by G. E. Nolly
Our meeting was immediately dismissed, and a pall hung over the base the rest of the time I was at Kadena. The flags were at half-staff, and all base recreational activities were canceled.
We had been planning on leaving the base with a bang, and instead we left with a whimper.
Flying half-way around the world can be draining. Doing it with a toddler can be murder. We were traveling on a B-747 military charter flight that went from Kadena to St. Louis with a stop in Anchorage, Alaska, where we all had to deplane to go through Customs and Immigration processing. Then we waited in a large hangar while the airplane was refueled before we walked across the frozen tarmac to the boarding stairs.
Johnny was getting fidgety, and didn’t want to walk. I couldn’t much blame him – I felt the same way. So I ended up carrying him up the external stairs, balancing our bag of essentials on my shoulder, while Sam carried her purse and our duffel bag. By the time we got to St. Louis, we were tired, hungry, and grouchy.
And we were only half-way to our destination. We had to wait almost four hours for our flight to Orlando. When we checked in for our Trans World Airways flight, the agent told us we would not be sitting together. Clearly, that just wouldn’t work.
When the cabin crew showed up at the gate, I went up to the oldest stewardess – I figured she must be the one in charge – to see if she could help us get seats together.
“Excuse me, Stewardess, can you help us?”
She looked me up and down, pausing at the ribbons on my class-A uniform.
“For starters, Captain, the word is Flight Attendant, not Stewardess. I’m Karen. What can I do for you?”
“Oops. Sorry, Karen. My wife and I are traveling with our three-year-old son, and the agent said we couldn’t sit together,” I said, showing her our tickets, with stick-on seat numbers attached. “Can you help us get us together?”
She turned to three young women in civvies who were wearing airline ID badges.
“Sharon, Sallie, Nancy, get over here.”
They dutifully obliged.
“Show me your tickets.”
They presented their tickets to Karen.
“Okay,” Karen said to me, “let me see your tickets.”
I handed my tickets to her, and she exchanged the seat assignment stickers from our tickers with the stickers from Sharon, Sallie and Nancy.
“They’re dead-heading Flight Attendants in training,” she said, “and it’s no problem to re-seat them. They were going to be seated together, but I think it will be better if they get to observe from different parts of the plane. Besides,” she smiled, “they’re new-hires, so they won’t complain.”
“Thank you, Karen.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, staring at my ribbons, “And thank you for your service.”
I got a lump in my throat and started to get emotional. No one had ever said that to me. The last time I had been in the States was when I had attended Fighter Lead-In School and F-4 RTU. The war was still raging on, and anti-military sentiment had been running high. Although it had never happened to me, I had heard of returning vets being spit on. And now, I was being thanked.
I didn’t know how to respond, and would have had a difficult time talking, anyway. I merely smiled and nodded, as I headed back to Sam and Johnny.
“Are you okay?” Sam asked, sensing that I was pensive.
“Yeah,” I responded, blinking back tears, “I got our seats adjusted.”
“So what’s with the sad face?”
“The Flight Attendant just thanked me for my service.”
“It’s about time people thanked you,” she said, as she squeezed my arm, “all of you.”
56
March 23, 1976
It was dark when we arrived in Orlando, and we were dead tired.
“What do you want to do,” I asked, “spend the night in a hotel and drive to Patrick tomorrow, or go there tonight?”
“Let’s go there tonight and get our traveling over with,” Sam answered.
“Okay.”
We found the car rental concourse and walked up to the Avis counter, the only counter that didn’t have a line of people waiting to be accommodated. The rental agent was a middle-age lady.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“We want to rent a car, but will need to drop it off at Satellite Beach instead of returning it here. Will that be a problem?”
“Satellite Beach…” she paused, “Are you going to Patrick Air Force Base?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She looked at the ribbons on my uniform.
“I have some of those same ribbons,” she said, her bottom lip quivering, “on a plaque on my wall. The purple one and the yellow one with red stripes.”
The purple ribbon was the Purple Heart Medal, and the yellow ribbon with three red stripes was the Vietnam Service Medal.
“Were you in Vietnam?” I asked.
“No, they are my son’s. The ribbons are mounted on the wall … right next to my Gold Star flag.” She was now fighting back tears. She took a deep breath and composed herself. “Listen, we need to reposition a sedan to Cocoa Beach, which is just up the road from Patrick.”
She shuffled through a folder stuffed with rental contracts and other paperwork.
“Here,” she said, as she handed me the keys and a reposition contract, “Your car is parked in the rental garage, slot H-5. Please leave it off at our Cocoa Beach office within the next week.” She smiled at me as a tear trickled down her cheek, “No charge.”
57
March 23, 1976
We drove right past Patrick Air Force Base without realizing it. The night was dark, and the only sign we observed directing us to Patrick Air Force Base had been about five miles earlier as we made our way south on Highway A1A from Cocoa Beach. When we saw another sign that said “You are now leaving Satellite Beach”, we knew we had gone too far. We doubled back and finally found the base.
