by G. E. Nolly
“Do you feel okay about that?” I asked.
“Absolutely. Before Johnny was born, I was doing something really important, serving my country. I’ve done that now for four years, and I enjoyed every minute of it. But what I’m going to be doing from this point on is just as important. I’ll be supporting you, as you’re serving our country, and I’ll be raising our son, with your help. And our son is our future. And our country’s future.”
“Be sure to let me know as soon as you get your travel authorization. Major Riner said he’ll make sure we have a quote Training Flight unquote to Yokota, and we’ll be releasing seats to passengers.”
“This will be Johnny’s first airplane ride, and his father will be at the controls. Very cool.”
“I need to run now, to be at the house for the furniture delivery. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I love you, sweet-heart.”
“I love you too, Ham. Goodbye.”
38
December 25, 1973
A few days earlier I had picked up Sam and Johnny on a T-29 flight to Yokota. Although Sam had been on a flight I’d been operating before, when I was flying T-39s out of Yokota, it was still a thrill for me to get to show her what I did for a living. And I really wanted Johnny’s first airplane ride to be with me at the controls.
We got settled into our house, a Capehart model on Christos Avenue, right in the center of the Kadena housing area. Although we had three bedrooms, we both agreed we should keep Johnny’s crib in our bedroom, at least until we were completely settled in. We were both adjusting to our new roles as parents and, for Sam, as a dependent.
This was an important anniversary for me. It had been five years since I left for Vietnam, the same day I met Tom, who became my father-in-law. And it had been four years since I returned and proposed to Sam.
Most important, it was our third wedding anniversary. I decided to surprise Sam by taking her to the restaurant that Don had introduced us to several years earlier. I especially liked the name. Sam’s by the Sea.
“With a name like that,” I had said to Sam, “how could it not be our favorite place?”
Before Johnny was born, all it took to get ready to go out was a quick shower and change of clothes before jumping into the car. Now, it was more like preparing to go on a safari. We had a large leather shoulder bag, which we packed with infant formula, baby food, diapers, wiping paper, bibs, and toys. I could see this would be a big adjustment for both of us.
We had Johnny in his car seat, which was also a baby carrier, and we sat in the comfortable rattan chairs by the big window overlooking Nakagusuku Bay. The view was magnificent.
After we ordered, I looked into Sam’s eyes.
“Are you having second thoughts about leaving the Air Force?”
“Not at all,” she replied, “As soon as I held Johnny in my arms, I realized this is what I was meant to do.”
“Maybe when he’s older, when all of our children are older,” she smiled, “I’ll get back into Law, in some degree or other, but my main job, my mission in life right now, is to be the best wife and mother I can be.”
“I love you Sam. Happy Anniversary.”
“I love you too,” she said, as she leaned forward to kiss me, “Happy Anniversary.”
39
January 7, 1974
Major Riner ran the Pilots’ Annual Instrument Refresher Course. The IRC was a three-day lecture course conducted in the Wing mass briefing room, a theater-like room with about 100 seats. The lectures covered a wide variety of subjects, such as Regulations, Spatial Disorientation, Weather, Instrument Procedures, Publications, and Aerodynamics.
The course culminated with a four-hour 100-question multiple-choice exam. The exam was open book, and required a lot of searching through the dozens of publications each pilot had been issued. The exam questions were developed by the Air Force, and sometimes it would take ten minutes or longer to find a single answer, even if you knew exactly where to look.
Major Riner conducted the course six times a year. Each pilot had a Base Month for his Instrument Check, and could take the exam either one month before, during, or one month after his Base Month. When I saw how worn out Major Riner looked at the end of the third day, I felt really sorry for him. He had been talking virtually non-stop for two and a half days. After the class was over, I approached him.
“Sir, do you need help conducting the course? It looks like a lot of work for just one person.”
“I sure do,” he responded, “Major Swenson was assisting me up until last month, but he DEROSed, and I’m left holding the bag by myself.”
He looked totally worn out, and as soon as I volunteered to help out, he looked like he had just been jolted with electricity.
“I’d be happy to help out, if you like,” I said.
“If I like? You bet! Thanks, Ham! Let’s take a couple days off, then I’ll show you the ropes and make sure you’re ready for our next class, in March.”
40
March 4, 1974
It was my turn to help Major Riner out with the IRC. He had assigned me one of the easiest classes to teach – Spatial Disorientation, which consisted of showing an Air Force film – and one of the most difficult: Regulations.
There was no way to make the Regulations class interesting. It was dry, boring material that had to be memorized and interpreted. How much rest a pilot is required to have before flight. How many hours of duty time were allowed. What minimum weather was required to commence an instrument approach. When was an Alternate required to be designated. What ceiling and visibility were required for an airport to qualify as an Alternate. The list went on endlessly.
It had looked so easy when Major Riner had presented the material. He had told a few jokes, used stories to illustrate his teaching points, and had kept the audience interested. I, on the other hand, had virtually nothing to say except what was on the briefing slides, which I read as each slide was projected.
