Sky Spy, Memoirs of a U-2 Pilot

by Jim Carter

  Two aircraft and crews would participate in a two-day exercise. We would be carrying a load of simulated aircraft missiles to be used by Navy fighter jets. These were reusable, dummy missiles that would be loaded on the participating fighters. When the exercise was over, they would be loaded back on the C-130s for the return to Mildenhall. Our job was simply to deliver the missiles, head for the layover, and return to the UK when the exercise finished.

  This sounds fairly simple until you add in “The terror cab ride from hell.”

  Naples is known as the city of crazy drivers, trash, and Camorra (the local Mafia). The city has beautiful views of Mount Vesuvius and a gorgeous bay but it also has an ongoing trash problem, which is linked to the Mafia. Waste companies are Mafia owned. They use trash collection to extort money from the government. The regions’ dumps fill to capacity and with nowhere to put it, the trash piles up and a state of emergency is declared. City government officials use the state of emergency to quickly award contracts that otherwise would have to be checked by anti-racketeering legislation.

  The Mafia-owned waste management companies dispose of the trash anywhere they can — out in the open air or at already full dumps. There were attempts to build new incinerators and open new landfills but companies building them either couldn’t finish the job or magistrates stopped the work pending ongoing criminal investigations.

  Back to the crazy drivers. No one knows how their reputations got started but it is a well-deserved one. Maybe it’s because they had to bob and weave around all the garbage piles.

  After we unloaded our aircraft, the transit coordinator for our exercise called for taxis for the two crews, 10 people in total. He told us the ride to the hotel would take around 20 minutes in normal traffic. If Naples traffic is anything, it’s not normal.

  Three taxis arrived around 15 minutes later. All were small Fiats. We put four of the smallest guys in one cab. The luggage wouldn’t fit in the trunk so it was lashed to the rack on the back. The other two taxis held three each with a similar arrangement of the luggage. Our driver spoke not a word of English and the only Italian we knew was ciao, bella, and arrivaderci.

  The drivers all looked the same — short and hairy with cigarette packs rolled up in their sleeves. They looked vaguely like Mussolini. They may have been related but we didn’t pursue the point; we only wanted to get to the hotel. We showed them the hotel name and address and they nodded eagerly, indicating they knew where it was.

  Once the drivers knew the destination and everything was loaded in the cabs, all hell broke loose. Each driver raced to his cab shouting and gesturing to each other in what sounded like insulting terms. Apparently, these pint-sized Mario Andrettis had wagered on who could reach the hotel first. The race was on and the passengers were merely along for the ride. We flew down the street, tires screeching. Traffic signals and stop signs were meaningless. They didn’t even bother to stay on the street. When they came to a blocked intersection, they hopped up on the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians in all directions. We were all too terrified to speak, or move. Without seat belts our only hope was that our tight fit would keep us from flying out of the cab in an accident. When one of us finally spoke up, the driver pointed to the other cabs and mumbled something in Italian. If I were to guess, he was saying: “Hey, leave me alone, I have to keep up with these two.”

  As we slid to a stop in front of the hotel, we were all wild-eyed and shaken. Our cab came in second so our driver jumped out and yelled at the winner; all the while counting out the money he lost on the bet. The scene was repeated for the third cab. After unloading our luggage and getting paid, the three pocket rockets hopped back in their Fiats and roared off into the night.

  The rest of our time in Naples wasn’t nearly as exciting as the cab ride but we still enjoyed ourselves. I was able to fit in a trip to the Naples National Archaeological Museum. The museum was full of sculptures and artifacts collected from Pompeii and Herculaneum. And no trip to Naples would be complete without a real Napoli pizza.

  The time to return to Pope was rapidly approaching. There was only one more mission to fly before heading home. It was a fairly routine trip but to an interesting destination. Our job was to move an Army colonel, his wife, and their furniture from Rhein-Main, Germany to Bizerte Sidi Ahmed, Tunisia. The colonel was assigned to the US Embassy in Tunisia and we were his United Van Lines. The whole crew looked forward to this one because none of us had ever been to Africa.

