Hamfist Out: The Chill Is Gone (The Air Combat Adventures of Hamilton Hamfist Hancock Book 4)

by G. E. Nolly

  When I had been flying T-39s out of Yokota, I usually stopped in at the MAC Command Post every time I transited Kadena. I had gotten to know most of the officers working there pretty well, so I decided to pay a visit to see if any of the guys I knew were still there. I went up to the fortified door, stood in front of the one-way mirrored window, and pressed the buzzer. After a few seconds, the door opened. Major Don Watson burst through the doorway.

  “Ham! How the hell are you doing? I’ve heard nothing but great things about you! I told everybody if they wanted to get the war over and done with, they needed to send you!”

  “Well,” I grinned, “I had a little help, but I did most of it by myself.”

  He gave me a bear hug like I was his long-lost brother, then he held me at arm’s length to look me over.

  “You look like you lost weight.”

  “You should have seen me three weeks ago, before I got some of Sam’s cooking.”

  Don motioned for me to enter the dimly-lit Command Post. Don had met Sam three years earlier, when we’d had a military RON – Remain Over Night – when our T-39 mission to Hong Kong had spent the night at Kadena because of a maintenance issue with the airplane. Sam had been on official TDY orders to attend a legal conference in Hong Kong, and was on the mission with me.

  Don had been immediately captivated by Sam, like everyone else who’d met her. He’d insisted on taking us out to dinner at his favorite restaurant off-base, a place called Sam’s By The Sea. The place was decorated with numerous photos of the actors from the movie Teahouse of the August Moon, which had been filmed there. We’d had a delicious seafood dinner, and had become close friends with Don.

  “How’s that smoking hot wife of yours doing? When am I going to see her again?”

  “We got a joint spouse assignment here, so you may see her sooner than you think. And speaking of cooking, she’s got a bun in the oven.”

  “Fantastic! When’s she due?”

  “Beginning of July. I just hope I can be with her when she delivers. I may be TDY.”

  “So, you’re in the 18th.”

  I nodded.

  Don looked down at the floor. “Those guys are being run ragged. Permanent TDY. Total bullshit. It’s tearing families apart, with no end in sight.”

  “We get calls from wives here,” he continued. “They think we’re the Wing Command Post. They don’t understand that we’re Military Airlift Command, not part of your wing. Anyway, you wouldn’t believe the things that are happening to the families here. Kids using drugs. Teenagers streaking. Some wives making suicide attempts. Really sad.”

  I wanted to change the subject.

  “Don, any chance I could use the autovon?”

  The autovon was the military telephone system for long-distance calls.

  “Only if you’re going to call your bride. Here,” he motioned to a sound-proofed room, “this is the room we use for secure calls. You can talk as long as you want, and you’ll have all the privacy you need.”

  My eyes were beginning to adjust to the dim illumination, and I could see three enlisted men at their consoles on the opposite side of the room. Don turned to them.

  “Gentlemen, this is Captain Hamilton Hancock. He’s the most genuine war hero you’ll ever meet, and he gets priority for autovon calls any time he wants. Any questions?”

  They answered pretty much in unison, “No sir.”

  I entered the room and shut the door behind me. It closed with a muffled thud.

  I wasn’t looking forward to this conversation.

  3

  April 17, 1973

  I arrived at CCK early in the morning after a late-night flight on a C-130. I followed Sergeant Molloy’s directions and found the squadron building with no problem. There was a temporary sign in front of the building that announced our squadron’s presence. Because we were a TDY squadron, and simply tenants on this C-130 base, none of the buildings of the 18th Tactical Fighter Wing had permanent signs.

  When I entered the squadron, I was back in familiar territory. There were lots of guys in flight suits, and everyone wanted to introduce himself and welcome me. After a few minutes, a portly Lieutenant Colonel emerged from the Operations Officer’s office.

  “You must be Captain Hancock,” he said, holding out his hand, “Welcome to CCK. I’m Bob Milner.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m glad to be here.”

  “Why don’t you come into my office, and we’ll have a little chat.”