When I had practiced my presentation, it had taken slightly less than 50 minutes. The perfect class length. Now, I was nervous, I had been talking quickly, and found myself on the last slide at the 20-minute point.
“Are there any questions?” I asked, hoping no one would ask anything that would further embarrass and humiliate me.
“Yes,” a Captain asked from the back of the room, “Are you going to be teaching any more of the lessons?”
A few muffled chuckles emanated from the audience.
“Okay, you wise-asses,” Major Riner said, as he strode onto the stage, “Captain Hancock here has just graciously given you another break before our next lecture. Let’s make it 15 minutes.”
As the audience got up to stretch their legs, he whispered to me, “Ham, you did just fine. Illegitemi non carborundum.”
“Thanks,” I said, giving a weak smile. I resolved to do better the next time, and was thankful I had studied Latin in high school. Don’t let the bastards get you down.
41
March 15, 1974
I received a call from Major Riner. “Ham, I have some news I think you’ll like.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“We’re finally going to join the jet age. We’re trading in our T-29s for T-39s.”
“That’s great news, sir.”
I had almost 600 hours of T-39 time from my assignment at Yokota. I loved the airplane, and had been an IP in it.
“We want you to be our Initial Cadre IP. They’re bringing an airplane down here from Yokota to give you a local checkout. You start flying in a week, and we will get our own birds at the end of the month.”
“Excellent. I’m ready to go.”
It was bittersweet trading in the T-29 for the T-39. Although I was looking forward to again getting into the Sabreliner, there was a part of me that felt a sense of ennui from losing a piece of our Air Force history. The throaty rumble of the radial engines evoked memories of the World War Two movies I’d seen as a kid. The T-29 was my link to bygone times. It would be sad t
o see it go. But it was great to get back into the Sabreliner.
The local checkout in the Sabreliner was a piece of cake. Flying the T-39 again was like slipping on a comfortable pair of loafers.
I spent the next several weeks taking our attached pilots on familiarization flights throughout the Pacific, getting them to the point where they would qualify to carry passengers. The guys were amazed at how much quicker the flights to our typical destinations were. We could go to Yokota, Osan, CCK and Clark in about half the time it took in the T-29. And, most important, the plane was small enough that we wouldn’t be asked to carry any more souvenirs for the higher-ups.
As I traveled on overnight trips, I tried to get all of my graduate course studying accomplished while I was on the road. Each course required at least ten hours of home study each week, not counting the time in class, and I wanted to have as much time with Sam and Johnny as I could when I was at home. The courses were going well, and I had received a grade of A in every course.
There was great news on the F-4 squadron front. Finally, the jocks would be coming home, at least for a little while. Because of the extreme hardship on the jocks of the 18th Tactical Fighter Wing, PACAF designated an additional F-4 squadron, from Clark Air Base, to supplement the crews from Kadena.
The two Kadena squadrons would each cycle home for three weeks at a time, while the squadron from Clark filled in. It was a giant weight lifted from the shoulders of the squadron jocks.
Things were starting to look up.
42
March 18, 1974
I had already discovered, from my flying, that a day off from the office wasn’t really a day off. Whenever I missed a day at the office, the work just piled up, and I would have more work to accomplish when I got back.
And now, I was going to miss more work. I had been assigned to attend a mandatory three-day Social Actions course. There had been a lot of racial tension in the military during the past several years. It had started with a riot by about 100 black sailors aboard the USS Kitty Hawk, and had spilled over to the other services. The Air Force was looking for ways to smooth things over, and came up with a program called Social Actions.
Social Actions was actually a catch-all for a lot of touchy-feely programs that included race relations, sexual harassment, drug abuse and alcohol de-glamorization. My work was going to pile up at the office while I was going to be subjected to what I considered a different form of harassment.
The course started with a day-long white guilt-in, led by a black Captain who was our instructor. I sat quietly and listened to his diatribe, while he regaled us with all the evils of the white settlers, who first decimated the red man, then enslaved the black man.
Okay, this was payback. If it helped smooth over relations on base, I’d put up with it. But I did take an opportunity to inform the Captain that none of my ancestors had owned any slaves. They had come to America in 1897. Hadn’t killed any Indians – sorry, Native Americans – either.
Then it was time to make all of us males feel like shit because we’re such sexist slugs. Actually, a lot of the information he presented did seem to make sense. It was fairly common for offices to be decorated with pin-up pictures, and I sensed that it probably made our female members uncomfortable. So, in that regard, it was a good thing to make everyone aware of the effect that their behavior had on others.
In fact, one of the WAF – Women in the Air Force – Sergeants in another office had decided to fight fire with fire. She had posted a photo from Playgirl Magazine on the wall behind her desk, and it made all of us uncomfortable whenever we entered the office. It was difficult to look at the picture and not feel, well, inadequate. A few weeks after she posted the Playgirl picture, the Wing Commander issued an edict that all suggestive pictures were forbidden in any office.
On the third day, we spent a lot of time discussing drugs and drug abuse. Frankly, I thought it was a total waste of time. I had never used drugs, wouldn’t be able to tell an “upper” from an Advil, and had never even seen marijuana, even in Vietnam.
