by Jim Carter
Jim Carter
Sky Spy, Memoirs of a U-2 Pilot
In loving memory of Sally,
who inspired us all.
Acknowledgments
To those who made this idea a reality:
Pam Bronson, Dillon Carter, and especially Debra Carter.
Author’s Note:
The events in this book are true. Many of the names have been changed to protect their privacy or for national security reasons.
Preface
The frail, old priest bent down close to the bed-ridden woman. He tenderly caressed her forehead as he administered the last rites of the Catholic Church. He placed a small piece of the Eucharistic host in her mouth but she was unable to swallow it. I filled a cup with water from the bathroom sink and held my mother’s head as she tried to sip the water.
My mother has advanced Alzheimer’s disease and she has withered away to a mere shadow of her former self. Last month she fell and fractured her right hip. I studied her shrunken face as she lay in bed at the nursing home and my thoughts travelled back in time. This was the woman who had given me life and inspired my life. I was the last one she knew. Everyone else had faded from her mind. In time, she also forgot who I was. She hadn’t spoken a meaningful word to me in three months and now she lay before me barely clinging to life. When the priest finished his blessing, I bent over my mom, Sally Carter, to stroke her hair and say goodbye. As I did so, she opened her eyes, looked into mine, and said “Thank You.” Once again, my mother had amazed me. I shouldn’t have been surprised; she had been amazing me my entire life.
I lived with my dad, mom, and three brothers in a row house in Philadelphia. I was 12 when my mom fled from my abusive, alcoholic father. One night, after a violent scene that included multiple cops and neighbors, my mom took my three younger brothers, Raymond, Randy, Greg and me to her parents’ home in Wildwood, New Jersey. Their house was a safe haven for us. But simply being safe wasn’t good enough for Sally. Jersey was very boring and the only people we knew there were my grandparents. She wanted nothing to do with my dad but all of our friends and relatives were in Philadelphia and she wanted to go back and find a new place for us. As soon as things stabilized and she was able to save some money, we moved back to Philadelphia. We couldn’t afford a nice, middle-class neighborhood like the one we left. The only thing we could afford was a two-bedroom apartment at the back of a hardware store in the Germantown section of Philadelphia.
My mother worked two jobs in order to pay the bills. Her full-time job was a hostess in the local Howard Johnson’s restaurant, and she had a part-time job as a supervisor in a Laundromat around the corner from our apartment. She took no public assistance and made a point of reminding us of that fact. She told us that life was difficult and if we ever wanted to improve our situation we had to work hard. She preached self-sufficiency and she practiced what she preached.
Since she was gone so much working, I became the male head of the house. I took care of my brothers. I got them up in the morning, made sure they dressed properly, served them breakfast, made their lunches, and got them off to school. After school, we did homework, and then had dinner. An old standby that I made for my brothers countless times was a dinner of fish sticks and French fries; thank God for Mrs. Paul’s.
Mom would come home exhausted from work, but she was never too tired to talk. She would tell me about her day at the restaurant and I would tell her about school or what my brothers had done that day.
The entrance to our apartment was through an alley, which led to a small, fenced-in yard of packed dirt. The door to the apartment opened to a small kitchen. Next to the kitchen was the living room, which had enough room for a small sofa and one single chair. The bedrooms were upstairs. My brothers and I shared one and Mom had the other. Our shared bathroom separated the bedrooms.
From our bedroom we could climb out on to a flat section of roof about ten feet square. Since we didn’t have air conditioning, on stifling hot summer nights, we would climb on to the roof to cool off. The five of us would talk about our future. A common topic of conversation was how we were going to escape from this living hell we called our apartment. We also talked about our dreams and what we wanted to become. I had wanted to fly for as long as I could remember. Mom encouraged me to pursue my dream by stressing the importance of education. We lay on that roof looking up at the stars. The stars weren’t that bright because of the light pollution from the city. Nevertheless, I could see them and wanted to reach them. From that roof behind the hardware store in Germantown, that seemed like an impossibility to me, but not to my mother. She assured me I could get there. If I worked hard and made the right choices, my dreams could come true. I just had to believe in and rely on myself. No one else was going to do it for me or give it to me. Encouraged by my Mom’s example, I graduated from high school and then from St. Joseph’s University in Philadelphia. I was lucky enough to be accepted into the Air Force ROTC program at St. Joseph’s and I would be on my pathway towards becoming a pilot.