  I followed him into his office and we sat next to each other in the soft leather chairs that were set apart from his desk.

  “I think you’re really going to like your assignment here,” he began, “we have a great mix of DOCs.”

  “Excuse me, sire, what’s a DOC?”

  “Designed Operational Capability. Some wings only have air-to-air DOC, some have air-to-ground. We have air-to-air, air-to-ground, and nuclear, so you’ll be getting a terrific variety of mission profiles.”

  “We use our air-to-air DOC every day when we fly our Dawn Patrol and Dusk Patrol missions.”

  “What are the Dawn Patrol and Dusk Patrol?” I asked. I had heard a little about them, but wasn’t sure exactly what they were.

  “The Straits of Taiwan are patrolled 24 hours every day to guard against an air invasion by the Communist Chinese. The Taiwanese Air Force uses F-104 aircraft and flies twenty-two four-ship missions a day. We fly two four-ship 1-hour missions every day, one early in the morning, the Dawn Patrol, and one in the evening, the Dusk Patrol.”

  “As the war in Vietnam was winding down,” he continued. “the Russians and Chinese were pumping up the North Vietnamese military with tanks, airplanes, everything. We, the United States, were doing the same thing with the South Vietnamese. But we didn’t have enough airplanes to give them, so we asked the Taiwanese to provide their F-5s to South Vietnam. They were using their F-5s for air defense, so the United States offered to loan two squadrons of F-4s to help out with their air defense until they receive replacement airplanes, new F-5Es. That’s why the 18th Tactical Fighter Wing is over here.”

  It sounded interesting. “You said we also do air-to-ground and nuclear?”

  “Yes. We use the Ie Shima bombing range, back in Okinawa, for our delivery practice. The air-to-ground is standard conventional deliveries, and the nuclear is low-level loft deliveries. Plus, of course, a lot of training in everything that goes along with the nuclear DOC. No-lone-zone procedures, PAL enabling, launch codes, lots of fun stuff,” he said, with a wry smile.

  I got the distinct impression the nuclear training was not going to be so much fun.

  “We have you set up to start Indoc Training tomorrow, and we hope to have you Combat Ready in about two months.”

  “Sir, I just came from combat. Why would it take me two months to get Combat Ready?”

  He stiffened. “This is not Southeast Asia, where training and documentation took a back seat to everything else. Our unit has a C-status to maintain. Right now we’re C-1, and we plan to stay that way. Every crewmember has to be trained and take a check ride in each DOC to be designated Combat Ready. If we don’t have enough crews Combat Ready, we will lose our C-1 status, degrade to C-2 or even C-3. You have a lot of training ahead of you, Captain.”

  I thought back to when I was at Ubon. We’d had a large, athletic Lieutenant Colonel, John Wilkie, in the squadron. He’d been flying fighters his entire career. He’d flown in F-86s in Korea as a Lieutenant, and had flown a plethora of other fighters, with tons of time in the F-100, with overseas assignments to France and Libya. We called him Big John.

  “War is hell,” Big John used to say, “but peace is a real bitch.”

  I was starting to understand what Big John was alluding to.

  “Let’s talk about additional duties,” Lieutenant Colonel Milner said, “we have several openings.” He retrieved a sheet of paper from his desk and handed it to me. “Are you interested in any of these?”

  Additiona
l duties were required of every crewmember, and ran the gamut from Admin Officer to Snack Bar Officer and everything in between. While most of us wanted to simply fly, we all knew that the things we would learn from performing our additional duties would give us experience in non-flying activities, experience we would need if and when we assumed more senior positions, such as Flight Commanders, Operations Officers, Squadron Commanders and, perhaps, even more. Also, the additional duties provided fodder for the narratives on our Officer Effectiveness Reports. OERs were the “report cards” used by promotion boards to determine who would advance to higher rank.

  I looked over the sheet.

  “Well, sir, I was Life Support Officer at my squadron at Ubon. In fact, I completed the ECI Life Support Officer Course and received an additional AFSC for Life Support Officer. I enjoyed it, and wouldn’t mind doing it again. But I’m more than happy to take any of these other jobs also.”

