom balcony Eager to see familiar faces, we proceed to the balcony and find Tom and his crew, sitting beside a cooler of San Miguel and judging the landing patterns of the arriving C-5s and C-141s.
"You weak wick!" cries Tom as a Starlizzard flies a wide downwind leg. "What a bomber pattern. Close it up!"
As I arrive, a sergeant dressed in a pressed blue uniform steps up and informs us that alcoholic beverages are not allowed on the balcony. I sense the reluctance in his eyes and voice, as he explains that the policy is not his but that of the base services officer. I shake his hand and usher him away from the snarling crewdogs, assuring him that I will take care of the matter, that he is absolved of responsibility, though I have no intention of taking action. He probably knows it.
As the sun rises over the prominent plateau east of the base, I leave the balcony crowd and start back to the room. On the way I notice a familiar face approaching from a connecting hallway. The man has a watermelon under one arm and a leather attache case in the other hand. My heart soars: it's my old friend George Fondren. But the gleam that I expected from him is absent, replaced by concern in his eyes. There was a time when he would have relished such an operation as this. He would have seen it as a great challenge, a job to do in his uniquely rebellious way, which bypassed the bureaucracy. For him there was opportunity in confusion. He got satisfaction from seeking ways to defeat the blundercrats at their own game, which he did with delightful cunning. But his bulging briefcase shows that he is trying to tend to his businesses, which are languishing in his absence.
George is a true son of the South. Descended from a family in which the torch of military service has been proudly passed down through the generations, he is the very essence of a military flier. Handsome, well groomed, and square-jawed, he could equally well have stepped from a Hollywood movie set or from the pages of Faulkner. He is southern to the core, a deep respecter of ancestry and heritage, and a fierce individualist.
George is sometimes regarded as arrogant by those who envy his human skills but not by his crews. He's famous for taking care of his crews, especially the enlisted members. He will use the fresh Mississippi melon and his persuasive southern charm to gain favor with the next crew scheduler. He will secure the best missions, the best quarters, the best crew rest hours, and the best of any amenities that can be had.
A standup comic in small trusted crowds but timid in larger ones, George is a supreme master craftsman in the art of bovine scatology, as General Schwarzkopf would say. Wehis selected friendsare his "clients," he the sponsor ever seeking to impart street wisdom from the other side of his awareness "membrane." He has invited me over to the edge of the membrane a few times for a glimpse through, but I'm unqualified to accompany him across.
It is with few people that I've ever enjoyed such a candid relationship. We can be brutally critical of one another without reprisal. The most damage that's ever done is a slightly miffed ego. We point out perceived flaws in one another's character, sometimes with uncanny accuracy. Of course such accusations always bring vehement denial. I've noticed that he reads me a little better than I read him. We sometimes use the other squadron members as a medium to communicate with one another; they are jealously aware of our unique comradeship. They constantly ask me how he is faring. They ask him about me. I tell someone that he is a sneaky schemer, knowing that my assertion will reach him through the grapevine. He spreads stories that I am a fanciful dreamer who climbs to mountaintops to ponder the schemes of life. To that I plead guilty.
Some people take George too seriously. I think they envy his power and talent to motivate people. Like no other officer I've ever seen, George can simply stick his head into an office or workshop and instantly cause a wave of delight to spread among the enlisted people. And I am closer to him than most. He is a caring man who understands the permanency of true friendship.
George's crew has been alerted for a mission, and I regret that there is no time to spend with him. I'd like to hear some old yarns and catch up on the news of mutual friends. But we speak only briefly, and he vanishes into the sea of airmen, leaving me with a touch of isolation and loneliness.
I roll over at the sound of the knock and watch Jeff rise to open the door. A slit of light sears the darkness, and a barely audible, almost apologetic voice informs us that we are alerted. I stumble over the jumble of bags, cots, and equipment, searching for my sweats while Bones mutters something into his pillow. The combined effects of jet lag, hallway noise, and oppressive heat have left us ragged. Rubbing eyes that feel like
sandpaper, I stagger down the hallway like a drunk.
The lobby area is active as usual, and after a few minutes' wait for the phone, I call the CP. We are to deadhead to Dhahran to pick up a broken C-141, an engine problem of some sort, but it has been temporarily repaired and is airworthy, I'm assured. This is doubly bad news. Not only am I unenthusiastic over the prospect of flying a plane that has been "temporarily" field repaired (why didn't the original crew fly it back? might they have refused?), but the deadhead time going down will not count toward our eventual time off at home.