Years later, when I achieved my dream, I vividly recalled those rooftop talks with Mom. Her work ethic had been passed on to me and made my dream a reality. This book tells the story of the journey to reach that dream.
PART I
Chapter 1
I attended St. Joseph’s University in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. My acceptance into the Reserve Officer Training Corp (ROTC) program at St. Joe’s was my ticket into Air Force pilot training. I tested for the program as a sophomore and was one of four students chosen for the ROTC flight program. The ROTC program was a two-year program (junior and senior) and began with a sixweek summer camp after my sophomore year. Our camp was held at Rickenbacker Air Force Base in Columbus Ohio. During these six weeks we learned all the basics of military life from marching to military courtesy. We also got a ride in a T-33 jet. It was truly a thrill for this 19 year old to go spinning through the sky in a real Air Force fighter plane. After the six-week course we knew how to march, knew all the ranks, both officer and enlisted, and we knew how make a proper military bed. But most important of all, I knew I loved to fly.
The ROTC pilot candidates were given a forty-hour course at the local airport flying a Cessna 150. The purpose of this course was to weed out those pilot candidates who may be best suited for other careers. This early screening process prevented sending an obviously weak candidate to pilot training only to have him wash out and then get re-assigned. The Cessna 150 we flew in the ROTC flight program was your basic single-engine, propeller driven, flight trainer. I soloed after about 10 hours of dual instruction. That feeling of accomplishment and freedom was unmatched in my life up to that time. We also went cross-country solo and got to see something other than the local traffic pattern. My first solo cross-country went from the Northeast Philadelphia airport to the Lancaster Pa. airport. After reaching Lancaster in good weather, I proceeded on the next leg of my great adventure to Cape May NJ airport. After landing and refueling in Cape May, I returned to my home base, PNE, Philadelphia Northeast airport. Every hour I spent in the air increased my confidence and stoked my excitement for the next phase of my career, USAF Pilot Training.
I was commissioned as an officer and as expected, married my high school girlfriend, Doreen, after graduation. I was assigned to Laredo Air Force base. My new wife and I packed our stuff and headed for the Lone Star state
It was 1969. The Air Force used the Cessna 172, the T-37 and the T-38 to instruct new students in the art of aviation. The Cessna 172 was almost identical to the Cessna 150 I flew in the ROTC program. It was just a little bigger and faster. The T-37 was the second jet I had ever experienced. The T-37 was a short, squatty, and loud aircraft with side-by-sid
e seating. The T-38 was the advanced jet trainer and was configured with front and rear seating.
Instructor pilots were assigned three or four students and they would normally fly with only those students. My T-37 IP was Captain Archie Morrell. Archie was about the most laid back man I’d ever met. I can’t prove it but there were times during our flights when Ol’ Archie took a quick nap. He would also pop his mask off occasionally and light up a Lucky Strike. Nothing ever fazed him. If things really got serious, he would always utter the same phrase, “Shit Oh Dear.” That was apparently a favorite saying in Archie’s hometown of Columbia, South Carolina.
My IP in the T-38 phase was Lt Steve Symon. Steve was a very intelligent guy from Massachusetts. His premature grey hair made him look older than his actual age of 27. My fellow students in the T-38 were Phil Duval and Randy Young. Phil was a big, likable guy from California and Randy was the epitome of the relaxed rebel from a small town in Mississippi. The four of us got along famously. Steve was the conductor and we were the orchestra. Phil, Randy and I helped each other through the program. We shared our mistakes and triumphs and before we knew it, the year had flown by and graduation was upon us.