  The weather that day was perfect: no clouds, no wind, and great visibility. Upon landing in Tunisia we were greeted by a representative of the US Embassy. He had arranged an elaborate open-air luncheon for us. The luncheon was set on a hill overlooking the city. A large native-crafted canopy shaded us. The meal consisted of native Tunisian dishes including spicy mutton, lablabi, (a thick soup made from chickpeas and garlic), fresh fish, vegetables, fruits, nuts and couscous, the national dish of Tunisia. The food was delicious and spicy. The Tunisians use a spice mix in their cooking called “Tabil” (pronounced “table”). Tabil is made from a mixture of garlic, cayenne pepper, caraway seeds and coriander. Once mixed together, the tabil is then dried in the sun. We were all surprised by how hot the food was. We had to blunt the fiery spices with traditional Tunisian oven-baked bread and lots of water. With nothing pressing scheduled for us after our furniture run, we savored this exotic meal and then headed back to the UK.

  As fate would have it, the entire squadron was in base at Mildenhall on New Year’s Eve in 1971. We were set to leave in four days so it was a perfect opportunity for a party. The event could have been compared to “Animal House.” It was just as raucous but without the togas. The music was loud, the liquor flowed freely and we welcomed in the New Year in fine style.

  The next morning, the base held its annual New Year’s Day Parade with the Mildenhall Base Band and Color Guard leading the way. Every permanent organization on base was represented in the parade. Since we were there on temporary duty, we wouldn’t be marching, only watching.

  Irv and Angie had been up all night in heavy party mode. The parade route ran right under our windows in the BOQ. Irv had bought one of those giant alpine horns, the kind in the commercial for “Ricolla” cough drops. The Base Commander and his wife were in a convertible following the band and color guard. Irv and Angie wanted to participate in the festivities so they hung out of the windows with Irv blowing the horn and Angie holding the other end. Just blowing this gigantic horn was bad enough, but to put icing on this parade cake, both of them were stark naked.

  The parade was rolling along smoothly until Irv started in with his horn. Everything came to a halt as all eyes focused on the bizarre pair of nudists hanging out of the second floor windows. The Base Commander’s wife nearly fainted. The Base Commander himself was red-faced. He was pointing up at Irv and yelling instructions. He was extremely pissed. Several members of the squadron rushed into Irv’s room and yanked both of them from the windows. Once they disappeared from view, the parade rolled on.

  The next morning, Irv found himself on the carpet of the Squadron Commander enduring a royal ass chewing. He was put on the equivalent of double secret probation and told to behave himself, or else.

  We tied up our loose ends at Mildenhall. This included selling our leaky Jag to the incoming group. The Jag was actually in better shape than when we bought it. We at least made our money back. Everything was loaded onto the airplanes and we headed back across the Atlantic to Pope.

  Chapter 11

  As much as we loved Mildenhall, it was great to be back home. The next six months were spent catching up with our families. It was a beautiful time to be in North Carolina. The springtime weather is unbeatable and it’s a great place to be if you liked outdoor activities. Seven of us squadron co-pilots bought motorcycles, actually high horsepower dirt bikes. These 250cc tree climbers were tough, powerful bikes for use off-road. Fort Bragg is one of the largest military installations in the country with thousands of acres of forestla
nd. Woven through these forests are miles of trails used by the Army to train their tank crews. The tank trails made perfect off-road opportunities for us. We would meet once a week to ride the powerful dirt bikes. Up, down, around and around we went for hours in the North Carolina woods. Every boy’s dream fully realized, racing around a pristine wilderness with your buddies trying not to break your neck.

  A week before our next rotation, I walked out of my house for one last ride before we left for Europe. I never got to make that ride. Some bastard had stolen my bike and I was grounded.

  Before we left for Europe, all squadron members were called to a mandatory meeting. As is normal in the military, several rumors were in the air about the purpose of the meeting. Some thought it meant the cancellation of our rotation. Others said it meant a massive cutback or transfer of aircraft to other units. None of this proved true. The meeting was called to introduce the new squadron commander, Lt. Col. Benny Fioritto. Col. Benny, as we knew him, was a legend in the C-130.