Patrick was an easy base to miss. There was no sign to direct cars to the entrance of the base. In fact, there was really no entrance to the base, no guard shack, nothing. Without a fence, the entire base was open to the public. Every road was an access point.
Since all of my operational flying had been overseas, where base security was really tight, I was mystified. I wasn’t sure if this was an aberration, or if other Stateside bases were this unprotected. There were about thirty aircraft, an even mix of O-2s and OV-10s, parked on the tarmac, and I could have driven right up to them.
But, at that point, I only wanted to drive up to the Visiting Officer Quarters and get some rest. Sam and Johnny were fast asleep in the back seat, and I couldn’t wait to join them in dreamland. I found the VOQ, checked in, carried our luggage to our room, and then carried Johnny in as Sam followed me, still half asleep.
It was good to finally arrive at our destination.
58
March 25, 1976
The Base Housing Office situation was the opposite of that we experienced at Kadena. At Patrick, everyone was required to live on base, unless they received special authorization from the Squadron Commander. Some people actually wanted to live off base, so they could purchase a house and receive a housing allowance, a few hundred dollars a month. I had been living on base my entire career, and had no idea about real estate, so it was not a consideration for us. We moved into our base housing two days after we arrived.
Base housing wasn’t really on base. The Capehart housing section was located five miles south of the base, in Satellite Beach. Our house was one short block from the ocean, and it was hard to tell we were in base housing, other than well-publicized requirement to keep our lawns mowed and neat.
The combined O-2 and OV-10 training squadron at Patrick Air Force Base was totally different from what I remembered from my previous O-2 training environment at Hurlburt Air Force Base. At Hurlburt, our training had been conducted at Holly Field, a small, austere subsidiary airport, and the squadron had been housed in several ol
d quonset huts. It was intentionally sparse, to get us used to what we could expect in Vietnam.
The training squadron had moved from Hurlburt less than a year earlier, and this squadron building was a clean, modern facility. There were individual flight briefing rooms, offices, and a mass briefing room that could accommodate everyone in the squadron. When I walked into the squadron building, I felt right at home.
As soon as I reported to the Squadron Admin section, I was introduced to Major Ron Carter, the Operations Officer, and Lieutenant Colonel Stu Dillard, the Squadron Commander. They invited me into the Squadron Commander’s office, and we sat on the sofa and had a nice chat. They seemed really happy to have me in the squadron.
Our mission was to train O-2 and OV-10 pilots to be Forward Air Controllers – FACs. The FAC is the eyes and ears of the fighter pilot. His job is to conduct Visual Reconnaissance of his Area of Operations and find targets. Once he finds a target, he calls the Direct Air Control Center to request fighters. When the fighters arrive, he marks the target with a willie pete rocket, and directs the fighters in their bomb deliveries.
There is a lot for a student FAC to learn. In addition to mastering the aircraft, the easy part, he must learn the capabilities of the different fighters he will employ, and the effects of the various munitions the fighters are capable of dropping.
Because I had been out of the O-2 for so long, I was going to go through the entire course, just like a brand-new student FAC. The course was easy, really easy, for me. I passed with flying colors. The O-2 IP course was more of a challenge.
Even though I had been an IP previously, in the T-39, my duties back then had been very rudimentary. Basically, all I had been required to do was babysit Generals when they wanted to fly. But now, I would be performing real instruction. Demonstration-performance instruction, and evaluating when a student would be ready to advance from one stage of training to another. And I’d be doing it all from the right seat. I found it challenging, really challenging. Finally, after going through the IP course, it was time for me to take my check ride.
59
May 4, 1976
Air Force flight check ride grading always followed a precise protocol. If a pilot met all requirements and did not require further training, he received a grade of Qualification Standard One. A Qual One didn’t mean the check ride was perfect. Typically, there are numerous opportunities to make errors on a flight evaluation. As Major Runyan, my T-37 IP in Undergraduate Pilot Training, had told me, “About once a year, somewhere in the world, an Air Force pilot has a perfect check ride. Then there’s the rest of us.”
If a pilot met the standards but had some really glaring errors, errors that would require additional training, he received a grade of Qual Two. With a Qual Two, the pilot did not fail the check ride, and could continue operational activities, but would need some form of additional instruction to get fully up to standards. For example, perhaps he performed all the maneuvers correctly but had safe, but really lousy, landings. For corrective action, he would receive a grade of Qual Two and would be assigned additional practice performing landings. The additional practice would probably include flying with an IP and performing a specific minimum number of landings. The IP would “sign off” his additional training when his landings were satisfactory.
If the pilot had an unsatisfactory check ride, he would receive a grade of Qual Three. With a Qual Three, the pilot could not continue performing operational activities until he received additional training and re-accomplished the check ride successfully.
When I took my check ride to become an IP, I was having a bad day. A really bad day. I had been unusually tired, and had the same sort of symptoms that I’d had when I’d been diagnosed with mononucleosis back in 1973. I knew, of course, that it couldn’t be mono, since I knew that people who once had mono had lifetime immunity. To be more correct, I thought I knew.