We have a revolving flying time account. Our maximum limits are 150 hours in the last thirty days, 275 hours in the last sixty days; or 330 hours in the last ninety days. When any of the limits are approached, we are routed home to "burn down" to a usable level, which normally takes about a week. Thus we seek to "max-out" as quickly as we can. But duty time doesn't count. Only actual flight time is used. The system is an abominable yardstick to measure crew fatigue because it ignores the endless hours spent performing ground duties, such as flight planning, aircraft preflight, troubleshooting, waiting for parts, cargo, fuel, and clearances. On-duty to off-duty times should be used to regulate our exposure to fatigue, not takeoff to landing times. We said so many times, but the response was always "that's above my pay grade" or something similar.
I tell the controller that my test pilot license has expired, that I decline the offer and will return to bed. With an accommodating chuckle, he ignores the remark and asks when I want the crew bus.
I proceed to wake the engineers. Taking a defensive position, Brian peeps with a painful squint into the bright hallway and questions my sanity when I break the news. He then turns and relays the news to Walt. From within the dark comes Walt's incredulous reply.
"You gotta be shittin' me."
Not surprisingly; the two loadmasters, Mike and Jack, are suited up and packed. Their work/rest patterns do not necessarily coincide with ours. They sleep during a cargo flight but have to stay awake if passengers are aboard. Tonight they are rested and ready. They have anticipated the alert by watching the TV monitor in the lobby, which displays the names of aircraft commanders on a first in/first out order. When my name had scrolled near the top they knew the alert would soon come.
As we receive our briefing at the CP, an unsettling message arrives and spreads ripples of concern among the crews. A jet airlifter has crashed on takeoff from a base in Germany, survivors unknown. I immediately grab a phone and ask for a Stateside line to our home base. Wisely, the Mississippi Air Guard has established a standing order for its crews. In case of an airlifter crash anywhere in Desert Shield, we are to report in so that we can be accounted for during the confusing hours immediately following a crash. Knowing also that the news of the crash will soon break in the press, I ask that the families of our crew be told we are safe. The base wants more information, and I tell them what little I know. It was probably a C-5, but some of our people could have been deadheading on it.
We stop by the intelligence shop for an update. The situation in Kuwait is stabilized, but Iraq has mobilized a great deal of firepower. Our buildup is now in high gear but has just started. If they move south now, there is a good possibility that they could overwhelm us. Their late model Soviet- and French-built fighters are easily capable of reaching our flight paths.
The biggest threat may be our own people. We must take care to follow the voluminous procedures issued us in the form of SPINS (special instructions) to avoid becoming the target of friendly fire. We have to make sure that our radios are tuned to the proper frequencies, most of them classified secret, and that our transponder, which identifies us to ground-based radar, is updated hourly with the secret codes. We are keyed for the code words "CLEARED TO KILL" or "WEAPONS FREE" on any of the tactical frequencies we're required to monitor while in the AOR. If we hear those words, we know that hell has erupted. In such case the SPINS detail what we are to do, depending on location, weather, fuel state, and hostile threats. Its authors must have assumed that we would simply take leave of our instincts and our common sense. They have tried to provide guidance for every conceivable contingency.
We leave the CP complex, black bag bulging with flight plans, weather data, and SPINS, and catch the crew bus to the C-5 Galaxy on which we'll deadhead. The C-5 is a monstrous airplane, similar in size to a Boeing 747 but closely resembling a C-141 in basic shape. The plane is so big that it has complete sleeping quarters, galley, and lounge for a relief crew. But as we board, the aircraft commander tersely informs me that the bunks are reserved for his own crew, Sorry, he says, but we will have to sleep in the passenger seats for the seven-hour flight. Someone grumbles as we turn to transfer our gear. "Sure. No problem with us. Keep the bunks, Mike Foxtrot."
As we are stowing our gear, word arrives that the C-5 has a serious problem with its landing gear. While waiting for it to be fixed we accomplish the "mill-around checklist." The procedure calls for several actions that can be accomplished in any order:
1. SLEEP ON AN AIRPLANE BUNK.
Note
You will enjoy it if you like to sweat.