  Benny had pioneered several operational innovations in the C-130 including LAPES drops and several short-field landing techniques. Benny was a pilot’s pilot. He rose up through the ranks due to his hard work and innovative thinking. If it ever had been done in a C-130, Benny had done it. He also looked out for his guys. He stood up for, and protected, his pilots. Young pilots on overseas rotations can get “frisky” and wind up in trouble with local authorities. He knew what training and dedication it took to accomplish a mission and he went to bat for us. That didn’t mean we had carte blanche. We were expected to fly by the book and God help us if we crossed the line. None of us wanted to either disappoint him or face his wrath, so we played by the rules. But we also played. We were expected to blow off steam, within reason.

  Irv was so excited about our new commander that he set about creating a calling card for squadron pilots. He thought it would be a real icebreaker with the ladies. He insisted on designing and financing the cards himself. He promised to have them ready soon. He didn’t have enough time to finish them before we left for Germany so he arranged for his wife to ship them to us.

  The pre-departure routine remained the same as last time with the only major difference being our destination. Now we were bound for Rhein-Main Air Base in Frankfurt Germany. Rhein-Main was a dual use facility. Civilian aviation was on one side of the field, the military on the other.

  Our BOQ set up in Rhein-Main was unique. It was a round building, two stories high with rooms around the perimeter and a large open rotunda in the center. Every rotation had its “must have” item for the pilots. These trends started when one or two crews went out on a trip and brought back something unique. It then became the rage. On our last rotation, it was porn pens from Turkey and rugs from Crete. This time it was the Italian cap pistol.

  Shortly after arriving in Rhein-Main, one of our crews went down to Aviano, Italy (the home of the Globe Bar) for an overnight. One of the pilots saw cap pistols for sale in Pisa and brought a half dozen back. They were incredibly realistic looking. The pistol was a replica of a snub-nosed .38 caliber revolver. You could break it open just like the real gun but instead of inserting bullets, you’d insert a plastic, six-shot cap ring. These caps were loud and they rarely misfired.

  Everyone wanted one, they would be perfect for an after-hours gunfight at the Officer’s Club. Soon, we were all armed, but not so dangerous.

  One afternoon, Benny called a pilot’s meeting to be held in our Q rotunda. Benny and the Ops Officer, Sweats Tollefson, set up in the middle with all the pilots in a circle around them on the second floor balcony. The word had been passed; we were going to ambush the Boss. The meeting began quietly enough with Benny and Sweats reviewing some operational notes about European flying. Other boring, miscellaneous crap was covered until, finally, the meeting was about to end. Someone shouted, “NOW,” and we all drew our pistols and started firing down on Benny and Sweats. The noise in that enclosed rotunda was deafening. Sweats hit the deck unsure of what the hell was going on. Benny just stood there smiling throughout the fusillade. When all of our caps were spent, Benny calmly reached inside his flight suit, pulled out his cap gun and fired back at us. We all laughed hysterically as we stood there in the gun smoke-filled rotunda. Our ears rang from the hundreds of rounds fired. Benny went right along with the joke. A lesser man would have court-marshaled all of us.

  Colonel Benny Fioritto was Italian. His parents had emigrated to the U.S. from Sicily when Benny was a baby. I found all this out when a mission to Sicily came open for us. One airplane and crew were to fly to Sigonella Air Base in Sicily, drop off some parts for the Navy, and return the next day. Our crew was selected but there was a caveat; Benny wanted to come with us. His family had come from the town of Catania. Since this town was near the base, Benny would have an opportunity to see his birthplace and visit with some relatives who stayed behind. Benny was a hands-on Commander. He sat in the back for most of the flight down there but he wanted the landing at Sigonella. He and Mike switched seats and Benny and I brought her into Sigonella. His Aunt and Uncle met Benny and took him into town. He returned several hours later and took us all into town for drinks and dinner. The tavern he chose was ordinary looking, but the people inside were anything but ordinary. They all had known Benny’s family. They were very proud that one of their own had gone to the U.S., been very successful, and now was back among them. We couldn’t buy a drink all night.