“And the most abused drug of all,” intoned the Captain, “is alcohol.”
Great, just great. Next thing you know, they’re going to close the bars at the O’Clubs.
He projected a slide on the screen with a list of all the indicators that someone has a drinking problem. If you drink more than five beers a day, you have a drinking problem. If you need a drink first thing in the morning, you have a drinking problem. If you can’t wait until you can get to the bar, you have a drinking problem. If you drink alone, you have a drinking problem. If you black out when you drink, you have a drinking problem.
“Wait a minute,” I interjected, “I hardly ever drink. But I’ve blacked out a few times. I know I don’t have a drinking problem. I go for weeks, maybe months, between drinks.”
“Captain,” he leveled a serious gaze at me, “you have a drinking problem. One of these times after you black out, God forbid, you may walk out to your car the next morning and find blood on the front fender.”
I didn’t know how to answer. So I didn’t answer.
After class, I gave three black airmen a lift to their quarters – to prove, I suppose, I’m not a fucking racist – and went home. I needed to run this drinking discussion by Sam, to hear her opinion about my history of blacking out.
I related to her what had transpired in class. She listened patiently.
“Pardon my French, Honey,” I said, “but that class was total bullshit.”
Sam grabbed both of my hands and looked into my eyes.
“Ham, we need to talk.”
43
March 20, 1974
“Honey,” Sam said, “I think we need to talk about your drinking. You’ve told me a lot of stories about how you blacked out when you were drinking in Vietnam, and also when you were at CCK.”
I tried to interrupt, but she waved me off.
“I know people came up to you afterwords and told you how much fun you were, you were the life of the party. But you didn’t remember any of it, did you?”
“No,” I answered sheepishly.
“Honey, that Captain was right. You have a drinking problem. I love you. I don’t want to lose you. You’re a father now.”
“Remember how you used to tell me that joke about the little boy who said he wanted to grow up and be a fighter pilot?” she continued, “And his father told him those two goals were mutually exclusive.”
“Yeah,” I smiled as I thought back of that joke.
“Honey, it’s time for you to grow up. I want you to stop drinking.”
I could see she was serious. And I knew she was right. I squeezed her hands in mine and looked directly into her eyes.
“Sam, I promise you. I will never again have another drink.”
And I meant it.
44
May 13, 1975
This past year went by fast. I cycled TDY to CCK six times, three weeks at a time, alternating with the navigators in our office. Naturally, the ROAD Majors didn’t go. Each time I was at CCK, I flew a few F-4 sorties for proficiency, usually a mix of practice bombing missions on the range and air intercepts. Even though I wasn’t maintaining Combat Ready status, it was great being back in the Phantom.
When I was back at Kadena, I typically flew one two-day or three-day mission each week in the T-39. Usually, I could accomplish some work at the office either before or after the missions, so I didn’t get behind on my primary work. Even though I wasn’t home every single night, I was never gone for too long. Sam, Johnny and I got into a routine, and life was fairly stable.
We had bought a Kodak Super-8 movie camera at the Base Exchange, and took tons of movies of Johnny. The camera recorded sound along with the movie, and we captured Johnny’s first words, along with his first steps. Sam did a great job of recording the important events when I was away.
On this day, for some reason, the DO was not at the morning briefing at 0800. We all sat around the table, waiting. Nobod
y said anything. We just patiently waited. Finally, at 0830, Colonel Wilson entered the room, looking rushed. We all rose.
“Be seated, gentlemen. I’m sorry I’m late.”
He looked at Lieutenant Colonel Scoville.
“Scooter, I need you to pick your four best crews. They’re going to deploy in three hours.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Wilson addressed all of us.
“Gentlemen, yesterday a container ship,” he glanced down at his steno pad, “the Mayaguez, was captured by the Khmer Rouge. The Third Mar Div is deploying to Thailand as we speak, aboard MAC C-141s. We’ll be providing mission support with four F-4s from Colonel Scoville’s squadron and with our T-39.”
The Third Mar Div was the short name for the Third Marine Division, based at Camp Courtney, also in Okinawa. They had a proud history. They had been the first combat unit sent to Vietnam, and they were the guys who had protected DaNang when I had been stationed there during my first tour. Altogether, 20 Marines from the Third Mar Div had received the Medal of Honor for their service in Vietnam.
I had celebrated the Marine Corps birthday with them, November 10th, 1969. I got to know some of those guys. If there was any group that could kick Cambodian ass, it was the Third Mar Div.
“We have a lot of work ahead of us,” Colonel Wilson continued, “Dismissed.”
We stood up as he left, and went back to our offices to get started preparing the wing for combat. When I arrived at my office, there was a note on my desk from Major Riner. I needed to call him back ASAP. I dialed his office and he answered on the first ring.
“Ham,” he said, “we have an urgent T-39 mission to Thailand, and I want you to fly it. Sam Johnson will be your copilot. We need to transport six Maintenance troops to U-Tapao in support of the Mayaguez rescue operation.”