by G. E. Nolly
I was incredibly thirsty the whole flight. I had finished off one canteen before we even got to the range. We were dropping BDU-33 practice bombs, and most of our deliveries were 45-degree dive. The bombs were released at 450 knots, and then we would need a 4-G pullout to return to pattern altitude for the next delivery. A 4-G pullout is no big deal. Hell, I’d even managed to perform a 4-G pullout over Hanoi when my balls were getting crushed between my body and my harness! But today, I was having a real problem tolerating G-forces.
I kept blacking out during the pull-outs. I wouldn’t lose consciousness, I just lost vision for a few seconds under high G-loading. But losing vision, even for a very short period of time, is a bad thing. Really bad. In the bombing pattern, I needed to maintain my position over the ground and keep visual separation from the other airplanes in the flight. This was not working out well at all.
To make matters worse, this was supposed to be my qualification mission for the air-to-ground DOC. I was already qualified in air-to-air, and getting this final qualification would make me Combat Ready. But I would need good bombs, and I wasn’t getting them.
On the gunnery range, we would attempt to get our practice bombs directly on the target, a pyramid-shaped structure about six feet across at the center of the bombing circle. Each practice bomb would emit a small puff of smoke when it hit the ground, and the Range Control Officer and his assistant, stationed in two towers a few hundred feet apart, would point their calibrated tripod-mounted binoculars at the smoke and triangulate their results to determine the distance from the target for each bomb delivery. The results would be given in distance and azimuth relative to the run-in direction, such as “10 feet at six o’clock”. The Range Control Officer would record the results and give us our scores after each delivery.
My deliveries were shitty. Certainly not good enough to meet qualification standards. It was embarrassing and humiliating. Here I was, having just returned from doing this for a living in actual combat, and I couldn’t even get my bombs on target when no one was shooting at me. I already knew I hadn’t met qualification standards before we even left the range. The only bright spot in the whole mission was that my last bomb was a “shack”, a direct hit. So I ended on a high note.
I felt totally drained all the way back to CCK. My formation flying was getting sloppy, and I handed the airplane over to my back-seater, Johnny Johnson, for a while. Johnny really loved to get stick time, so he thought I was being nice to him. Actually, I was just trying to keep from dinging a wingtip with flight lead. I took the airplane again as we entered Initial.
We had the standard five-second break for a pitch-out into a 60-degree bank, an easy 2-G load factor in the pull. And I was blacking out! This was not good at all. I grunted as I performed the M-1 maneuver, and said, “Hey, Johnny, take the airplane for a second.”
Johnny gladly flew the airplane around the pattern, and on downwind I regained my vision and took the airplane again. I dropped approach flaps, extended the gear and selected final flaps as I turned base. I kept the airplane on profile, and the aural Angle of Attack tone in my headset informed me that I was on speed. I had a good, firm touchdown, and lowered the nose for the roll out.
“Drag chute, Hamfist, drag chute!” Johnny was yelling in the headset.
Shit! I’d flown over 500 hours in the F-4, and had never before forgotten to deploy the drag chute on landing. I reached over, double-checked that I had the correct handle, and deployed the drag chute. We cleared the runway, went to the de-arm area, and then taxied to parking. As we parked, I shut down the engines, performed the post-flight checklist, and raised the canopy.
Sergeant Adams quickly put the ladder on the left canopy rail and climbed up to insert the pins in my ejection seat.
“Sir! Are you okay?”
I didn’t respond. I was fumbling with my oxygen mask, trying to disconnect it so I could remove my helmet, and my fingers weren’t working. Finally, I just leaned back in the seat and shut my eyes. I would rest for a second or two until I got up enough energy to finish unstrapping. Just a second or two.
The next thing I knew, emergency responders from the Fire Department were removing me from the cockpit and handing me over to the medics in the waiting ambulance.
As I saw my airplane recede into the distance through the rear window of the ambulance, I had the sick feeling that I would never again strap on a Phantom.
12
May 12, 1973
The Flight Surgeon stood at the foot of my bed, looking at the chart that had the results of my blood tests.
“Been doing a lot of kissing lately?” he smiled.
“Not really,” I answered, “Why?”
“I was just pulling your leg, Hamilton. You have Mononucleosis. Back in the old days, when I was in med school, we used to call that the Kissing Disease. Your blood pressure is dangerously low, your sub-mandible glands are grossly swollen, and your spleen is really enlarged.”
“Well if it’s not kissing, what causes it?”
“You probably were burning the candle at both ends and weakened your immune system, making you susceptible to the Epstein-Barr virus.”
“What do I take for it?”
“There’s no medicine for it. Bed rest. That’s it. You need to rest up for at least a week, preferably two.”
“So I’ll be able to fly again in two weeks?”
“Oh, no way. You’ll be DNIF for at least two months.”
Shit. This was bad. DNIF was Duty Not Involving Flying, such as administrative duties around the squadron. I’d probably end up pulling RSO a lot. And it would take me an extra two months to get Combat Ready. This would really look bad for my application for Fighter Weapons School.
