by Mike Jenne
The captain continued. “Although you all come from different backgrounds, you share a common trait: the nature of your work is such that you carry both a high risk of capture as well as an extremely high risk of exploitation. Moreover, all of you are obviously toting around some information of significant strategic value in your heads, or you wouldn’t be sitting here today. That said, if you punch out somewhere, the 116th is tasked to rescue or recover you. We exist solely to rescue you, not the average aviator, because someone high up on the food chain has deemed you far too valuable to fall into or remain in enemy hands.”
“When you leave here, the main lesson you should take away is to trust us to do our jobs. If you go down somewhere in the world, whether you’re on the run or sitting in a POW cell, you can trust that we’re on our way. So while you’re here, we’ll not only show you what you need to do to survive in an extreme environment, but hopefully we’ll teach you to trust us as well.”
The captain sipped from a canteen. “Let’s talk briefly about the nature of survival. By the time the average person realizes that they’re in a life-or-death situation, it’s usually too late for them to alter the outcome. They’re too weak or have already misused the resources available to them. When it finally dawns on them that they’re in desperate straits, it’s almost certain that they’ll panic and dig themselves into an even worse situation.
“To survive, you have to mentally shift gears quickly. You have to intuitively know whether to speed up or slow down. More than anything else, you have to adapt yourself to the circumstances because the circumstances damned sure aren’t going to adapt to you.”
He continued. “You have to make full use of your most precious resources, including time, the knowledge in your head, and the energy in your body. You have to play the game smart. As an example, if you’re out on foot in the wilderness, evading capture, the time to be looking for your next meal is while you still have a full belly from the last one. If you wait until you’re debilitated by hunger and thirst before you start looking for water or food, you’ve probably waited too late.”
“You must adapt and you must adapt quickly. You eat what’s available. Imagine yourself clamped in shackles in a POW camp. If a guard throws you a chunk of meat crawling with maggots, you set aside your qualms, chow down, and then politely ask for seconds.”
“If you’ve punched out and you’re still evading, regardless of how rough things become, do not allow yourself to be captured. Mark my words, gentlemen, capture is your least favorable option. But I’m sure that lesson will have sunk in by the time you fly back to your home stations.”
For the next two weeks, the twelve men were almost constantly active. Working in pairs, they lived outdoors, every night constructing a concealed “evasion hide” that functioned both as shelter and camouflage. Theoretical lessons were followed by practical exercises, and the simple practical exercises eventually were rolled up into larger exercises, where they combined a variety of their new skills in ever more challenging situations. The arcane agenda was jam-packed; they were lucky if they got any more than five hours of sleep—mostly snatched in brief catnaps—within any twenty-four hour period.
Communications was a key aspect of the training. Besides practicing extensively with radios, signaling mirrors, flares and dye markers, they learned a battery of signals and codes, and rehearsed them until they were deeply engrained in their rote memory. Some were intended for use in an evasion situation, such as simple ground-to-air signals to communicate their status to an overflying plane. Most were standard, recognized by aviators around the world, such as ‘II’ to convey ‘Need Medical Supplies’ or ‘X’ to indicate ‘Unable to Proceed.’
The ground-to-air signals provided a tremendous degree of flexibility; they could be displayed with special signal panels or could be created by simply stomping in snow, arranging logs or using any materials in the environment to exhibit the applicable symbols. Likewise, a series of the signals could be surreptitiously left by an evader as he proceeded along his escape route, to give rescuers a track of his progress as well as a running commentary of his status.
The men learned and practiced communications systems used in POW camps, including a modified version of the deaf-mute alphabet, which facilitated silent conversations, and an ingenious but simple “tap” code, based on a five-by-five letter matrix. The tap code could be used in a variety of ways, from communicating through walls to silently exchanging information in close quarters, through virtually imperceptible squeezes or nudges.
Tactics instructors showed them how to use camouflage to dissolve themselves into a variety of environments. They learned to skillfully use the terrain to their advantage, carefully avoiding the “natural lines of drift” where people are prone to move. In time, the men learned how to move quietly and quickly while leaving few traces of their passage. They were taught techniques to evade detection by tracking dogs and visual trackers. They learned to orient themselves and find cardinal directions without a compass, using the sun and stars.