2. EAT YOUR BOX LUNCH.
Caution
Be careful not to eat the box itself, as it all tastes like cardboard.
3. SLEEP ON PARATROOP SEATS (if bunks are taken).
4. READ WALT'S HUNTING MAGAZINES.
5. SLEEP ON THE RAMP (use your helmet bag for a pillow).
WARNING
It'll be cooler, but stay under a wing to avoid being crushed by a cargo loader.
6. REFIGURE YOUR 30/60/90 DAY FLYING TIME CUMULATIVES.
Note
Bones will argue with your results no matter how hard you figure.
7. READ THE COMIC SECTlON OF YESTERDAY'S Stars & Stripes.
8. EAT THE MYSTERY MEAT SANDWICH FROM ITEM 2.
CAUTION
You swore to leave this alone.
9. PACE TO AND FRO (preferably between the number four engine and the wing tip).
10. ARRANGE FOR A CREW BUS TO PICK UP THE LOADMASTERS (they must go to the chow hall for their third breakfast).
After about an hour we are informed that we have been reassigned to a new mission and a crew bus is being sent out. This news brings on a rash of mixed emotions. We're happy to dispense with the deadhead and the subsequent flight in a jet of doubtful airworthiness; on the other hand we know that this development will add at least two hours to our already lengthy day. We happily bid goodbye to the C-5, return to the CP for a new briefing, and are assigned a mission to Jubail, a Marine Corps helicopter base near the Kuwait border. While the engineers preflight the newly assigned aircraft, we do our flight planning and get the weather forecast.
Walt meets us as we arrive at the jet and escorts us to the tail, where Brian and two young mechanics are looking up at the vertical stabilizer towering four stories above. The jet is hemorrhaging red hydraulic fluid from the tail cone. Brian thinks that a seal in the rudder boost package is afoul. The two mechanics have investigated and tell us that it is simply excessive fluid, not to worry. But Brian and Walt will have no part of it and direct them to dig deeper. The young mechanics call in to their controller with disgusted voices and order additional help. An hour into our next mill-around checklist word arrives that the leak has finally been found, but the ETIC (estimated time in commission) is two hours plus whatever time it takes to locate and get the replacement partsor "parts plus two."
We're facing a twenty-plus-hour day ahead of us still. We have "burned" five hours already and are still two hours from takeoff at a minimum. I call the CP on the jet's radio and tell the controller to send a bus. We're going back to bed. They comply, as they must when an aircraft commander declares a flight safety crew rest but not before we accomplish a few more mill-around items.
Back at the command post we hear the news of CINCMAC's visit. General H. T. Johnson, commander-in-chief, Military Airlift Command, arrived yesterday and has proceeded to clean out the temple.
He wasn't pleased with how the base was treating us. He found that dozens of rooms had been held in reserve for academy cadets on their summer orientation while aircrews were sleeping in the gym. Heads are rolling left and right. One guy saw him in the class six store where alcoholic beverages were sold. He was enraged, believing that the crews were being scalped, and was walking around, personally marking the prices down. This news makes us feel a little better. Perhaps somebody cares.
Back we go, dragging our bags to the hotel to begin the cycle anew. Our first trip to the Persian Gulf is foiled. A whole daya day without flight hourshas been trashed. It's the first of many.
Sitting on the balcony alongside a cooler of San Miguel, we watch the Spanish sunup and judge landing patterns. Bones quotes a popular phrase, something to the effect that adversity, indeed, occurs. And Walt invokes the universally understood term in the airmen's world for bad mechanical luck.
"Boys, we're snakebit."
Four.
Downrange
Still another day has burned us with more maintenance cancellations, but now we are finally poised to go. However, we've been delayed for over an hour. The flight line was quarantined because of a hot cargo problem of some sort. Bizarre though it sounds, a missile had fallen out of its box. Someone feared it would blow up, so everything had come to a halt while some explosives technicians checked it out. It was one of the momentary episodes of chaos at TJ that interrupted an otherwise steady state of confusion.
We stow our bags and begin the familiar ritual known to all pilots as nest building. First I stow my personal kitthe one with the books and tapesin the cubbyhole behind and outboard of the seat. I have to stretch for it slightly but can reach it comfortably if I slide the seat aft a little.
Tail of the Storm Page 5