By year’s end, the group of 85 original pilots was narrowed by 33 percent. This was the average dropout rate and we survivors were feeling pretty good about ourselves as we lined up to receive our wings.
I had a double celebration that month. Not only did I earn my wings, but just before graduation, my daughter, Krista, was born.
Assignments for bases were awarded just prior to graduation. Our class assignments ran the gamut from the F-4 fighter to the B-52 bomber. I was assigned to fly the C-130 at Pope Air Force Base in Fayetteville, North Carolina. But before heading to our assignments we had to learn to fly our assigned planes. All C-130 training was held at Little Rock Air Force Base, Arkansas. I was excited to head to another southern state for six weeks of intensive training.
Chapter 2
In the early 1970’s the C-130 was the workhorse of worldwide airlift. Often referred to as The Hercules, the C-130 was first built in the early 1950’s with the “A” model. Over 40 models of the aircraft are in service today in over 60 nations. The current model is the “J”. I flew the “E” model.
Over the years, small improvements were made to the C-130. The engines were beefed up, another blade was added to the three-bladed prop, instrumentation was improved and the landing gear was strengthened to support heavy loads. The airplane was built like a tank. Four turboprop engines and multiple redundancies for safety, the C-130 was capable of landing just about anywhere, including dirt strips only 3,000 feet long. The Hercules earned its nickname by being a strong, tough, dependable airplane.
As a pilot, there’s a certain comfort knowing that your aircraft can continue to fly with one or even two engines shut down. The C-130 was used for every conceivable mission from troop dropping to trash hauling — the pilot’s term for cargo delivery.
All pilots, both aircraft commanders and copilots are trained to the same flying standards. The aircraft commander bore the ultimate responsibility for the entire crew and aircraft. The copilot’s job was to act as second-in-command and share the flying duties with the aircraft commander.
It was quite a switch to transition from the two-engine T-38 trainer used in pilot training, to the four-engine C-130. The T-38 was a twin seat, twin engine, fighter-type trainer. In the T-38, pilots either flew solo or with an instructor. We only had to listen to the instructor on the intercom and air traffic control on the radio.
The C-130 was much slower than the T-38 but a whole lot busier. The C-130 co-pilot is part of a five-man crew and has to communicate with the other four on the intercom and listen to air traffic control on the radio.
A typical 4-hour training mission consisted of takeoffs, landings, emergency procedures, and instrument approaches. In addition, new pilots learned to coordinate efforts with the rest of the crew.
After finishing the six-week course in Little Rock, I was transferred to Pope Air Force Base to report to the 779th Tactical Airlift Squadron. Pope would be a new beginning for us. Doreen and I had both been born and raised in Philadelphia and had not had an opportunity for traveling much other than going to the Jersey shore. One of the reasons I chose the C-130 assignment was because of its mission: worldwide tactical airlift. To a 22-year-old kid right out of flight training, the “worldwide” part was very appealing. Our flight instructors at Little Rock had been in the C-130 for several years and had been around the world a few times. Their stories only fueled our desire to experience what the future held for us.
Chapter 3
Doreen, Krista and I moved to North Carolina the September of 1970. Pope Air Force base is where I would be stationed for at least the next three years. As an officer with a family I qualified for officer housing on base. But there was no officer housing available on this busy Air Force base. Instead they offered us housing at adjacent Fort Bragg. Fort Bragg housing was not very impressive but the only other option was to rent something off base. Without much money saved up our choice was clear. We chose a home at Fort Bragg.
As we drove into the neighborhood and located our new home, we noticed a housing unit about 300 yards down the street marked with crime scene tape. It was being patrolled by several Military Police (MPs). It turned out to be the home of Dr. Jeffrey McDonald whose family had been found murdered. Dr. McDonald claimed “crazed hippies” had killed his family. Being that Fort Bragg was an open base, there was fear that a group of crazy hippies could come into the base and murder other unsuspecting families. Home security for my family became a high priority and I decided to look for off base housing as soon as I could afford it.
