by G. E. Nolly
There was a groan from the audience. An Operational Readiness Inspection is an incredibly thorough evaluation of every mission the Wing is tasked to perform, and the performance specifications are extremely strict. Our F-4 crews would be required to perform operational missions in each of the three DOCs, and, in addition, would take written evaluations in ten different subject areas.
They would be tested on Air Defenses, Weapons Effects, Nuclear Weapons Delivery, No-Lone Zone Procedures, Permissive Action Link Enabling, Aircraft Systems, Air Intercept Procedures, and a host of other subjects. And the three tests that related to nuclear weapons – Nuclear Weapons Delivery, No-Lone Zone Procedures and PAL Enabling – had a minimum passing score of 100 percent. If everyone in the Wing did not turn in a perfect test, the Wing would fail the ORI. Talk about pressure!
48
September 22, 1975
The ORI team arrived with virtually no notice. It was intended to be a totally no-notice arrival, but our Command Post had been monitoring all inbound flight plans for several weeks, and saw a C-135 with an unusual call sign headed to Kadena. They alerted the DO, and we basically had about 12 hours of advance notice.
When an ORI team arrives, things happen quickly. The jocks are all recalled to the squadron, and the team evaluates how long it takes for all the squadron members to report. The jocks have been instructed to bring their mobility bags with them for inspection. The mobility bag is a large A-4 bag that has been pre-packed with all items that would be required for a short-notice deployment. Uniforms, flight suits, poopy-suits, everything. If a squadron needs to deploy on short notice, the packing has already been accomplished.
As soon as the jocks arrive at the squadron, they start their closed-book testing. Naturally, there is a member of the ORI evaluation team in the room at all times to monitor the test. Once each test commences, no one is allowed to leave the testing room for any reason, but there is a short break between each of the ten written exams, so the guys can use the latrine, get a cup of coffee, or wolf down a quick meal. The testing lasts pretty much all day.
Once the testing is completed, the war starts.
The ORI team provides the DO with the Frag Order – the designation of targets, run-in courses and Time Over Target – and the DO tasks each squadron with accomplishing the mission. The Squadron Commander is responsible for assigning crews to missions, and he has to provide the flight lineup to the ORI team. Every crew in the squadron must fly a mission. That way, the Squadron Commander can’t “stack the deck” by only allowing the best crews to fly.
An ORI team member is positioned at the bombing range at all times, to ensure that the Range Control Officer provides accurate bombing results. Simulated anti-aircraft gun emplacements are situated around the target area, and Surface-to-Air sites are strategically positioned along ingress routes. If a strike flight doesn’t avoid these simulated threats, their bombs won’t count, since the strike aircraft will be assumed to have been shot down.
The strike flights must also deal with aerial threats in the form of “aggressor” aircraft that can attack at any time, from any direction. In this case, the Japan Air Self-Defense Force F-104s from Naha Air Base are assigned aggressor duty. All aircraft, ours and theirs, are configured with simulated missiles that would record if and when the missiles were fired, and predicted success or failure.
All of us in the DO Wing Staff assembled in the Emergency Mobility Facility, called the “War Room”. There was a lot to do, and not enough time to do everything. Our Ops Plans Division had attack templates that could be used on short notice, and we all got to work planning the strikes. Even the ROAD Majors got involved.
This was an around-the-clock operation, and it lasted for five days. As time wore on, we were exhausted. We worked in 12-hour shifts, and the DO was there pretty much full-time, only disappearing for a short time every few hours to eat or to take a quick nap.
This was as close to real combat operations as it could get. By noon the first day, our well-choreographed plans had started to fall apart. I saw, first-hand, the reality of the expression, “No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.”
Maintenance had done a great job getting airplanes to crews on time, but still, there were problems. Aircraft 669 had a bird strike shortly after takeoff and had to air abort. Aircraft 442 developed a hydraulic leak as it was taxiing out to the Quick-Check area and had to ground abort. The radar on aircraft 555 didn’t pass the BIT check, the Built-In Test that was performed during preflight. It had been scheduled for an air-to-air mission, and the Maintenance crews traded it out with aircraft 778, which would be a strike mission. We kept our fingers crossed that aircraft 555 wouldn’t encounter any aggressors, since the radar missiles wouldn’t work.
If I hadn’t been so busy in the War Room, I probably would have felt like a real outsider. But I didn’t have time for introspection or self-pity. I had a telephone up to my ear virtually nonstop for 12 hours every day, coordinating with the squadrons, Maintenance, Logistics and Plans. I was tracking every sortie, assembling reports for the DO, briefing the DO on every mission as soon as I had their results from the range, and trying to keep track of every jock in both squadrons to coordinate with the squadron schedulers.
By the end of the week, we were all like the walking dead. With a 12-hour shift, I was only home long enough to grab a quick snack and a short nap. Sam had made me breakfast, lunch and dinner to take with me, so I didn’t starve. I felt totally drained, I had a constant ringing in my ears, and my eyes were bloodshot. The DO looked even worse than I felt.