  When I was at Ubon, I had learned that the year transpired a lot quicker if there was something to do when we weren’t flying. ECI courses were a great way to pass the time and enhance a professional resume. The ECI courses were home-study courses provided by the Air Force’s Extension Course Institute. They were fairly comprehensive, and successful completion would earn the participant an additional Air Force Specialty Code – AFSC – that signified expertise in that area. It was like a grown-up merit badge that provided entry into an additional career field.

  “Okay,” he said, drawing a line through Life Support Officer on his sheet, “you’re our new Life Support Officer.”

  “One more thing, Captain Hancock,” the Lieutenant Colonel Milner said, as he rose and walked me toward his office door, “you’ll need to remove that Hundred Mission patch from your flight suit. The only patches authorized by Air Force Regulation 35-10 are the squadron patch, the Tactical Air Command Patch and the Pacific Air Forces patch. Save your other patches for your party suit.”

  The party suit was a short-sleeve flight suit, usually in some color other than green, that we would wear to casual squadron get-togethers. There were always tailor shops around every base that could make party suits in one or two days. Typical party suit colors were red or yellow, and most party suits had numerous patches from prior units. Some guys’ party suits had so many patches they looked like helmet bags.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, as I saluted and left his office.

  Yeah, peace was going to be a real bitch.

  4

  April 17, 1973

  I was a assigned a BOQ – Bachelor Officer Quarters – room with another Captain, Duke Donaldson. I knew Duke from our time together at Ubon. He had been in a different squadron, but I had flown on his wing a few times when I first arrived at Ubon, when they were intermixing squadron missions. His previous tour had been in F-105s – Thuds – and he was one of the first guys at Ubon to qualify for a 100-mission patch.

  “Nice to see you again, Hamfist” he said, as he gestured toward the empty bed and desk that would be mine, “You won’t believe the bullshit level of the peacetime Air Force!”

  “I’d heard about it, but this was my first taste of it. Colonel Milner said it would take me two months to get Combat Ready.”

  “Yeah. That’s about what it took for me. Two months! And did Milner give you a ration of shit about your patch?” he asked, pointing to my Hundred Mission patch.

  “Yep. He quoted 35-10 to me.”

  “35-10 is a big deal here,” Duke said, “Haircuts, sleeves on flight suits not rolled up, and making sure mustaches don’t extend beyond, get this, the vermilion of the lips. And no crush in the flight cap.”

  “Wow!”

  “Welcome to the peace-time Air Force.”

  “Is it like this everywhere?” I asked.

  “Pretty much so, from what I hear. But, at least here, once you get past the bullshit, the flying is really great. The Taiwanese love us. We can fly pretty much anywhere we want, and as low as we want. Their attitude about us is that the roar of our engines is the sound of freedom.”

  “I’m really looking forward to getting back into the air.”

  “Have you met Cocktail yet?” Duke asked.

  “Who’s Cocktail?”

  “Cocktail Collins, our Squadron Commander.

  “I didn’t see him at the squadron when I was there.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me you haven’t met him yet. He’s not around a whole lot. When he’s not flying, he’s either drinking or sleeping. He didn’t get that nickname by accident.”

  “But I’ll tell you something,” he continued, “he’s the best fighter pilot in the squadron. Usually his hand is shaking so much he can hardly get his cigarette to his mouth in the preflight briefing, but he wins the money every time we go to the range. Every time. Best bombs I’ve ever seen.”

  5

  April 21, 1973

  I had spent the previous four days at Indoctrination Training. Indoc was a fairly formal class, run by the Wing Weapons Officer, Bo Bosworth. Bo was a very sharp Captain, a graduate of the USAF Fighter Weapons School. He took what could have been a dry subject and made it interesting.

  First, we learned about the local flying environment. CCK Air Base was located next to the town of Taichung, near the center of the island of Taiwan. The north-south runway at CCK was located just a few miles north-northwest of the short north-south runway of Taichung Airport. This was a set-up for some unsuspecting pilot to land at the wrong airport during an approach in limited visibility. I was really glad Bo told me about it before I embarrassed myself.