The first pilot I met in my squadron at Pope was Irv Ashton. Irv lived just two houses down from Doreen and I in Fort Bragg. He came over and introduced himself as we were moving in. Irv seemed like a nice guy. My first impression of Irv was that he was regular and easygoing. I would learn in the months to come that Irv was one crazy motherfucker.
Irv was very friendly and he invited us to his home to meet his wife, Cynthia. We showed up at his door with a bottle of wine, which he placed atop his fully stocked bar. Our bottle was merely a drop in the bucket among all the other booze Irv possessed. It turned out that Irv loved to drink. I’m no teetotaler but Irv made me look like a man doing an impression of John Calvin. I didn’t even try to keep up with him.
Irv had a state of the art quadrophonic stereo system. He picked up the system on his last temporary duty (TDY) to Taiwan. It was a beautiful, top of the line system, but all he had to play on it were old, scratched up 45s from his college days at the Citadel. He picked out “Louie Louie” by the Kingsmen and threw it on the turntable. The resulting noise from this four-speaker nightmare prompted calls from angry neighbors. Irv listened to their complaints and promptly took care of the complaining neighbors by cranking up the volume. A visit from the MPs however, convinced him to turn it off.
Like most new squadron couples, he and Cynthia furnished their home from college leftovers and yard sale specials. Their dining room set was a folding card table with matching chairs. It was simple but cozy. We ate dinner seated on the folding chairs.
During dinner I felt a hand on my thigh. I glanced at Doreen and both her hands were visible. I looked over at Cynthia and she flashed a seductive smile as her hand went higher. About the same time I saw Doreen jump as Irv’s hand disappeared below the table. Her reaction was more vocal than mine; she shrieked and stood up. Not wanting to be left behind, I popped up also. We grabbed our things and fled the scene. Later I learned that this was the standard “dinner at Irv’s.” His theory was: “If you ask everyone, one or two are bound to say yes.”
At Pope I continued training on the C-130. There was constant training on the basics plus some advanced items like formation flying, airdrops, short field takeoffs and landings and exotic maneuvers like “LAPES” drops.
LAPES stands for Low Altitude P
arachute Extraction System. The idea behind LAPES is to have a C-130 come roaring across the ground at 150 knots, 10 feet off the ground, or deck as we call it, with the cargo ramp lowered. On a given signal, the loadmaster would release a parachute that connected to a pallet containing cargo of anything from Frosted Flakes to field artillery. When the chute inflates, it drags the pallet out of the airplane and, if all goes well, the pallet flops gently to the ground and skids to a halt. This system was developed and tested by one of the greatest C-130 pilots ever to don the flight suit, Lieutenant Colonel Benny Fioritto. (Years later, Benny would become my squadron commander.)
From a pilot’s perspective, the LAPES drop was an exercise in control. The airplane had to be right on airspeed and altitude for the load to exit the aircraft and hit the ground at the correct angle. Too much nose up or down at the moment of extraction meant that the load would likely tumble, sending rice or howitzers every which way. Depending on how heavy the pallet of cargo was, the flight controls of the C-130 would change violently during the maneuver. This was caused by the shifting weight on the aircraft’s center of gravity (CG). This caused the airplane to pitch up and down and the pilot had to keep it level.
All aircraft, from the Cessna 150 to the Airbus 380, must be loaded to keep the CG within acceptable limits. Everything must be taken into consideration: the empty weight of the airplane, the crew weight, the fuel, and the load carried.
On a tactical exercise at Nellis AFB Nevada, I sat in the observation stands as a Pope C-130 attempted a LAPES drop of a Jeep. As the aircraft roared by, the chute came out and then abruptly stopped in mid-air. As the Jeep was sliding out, the pallet jammed in the rollers and got stuck sideways in the door. This is one of the worst nightmares for a C-130 driver. Ten feet off the ground, full aft CG with an inflated chute trailing behind and dragging you down. Quick action by the loadmaster to detach the chute saved the day. The crew was able to climb the airplane back up in spite of the aft CG. The Jeep was jammed in the door and not moving but they were able to land safely and had a good war story for the bar that night.