  Chapter 12

  Things were quiet back at Rhein-Main. Our crew took extended trips to Greece, Turkey, Spain and Portugal. Late one evening, Irv came into my room highly excited. He had received our squadron business cards. The front of the card had a drawing of a cartoon C-130 with a giant handlebar mustache on its nose. Wrapped around the fuselage of this cartoon 130 were crisscrossed ammunition belts. The airplane was wearing a Mexican sombrero. Underneath the squadron designation was the phrase “Fioritto’s Banditos.”

  I was very impressed with the card and told Irv that I liked it. Irv said: “If you think that’s good, turn it over.” On the flipside were the letters LAGNAF. No explanation, just letters. I looked at Irv for an explanation.

  “That’s our squadron theme, it’s like Semper Fi or Veritas.” he said.

  “I don’t ever recall seeing LAGNAF in any Latin I’ve ever read.”

  “Oh that’s not Latin. It means Let’s All Get Naked And Fuck,” he said.

  I was speechless. He was handing out these cards to everybody he met, including the Base Commander and the Chaplin. He was also handing them out off base to German civilians. This had all the makings of an international incident. Irv didn’t care, anything to pick up chicks. My only hope was that he wasn’t volunteering to de-cypher the cryptic letters on the back.

  We managed to finish our rotation without any major crises. Irv did get into a minor scuffle at the O Club one night. The Base Supply Officer and his wife were having a drink at the bar when Irv passed them one of his cards. The wife just happened to flip the card over and wanted to know what the letters on the back of the card stood for. So Irv told her. Her husband leapt up and snatched the cards out of Irv’s hand. Irv grabbed them back and both of them wound up rolling on the floor, fighting for possession. The other patrons intervened and a major fistfight was avoided.

  Chapter 13

  After our return to Pope, I prepared myself for my next career move, to the left seat, as Aircraft Commander. Technically, flying the C-130 is about the same whether you’re in the left or right seat. The only difference is which hand flies and which one operates the throttles. It does take time to transition but after doing it for a few hours the new seat feels natural. The big job difference was the responsibility. The Aircraft Commander is ultimately responsible for the airplane, crew, passengers, and cargo. He needs input from his crew but he alone must answer for all. Several weeks of ground school were also required. As 1973 rolled in I had my hands full with training school. I was lucky with scheduling and the weather and was abl
e to finish up by the end of February. I liked this feeling. As Mel Brooks said: “It’s good to be the King.”

  My first mission as a brand new Aircraft Commander was a sweet one. The U.S. Navy was conducting torpedo tests in the Bahamas, near Andros Island. They would launch the torpedoes, without explosives, at dummy targets. They would retrieve the spent torpedoes and ship them to a testing facility in Florida, near Patrick AFB. Our job was to fly to Andros Island, load up the torpedoes, and fly them over to Patrick AFB, near Cape Kennedy. It was a short, 45-minute flight each way and we did this once a day, for a week. Most of the day we were free to roam around in the beautiful sunshine. We spent many hours touring Cape Kennedy, eating seafood, drinking beer, and laying in the sun. All in all, not bad duty.

  Chapter 14

  Back at Pope, there were rumors of an exotic TDY coming to our squadron. In short order these rumors became facts. Sub Saharan Africa was in crisis. A severe drought was rapidly expanding the desert and driving the nomadic people, the Tuaregs, south. The Tuaregs were sheep and goat herders and their normal water supplies were disappearing fast. The herds were dying and the Tuaregs would soon follow. The squadron asked for volunteers and I jumped at the opportunity. Three airplanes would go, two to Mali and one to Chad. Two crews were assigned to each aircraft for a total of six.

  My aircraft would be going to Bamako, Mali, located in northwestern Africa. On my crew were: Co pilot Jack Taylor, Navigator Ed (Headwind) Hill, Flight Engineer Albert Moses, and Loadmaster Billy Tate. Jack was a very experienced co pilot who had already been on two rotations and he played a mean guitar. Major Hill earned his nickname while at Pope. He was flying a large triangular flight pattern one day and the crew noticed that every leg had a headwind. They jokingly blamed this on Major Hill and the nickname stuck. SSgt Moses was one of the sharpest engineers in the squadron. He arrived at Pope in January 1973 right out of training school. Sgt. Billy Tate had been on the Rhine-Main rotation the previous year.