The USAF Fighter Weapons School, at Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada, was the most highly selective course a fighter pilot could attend. Only the best of the best got to go, and normally there was only one slot per year for each wing. Taking four months to get Combat Ready would be the kiss of death for any selection hopes I had. There were a ton of guys in the two squadrons in our wing who wanted to attend Fighter Weapons School, and none of them had taken excessive time to qualify.
I wanted to argue with the Flight Surgeon, but I just didn’t have the energy. After he left my room, I shut my eyes and went to sleep.
I slept for pretty much the next two days. When I finally opened my eyes, I thought I was dreaming. Sam was sitting next to my bed. And she looked huge.
“Am I dreaming again, or is that you?”
“It’s me, Ham,” she smiled, as she leaned over and kissed me. “I’ve been here for two hours, and you were totally out. You didn’t move a muscle. At first I thought you were in a coma.”
“Well, this mono really knocked me out, but seeing you here has me feeling better already.”
Then I realized I had just kissed her. I rang the call button, and the nurse quickly arrived.
“My wife just kissed me. On the lips! Is she going to get mono? Is the baby going to be okay?”
“Relax, Captain. Your wife will be fine, as long as she doesn’t do anything to weaken her immunity.” She glanced at Sam. “It looks to me like there’s a good two months until delivery. After the baby comes home is when you’ll both be worn out.”
“I’m really sorry, Sam,” I said, “I guess I was working too hard. I was really looking forward to you coming here. I got us a reservation at a great hotel downtown.”
“I know, Ham. I’m already checked in. Nice place.” She looked at the nurse. “Is he receiving any kind of special medication, or IV?”
“No, just plenty of bed rest.”
Sam looked at me. “I’ll be back in a minute, Honey. I want to talk to your doctor.”
After about ten minutes, Sam and the Flight Surgeon entered my room.
“You have a very persuasive wife, Hamilton,” he smiled, “I think it’s in the best interest of everyone involved if you vacate the hospital and get your bed rest at the Grand Hotel. Needs of the
service.”
I may not have had much energy up to that point, but I didn’t need any help getting dressed and getting my ass out of that hospital as fast as I could. We took a taxi to the Grand Hotel, and we both got out of our clothes and climbed into the gigantic bed.
“The doctor said to take it easy, honey,” she said. “Are you sure you’re going to be up to having sex?”
“I may be a little sick, but I’m not dead! What about you? Is it okay to have sex this close to delivery?”
“My gynecologist said there would be no problem. Unless you’re planning on getting rough,” she laughed.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.”
I was gentle. And I proved I wasn’t dead.
13
May 26, 1973
That week went by quickly, too quickly. I felt stronger every day, and after about three days I started going for short walks around town with Sam. We would go out for an hour or two, then I’d get back in bed and rest. Having Sam there with me was the best medicine I could have hoped for.
When we went for walks, Sam was able to introduce me to many of the shops and restaurants that didn’t normally cater to Americans, because their signs were written in Chinese. Since Japanese written characters are similar to Chinese, she was able to read all of the signs and announcements. It was pretty funny when we would enter a store and the sales people would try to talk to her in Chinese. Typically, the owners couldn’t speak English, and they would end up communicating with Sam by writing.
After Sam left at the end of the week, I went back to my room at the BOQ, and stayed in bed most of the time for the next week. I went to the squadron for a few hours each day to take care of my duties at Life Support, and worked up to about four hours a day.
When I got back to the squadron, I heard about an event that had occurred while I was in the hospital. Our sister squadron had been scheduled for the Dawn Patrol and several early morning gunnery missions. It turned out that every mission had been canceled due to aircraft non-availability. Total MND. Every one. Maintenance was really on its ass.
Well, the crews were pissed, and I couldn’t blame them. They had gotten up early, sometimes 0300 hours, briefed their missions, retrieved their equipment from Life Support, walked out to their airplanes and then found out that they were a no-go. I would’ve been pissed, too. Following the MND, the crews did what any self-respecting fighter jocks would do. They went to the bar, bitched, told war stories, and got shit-faced drunk. They stayed there all day.
By 1900 hours, most of them were using the “Little People’s Bar”, the foot rest at the bottom of the bar, to hold their drinks. They were well past blasted. And, as the witching hour – 1900 – struck, the bartender made his usual announcement.
“Gentlemen,” he said, in Chinese-accented English, “It’s 1900 hours. No flight suits are allowed in the club.”
It wouldn’t be hard to predict what happened next. The jocks staggered to their feet, unzipped their flight suits, and stood there with their flight suits around their ankles. And then they started to get rowdy.
There had been friction between the F-4 drivers and the C-130 permanent-party crews ever since the wing had arrived. The C-130s owned the base, and they never stopped letting us know it. We were a tenant unit, visitors, red-head step-children. Everything on base revolved around the “Herkeys,” the nickname for the C-130 Lockheed Hercules. The fighter jocks quickly transformed the nickname to “Turkeys”.