On the fifth day, we all assembled in the base theater to hear our results. The ORI Team Chief, a Colonel, conducted the briefing, which was accompanied by 35-millimeter slides projected on the large screen.
“Gentlemen,” he started, “this is going to be one of the shortest out-briefs I have ever conducted. I’m going to show you some photos we took during the week, and some charts and statistics. But let me cut to the chase right now. Your evaluation is…” he paused for effect, “Outstanding!”
Even though we had been instructed to remain silent until the out-briefing was completed, a huge cheer erupted from the audience.
I looked around at the guys in the theater. They had all done a magnificent job. The crews had gotten their bombs on target, no one had been shot down, we had a successful completion rate, and everyone had an incredible feeling of satisfaction. Even though I hadn’t turned a wheel the whole time, I felt really great about my role in the success.
And suddenly, I didn’t feel tired any more.
49
September 29, 1975
A week after the ORI was completed, I started working on a project with important and long-lasting consequences. Up until now, there were two fighter squadrons in the 18th Tactical Fighter Wing. They were fairly equally matched in rank, experience and DEROS. Basically, with a three-year assignment, one thirty-sixth of the squadron – two or three guys – DEROSed each month.
The squadron experience levels were not precisely the same, since one of the squadrons – not Scooter’s squadron, the other one – had a classified mission in addition to the other DOCs. The mission required special training, so that squadron had, on average, more experienced crews. The squadron had a small number of specially-trained crews, and the rest of their jocks were standard-issue F-4 crews.
One of my jobs at Wing O&T was to determine the squadron assignment for every new arrival, both pilots and WSOs. If a pilot or WSO had been trained in the special mission, he naturally went to the designated squadron. When a pilot or WSO arrived, I would look at his rank, fighter time, flight lead and IP status and DEROS and would assign him to one squadron or the other, to keep experience levels, rank and DEROS as equal as possible.
Now, with the draw-down of the Vietnam war, the fighter squadrons based in Thailand were being relocated. One of the squadrons, the 12th Tactical Fighter Squadron, was going to be reassigned to the 18th TFW. This made sense, since the 1
2th had originally been part of the the Wing at Kadena before their deployment to Korat Air Base, in Thailand, in 1970. Back then they had been flying F-105s. Basically, the 12th Tactical Fighter Squadron was finally coming back home.
But there was a problem. We couldn’t simply move the 12th back to Kadena as a fully-formed squadron. Since assignments in Thailand were 12-month tours, everyone in the 12th squadron was due to rotate back to the States in 12 months or less. And, in fact, the guys in the 12th with less than three months until their DEROS had already been sent Stateside. So the guys who would be arriving from Korat would all have nine months or less until their DEROS. If we simply stapled the 12th squadron into the 18th Tactical Fighter Wing, we would have massive squadron turnover during the next year. Then, with thirty-six month tours, the Wing would have the same problem three years later.
No, we had to totally reshuffle the deck. And that was going to be my job.
Ron approached me a week after the ORI.
“Ham, we have an important project, really important, and Colonel Wilson told me you’re the only one he trusts to do it.”
“I’m flattered, sir. What is it?”
“We need to rearrange the manning in all the squadrons to keep experience levels and DEROS dates homogeneous when the 12th is integrated into the Wing.”
I could instantly see how big this was going to be.
“This sounds like a really big project.”
“Well, you’re the one with the Master’s Degree. This should be right up your alley.”
Actually, it was precisely the kind of project a Master of Science Degree in Systems Management had prepared me for, and I was looking forward to the challenge. I didn’t bother to tell Ron I wouldn’t officially have my Master’s Degree for another three weeks.
I started by gathering data on every jock in each squadron. The Admin Officer in each squadron was able to give me an “alpha roster” listing every pilot and WSO, along with his rank and DEROS. Then I went to the squadron Scheduling Officers and determined which pilots were Flight Leads and IPs. Also, in the special mission squadron, I noted which crews were special mission-qualified. Finally, I went to the Flight Records Section and got the total flying time and fighter time for every jock.
Now I had to get the same information about the 80-plus guys who were going to be arriving from Korat.
I ended up with reams of paper scattered all over my desk, trying to make the pieces fit into this gigantic puzzle.
Complicating this process was the camaraderie inherent in each squadron. Squadrons become like families. There’s friendly rivalry between squadrons. The guys, and their wives, form attachments to the other people in the squadron, and it becomes a real challenge to break those bonds.
I stopped by Scooter’s office to chat with him.
“Sir, do you have a few minutes to talk?”
“Sure, Hamfist. Have a seat.”
We both sat down in the overstuffed chairs against the wall in his office.
“I’ve been working on the project to integrate the 12th into the Wing, it’s been designated Project Smoothflow. Well, I’m going to need to relocate a lot of guys from one squadron to another, basically like shuffling a deck of cards. And guys are coming up to me right and left saying they don’t want to be reassigned to another squadron.”
“It’s funny how that works, isn’t it? When we were at DaNang, we were reassigned to different squadrons after 12 months, and it was no big deal. But when we get to a squadron with a thirty-six month tour, especially when there are wives and kids involved, it gets complicated. There’s a group dynamic going on, and a degree of intimacy, that’s more pronounced in an accompanied overseas assignment than in a Stateside assignment. I’d be willing to bet that every wife in my squadron knows when every other wife is on her period.”