  There was an emergency landing facility at Tainan, at the south end of the island, and an additional base at Ping Tung, not far from Tainan. To the north, Taipei International Airport could also be used if the single runway at CCK became disabled.

  Although there was a bombing range in Taiwan, our primary bombing range was on Ie Shima Island, in Okinawa. This necessitated fairly long, four-hour missions to conduct our air-to-ground training. Naturally, in the event of any problems, our primary emergency airport during air-to-ground training would be Kadena Air Base.

  We learned a lot more about the Dawn Patrol and Dusk Patrol missions. Our tasking was managed by the Air Division, which was located in Taipei. The Air Division would be calling the shots for our air defense mission.

  Overall, I felt Indoc training was excellent, and I was ready to start flying.

  Every afternoon the crews of both fighter squadrons would assemble at the bar in the CCK Officers Club. The O’Club was an excellent facility. In addition to the bar, they had a terrific restaurant. And the prices were really great. I really enjoyed the camaraderie of a bunch of fighter jocks standing around, swapping stories and getting to know each other. It didn’t take long for me to get to know everyone in the squadron.

  We wore our flight suits in the bar, because we were normally there fairly early in the day. Because we were a tenant unit on base, the C-130 wing established the rules, and the edict for the bar was that no flight suits were allowed after 1900 hours – seven in the evening. That usually wasn’t a problem, since we typically were finished drinking before that. And a lot of the time, the guys would wear civvies to the bar, because they would either go to the restaurant afterward or proceed to downtown Taichung. And we always wore civvies off base.

  There was a commercial bus that stopped at several places on base, then proceeded to take the occupants into Taichung. The bus was called the Smoker, and the last stop before heading downtown was in front of the Officer’s Club. Duke had introduced me to the Smoker and had shown me around Taichung a few days earlier, and I enjoyed walking around the city, taking in the sights and shopping for souvenirs. There were a bunch of nice jewelry stores in town, and I was hoping Sam would get a chance to visit CCK soon, so I could show her around. Maybe buy her something nice.

  There was another side of Taichung that some of the guys visited. The area was called the Dirty Dozen, twelve bars that were actually whorehouses. Every bar reportedly
had gorgeous girls, and the most beautiful, and most famous, was a madam named Cee-Cee. She had become a legend in her own time, and had established a reputation that had spread throughout the Air Force.

  Automatic Terminal Information Service, called ATIS, was a service that was provided to pilots at every Air Force base. Basically, as you were preparing to takeoff or land, you would tune in the ATIS on a special radio frequency and hear a pre-recorded message that would provide airfield information, such as wind direction, altimeter setting, temperature and runway in use. The recording would change about every hour, or whenever the weather or runway condition changed. Using ATIS eliminated the previous requirement to call the tower on the radio to find out the weather and runway. Pilots still called the tower for takeoff and landing clearance, but only after learning the routine non-control information.

  There was a story, maybe bullshit, maybe not, that one day the CCK ATIS recording contained the phrase, “Attention all aircrews: Charlie Charlie has Victor Delta.” Charlie is the phonetic alphabet letter C, Victor is the phonetic alphabet letter V, and Delta is the phonetic alphabet letter D. In other words, “Cee-Cee has VD”.

  On this day I was at the bar at about 1730 hours, having a quick drink – just a Coke – before heading back to the BOQ to study. I had just enrolled in the Air Command And Staff College course through ECI, and wanted to get a running start. ACSC was part of the Professional Military Education – PME – required for promotion to Major. I had already completed the previous prerequisite PME course, Squadron Officer School, while I was at Ubon.

  Lieutenant Colonel Milner approached me with a drink in his hand. He seemed a bit unsteady on his feet, and he smelled of gin as he leaned toward me.

  “The Smoker is leaving for downtown in twenty-five minutes,” he slurred, “Mandatory formation. We’re going to introduce you to the Dirty Dozen and get your horns trimmed. I’ll get Cee-Cee to show you her tits.”