Just as the jocks were stripping to their skivvies, the C-130 Wing Commander entered the O’Club, escorting a visiting General. They apparently had just returned from the golf course, and the Wing Commander was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and casual pants. As soon as he heard the commotion in the bar, he rushed in.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded.
A young Lieutenant went up to him, looked him in the eye, and swayed back and forth.
“You must be pretty fucking stupid if you can’t see what’s going on here.”
“Do you know who I am?” the Colonel bellowed.
“No. Who are you?”
“I’m the Wing Commander!” he yelled, veins popping out of his neck.
The Lieutenant squinted and looked him over, rocking back and forth.
“Oh. You’re the Turkey Wing Commander!”
Things were degenerating rapidly. The Wing Commander got on his “brick” hand-held radio and called for the Air Police. A few of the jocks realized that things were going south quickly, and pulled up their flight suits and left the club. They even put on their scarves and rolled down their flight suit sleeves. They looked totally proper as the Air Police arrived, sirens blazing.
The sky cops looked at the exiting pilots. “What’s going on in there?”
“There’s some guy in a Hawaiian shirt,” answered one of the pilots, “causing a ruckus and tearing the place up.”
As the sky cops entered the Club, the exiting pilots made a hasty retreat.
By dawn the next day, the shit had totally hit the fan. The Commander of our sister squadron had been fired, and was already off the island. He hadn’t even been at the club. He was a tea-totaler, and had been in his room the whole time, oblivious to what had been transpiring. His replacement, a Lieutenant Colonel from Fifth Air Force Headquarters, was already on his way from Yokota. Everyone in the squadron received an RBI – Reply By Indorsement – a letter that required a response, in which the recipient of the letter had to explain what he had been doing the night of the event. Everyone who had been in the bar received an Article 15, a military punishment that effectively destroyed any chance of promotion. And, a few days later General McKenzie, the Pacific Air Forces Commander, announced that the 18th Tactical Fighter Wing could no longer perform formation takeoffs.
“If those bastards can’t keep their flight suits on,” he supposedly said, “they sure as shit can’t do formation takeoffs.”
I, of course, had the perfect alibi. I was in the hospital.
Most of the other guys in my squadron were also out of the woods. They had all been downtown, chasing pussy at the Dirty Dozen.
14
May 27, 1973
The Wing had a stand-down. No flying at all, just meetings all day.
First, we all assembled in the base theater, where our Wing Commander gave us an ass-chewing. He had flown in from Kadena, in an RF-4, that morning, and would be flying back as soon as he was finished reaming us out.
He expounded on how officers should behave, how he wouldn’t tolerate any more embarrassing events, and how disappointed he was with us. And he told us we’d better get our families to behave, also. There was entirely too much drug use on the part of the teenagers whose fathers were deployed to CCK. And wives were having a melt-down. One of them had found his home telephone number, and had personally called him as she attempted suicide.
“You better get your families in line. I won’t put up with any more of this unprofessional, irresponsible behavior. Some day you’re all going to look back on this deployment as the best time of your life.”
That General really had his finger on the pulse of the Wing. Not.
After we left the base theater, both squadrons had separate meetings at their mass briefing rooms. As usual, Cocktail was nowhere in sight. Lieutenant Colonel Milner was conducting our meeting. With no one in our squadron on the Wing Commander’s current shit list, he had a look like the cat that ate the canary.
“I want to commend you all for the way you represented our squadron,” he announced.
He proceeded to discuss some operational issues, schedules, and flight procedures. Then he announced the need for some volunteers for additional duties.
“We need someone to volunteer for Admin Officer, because Captain Dolan is going to DEROS in another month. And we need someone to help Lieutenant Murphy with the snack bar.”
He paused, looked around the room until he made eye contact with me, and continued, “And we need a volunteer to be Life Support Offic
er… Hancock,” he smiled wickedly, “you’re going to Wing O&T.”
15
May 27, 1973
I thought back to a conversation I’d had with Duke shortly after I had arrived at CCK.
“Hamfist,” Duke asked, “do you have your gates met?”
The “gates” were artificial thresholds of years of service and hours of flying time, established to designate pilots who could be utilized for non-flying duties. Basically, if a pilot was on track to meet the requirements of the Senior Pilot aeronautical award, he was deemed to have met his gates. To receive Senior Pilot wings, the pilot had to have accumulated 2000 hours flying time and have been rated for at least seven years.
I was well short of seven years of rated time, but I had almost 1500 hours already, and had over 500 hours in the F-4. The gates for fighter units were established at 1000 hours total time and 450 hours of fighter time. Anyone who had that experience level was eligible to be assigned to a nonflying position. Guys with less experience were guaranteed they would stay in the cockpit.
“I guess I do. Why do you ask?”
“I saw a notice on the squadron bulletin board that Wing is looking for Captains who have met their gates for some staff jobs. Command Post and O&T – the Operations an Training Division. They prefer volunteers.”
“Who the hell would volunteer?”
“Probably senior Captains who are bucking for Major below the zone. A staff job is considered a necessity if you want early promotion.”
“I wouldn’t mind making Major early,” I said, “but I’m not ready to leave operational flying. Do the staff guys get much flying?”