“When I was at Air War College,” he continued, “we had a lecture by a Psychology researcher about group dynamics. He told us about an experiment with monkeys. Basically, the experimenter put five monkeys in a cage, and there was a banana hanging from the top of the cage, and a ladder. After a while, one of the monkeys figures out how to use the ladder to get to the banana. As soon as he climbs the ladder to get the banana, the other monkeys are sprayed with cold water. After a couple of cycles of this spraying, the monkeys would beat the shit out of any monkey that tried to climb the ladder.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
“But here’s the really interesting part. The experimenter replaced one of the monkeys, and as soon as the newcomer tried to climb up and get the banana, the other monkeys attacked him, and he quickly learned not to do that. Then they replaced another monkey, and another. Soon they had nothing but new monkeys. None of them had ever been sprayed. But they all knew you sure as shit didn’t want to climb that ladder.”
He paused and withdrew a pack of Camels from the pocket on his flight suit sleeve. He offered the pack to me, I shook my head, and he withdrew a cigarette and lit up.
“Squadrons have their own personalities,” he said, “even when everyone in the entire squadron has changed, the squadron personality stays the same. That’s what makes it so challenging to effect a culture change in a squadron when there’s a problem. You’ll find that out,” he smiled, “when you’re a squadron commander.”
“Every time you need to take a guy out of one of the squadrons to reassign him,” he continued, “you’re going to be on his shit list, no getting around it. His family’s shit list also. But you have broad shoulders. You can handle it.”
I left Scooter’s office with the realization that this wasn’t going to be pleasant, but I had a job to do. I would try to accommodate individual requests, but if I couldn’t keep a guy in a squadron because he was needed in a different squadron, so be it. I wasn’t in a popularity contest.
I had all the information I needed to allocate the jocks to the squadrons, with a good balance of rank for both the pilots and WSOs, fighter time, and retainability. I just needed to figure out how to develop a process to start the shuffle.
Sam saw me staring at the lists of names I had scattered on the dinner table.
“What’s the problem, Honey?”
“I have this mass of information, but I’m having a hard time figuring out how to assign the inbound crews and try to keep as many jocks in their original squadrons as I can.”
“I think we should play cards,” she smiled, as she opened her desk drawer.
“What?”
She took out several packs of 3-by-5 index cards, and placed one card on the table.
“Give me the information for the first guy on your list. Name, rank, position, DEROS, experience, the works.”
As I read the information for the first name on my alpha roster, Major Ron Alford, Sam dutifully wrote all the information on the card. We spent the next two hours making up a card for everyone in all three squadrons. Actually, the whole process took about three hours, since I had to make several trips to the Base Exchange to buy more index cards.
“Okay, now what?”
“First,” she said, “we’ll put the cards into three stacks, representing the squadrons they’re currently in.”
We went through the cards, and ended up with three stacks, ranging in height from 80 to 100 cards.
“Okay, now we’ll separate the pilots in each squadron from the WSOs.”
We made more piles. Then Sam went into the kitchen and came back with several colored marker pens from Johnny’s toy box.
“Now comes the fun part. We’ll let the upper right corner represent rank. A Lieutenant will be red,” she started coloring a red triangle in the upper right corner of Beans Beaner’s card, “and a Captain will be blue, a Major will be gold, and a Lieutenant Colonel will be silver.”
We got busy coloring the corners of the cards to represent rank, fighter experience Flight Lead and IP status, and combat experience. We divided the edges of the cards into sections to represent DEROS, with each edge representing a year, from 19
76 to 1979. At some point, Johnny woke up from his nap, and we gave him some blank index cards and let him do some coloring also. He felt like he was helping us.
When we finished, I put a rubber band around the three stacks of index cards and put them on my desk, next to my car keys.
“Honey,” I said, “I never would have thought of this without you. I’ll be spending the next week or so shuffling through the stacks until I get the balance I’m looking for. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now let’s put Johnny back to bed, and let’s see if you can figure out a better way to thank me.”
50
December 15, 1975
It took longer than a week to get the cards arranged the way I wanted. A lot longer. I rearranged cards from one deck to another, looking at the colored corners, until I could see, at a glance, that I had arranged them the way I wanted. Finally I had tentative alpha rosters for all three squadrons. I painstakingly calculated the statistics for each resultant squadron, making sure they all had an equal number of DEROSes each month, equal rank distributions, equal Flight Leads and IPs, and equal experience.
One of my graduate courses had been Statistics, and I used my new knowledge to compute the mean and median flight time and fighter time for each squadron, as well as the Standard Deviation. I knew that, sooner or later, someone was going to ask me to explain my results, so I made up charts showing all the information I had amassed. Lots of charts. I showed them to Ron.
“That’s great,” he said, “and I’m really glad you made up these charts, because General McKenzie is coming here from PACAF. I want you to be the one to give him the briefing on Smoothflow.”