It turned out I was wrong. I once again had mono, and once again I ignored my symptoms and flew. And this time, I took a check ride. The ride was not terrible, but it sure wasn’t up to my standards, especially considering the fact that I already had a lot of time flying the O-2. My range work was okay, but my landings were really lousy.
Rod, the SEFE – Stan Eval Flight Evaluator (check pilot) – assigned me a grade of Qual Two, which was totally warranted.
“You’re a good IP, Ham. Your instruction on the range was excellent, and you did a great job demonstrating an ILS approach. But you really need additional practice in right seat landings. I’m giving you a grade of Qual Two, with a recommendation for Corrective Action that you perform twenty right seat landings in the next three months. As soon as you get your twenty landings, let me know, and your Corrective Action will be complete.”
“In the mean time,” he continued, “you can start instructing students. Just be careful, real careful, when you demo landings. You don’t want to embarrass yourself.”
“I think I embarrassed myself enough already,” I replied, “but I agree with the grade. I’ve never gotten anything but a Qual One before, but I have only myself to blame.”
The next day, I started working with a student who was performing some practice air strikes on the range. I wouldn’t need to perform any landings, since the student would be doing the flying, and I was totally comfortable instructing in tactical operations. I was still feeling lousy, but I was in denial about having mono again. I had convinced myself that I was just worn out from the move. I decided that if I didn’t feel better soon, I’d go to see the Flight Surgeon.
Two days later, Lieutenant Colonel Dillard called me into his office.
“Ham, I just received the results of your IP check ride. Frankly, I’m really disappointed. This is a training squadron, and I can’t have any IPs who have Qual Two check rides.”
“Well, sir, that’s the grade I received, and I think it was appropriate. My right seat landings were pretty lousy. I think getting twenty more landings will do me good.”
“You’ll get your twenty landings, but you’ll also need to take another check ride. I’m down-grading your results to a Qual Three.”
I was shocked.
“Sir, the Evaluator assigned a grade of Qual Two. That was the correct grade. The rest of the check ride went very well. I just need more work on landings.”
“Perhaps you didn’t understand me, Captain. I’m telling you that the only grades I will allow my IPs to receive is Qual One or Qual Three. I expect my IPs to be good enough to never require additional training.”
“Colonel, you’re the Squadron Commander, and you’re entitled to do whatever you want. But, in my opinion, if you insist on a two-tier grading system instead of three-tier, the Evaluators will find out and will assign grades of Qual One to guys like me who could really benefit from additional training but don’t deserve to fail. You’re going to eventually have an accident, and it will be totally the fault of your two-tier system.”
I stood up, saluted, and performed an about-face. As I got to the door of his office, I turned to face him.
“By the way, sir, you’ll need to find someone to fly with Lieutenant Wayans in about an hour, since I can’t fly with him if I’m unqualified.”
“Well,” he said, “I won’t sign the downgrade until after today’s mission.”
“Colonel, you told me I’m unqualified. If I’m unqualified, I can’t perform instructional duties.”
“Besides,” I said, “I’m not feeling well, and I’m on my way to the Flight Surgeon to go DNIF.”
I walked out before he could respond.
60
May 15, 1976
Morale was a problem for both IPs and students. Even though Patrick was a terrific location, right on the “Space Coast” of Florida, not far from Cape Canaveral, a lot of the IPs were not thrilled with the move from Hurlburt, which was located in Fort Walton Beach. Many of them had homes they still hadn’t sold, and some of them had families in Fort Walton Beach because their children were still in their s
chools. Fort Walton Beach was an eight-hour drive from Satellite Beach, so it was a real hardship for them.
Most of the students were really unhappy with their assignments to OV-10s or, especially, O-2s. Just like me, they wanted to get assignments to fighters. I quickly discovered that there was one common trait among all of the IPs at Patrick. They all had prior experience operating light aircraft. Many of them had worked their way through college as flight instructors. Others, such as myself, had prior experience as FACs, although all of the other guys with FAC experience had served in OV-10s. Apparently there was information in our records that indicated our prior flight time in propeller aircraft.
There was the feeling among the guys in the squadron, although no one could prove it, that the really great fighter jocks had help at their previous assignments, “sponsors”, who interceded in the assignment process and kept them out of the FAC world. Those of us without sponsors felt like the dregs of the fighter world, guys who didn’t warrant help from their previous Wing Commanders.
The students felt the same way, like they had been screwed getting FAC assignments. And the students were going to real operational FAC squadrons, which had the additional requirement for the FACs to work extensively with the Army. They would spend months out in the field with their assigned Army unit, living in tents and eating C-rations. Some of them would even have to become jump-qualified by attending Airborne training, Jump School, at Fort Benning, Georgia. Then, whenever their associated Army unit deployed, they would go along with them, often getting to their final location by jumping out of airplanes. All of the students felt the same: “If I wanted to play with the Army, I would have joined the Army.” In the peacetime fighter pilot world, being a FAC was a shit detail.