The instructors strongly cautioned them to avoid contact with locals in an evasion situation, but also showed them how to effectively use their evasion aids—the blood chit, pointee-talkee, and bartering materials—if they needed assistance and contact was unavoidable.
They learned rudimentary field medicine, which centered primarily on splinting fractures and treating minor injuries so they could keep moving. The instructors stressed the criticality of taking care of wounds—even seemingly trivial cuts and scrapes—to stave off infection. They were acquainted with natural remedies—chewing willow bark as a substitute for aspirin, using a smidgen of kerosene to flush out intestinal worms, munching charcoal to ease an upset stomach—that could suffice if a modern pharmacy was out of reach. They were shown how to extract an impacted tooth and treat other common maladies that could incapacitate them in an austere setting—such as a POW camp—where more advanced care was not available.
Knowing that the harshest lessons would come in the final week, they learned how to survive in captivity and resist interrogation. They learned the futility of believing that they could hold up indefinitely under torture, because even the most stoic eventually break, and that while they could expect to endure considerable pain and discomfort in captivity, they should anticipate interrogation techniques that were far more subtle and insidious than torture. The most effective coercion techniques typically entailed inflicting extreme pain and duress without causing lasting injury; these methods, combined with an intensive campaign of psychological warfare to abrade away a subject’s mental defenses, usually yielded the sought-after secrets.
The core essence of the training was that they should always trust that someone would eventually come to their rescue. If they were shot down or otherwise came to ground in a hostile area, they should assume that the gears of the rescue machine would quickly be churning, so they should use the tools they learned to buy time. If the circumstances allowed them to evade, they should evade. If they were captured, it was vital that they keep their wits about them and wait for rescue. Regardless of where they were in the world, they should be assured that the cavalry was coming, and they would ride through hell and high water to bring them to freedom.
Resistance Training Laboratory, Eglin Air Force Base
2:15 p.m., Thursday, May 1, 1969
Ourecky flinched as the huge guard slammed him backwards against the wall and slapped him again. In a daze, he wasn’t sure of where he was, and wasn’t absolutely sure that he was still in the United States. Striving to think logically to penetrate the dense fog of pain and exhaustion, he concluded that he had to still physically be at Eglin, despite all evidence to the contrary.
The guard drenched him with ice water from a metal pail. Ourecky gasped deeply, struggling to catch his breath. The towering guard leaned close to him, so that their faces were mere inches apart. His breath was horribly foul, like he subsisted on rotten sardines and strong onions washed down with rotgut
liquor. Shaking uncontrollably, Ourecky gagged as the man breathed heavily on him.
“Why are you so slow, Sky Pirate?!” bellowed the guard in a heavily accented voice, clouting Ourecky hard across the cheek. “When I tell you to motor, you motor! Now, motor you! Faster motor!” The guard shoved Ourecky down the hall.
After five days in the camp, Ourecky was still learning the strange argot. The guard obviously wanted him to move—motor—faster, but his swollen feet were covered with cuts and blisters. He struggled mightily, but obviously didn’t move fast enough to suit the onion-breathed giant ogre; the guard slapped the back of his head, knocking him to his knees in pain.
“Hard cell for you, Sky Pirate!” chided the guard, laughing at Ourecky’s agony. “The Bearded One is anxious to talk to you! Now, motor! Move more quicklier! Motor! Motor you!”
Crawling on his hands and knees, with the massive guard pummeling him with a rubber truncheon, Ourecky barely made it to the threshold of the interrogation cell. The door creaked open and another giant stepped out into the hallway. Wearing jackboots, black uniform trousers, a wide leather belt with a silver buckle bearing a red hammer and sickle emblem, and a black sleeveless “wife beater” undershirt, the immense man—known to all as “The Bearded One”—had thick black hair and a bushy black beard. “This one?” he asked sternly.
Ourecky looked up in awe. Just absolutely huge, the ominous man had to be scraping close to the seven-foot mark. The Bearded One would be scary and imposing to men who considered themselves scary and imposing. With one massive hand, he casually scooped the engineer clear off the floor before heaving him bodily into the interrogation cell.
Stooping down, the interrogator closed the door behind him, jerked Ourecky up and then slammed him into a chair nailed to the floor. “Now you talk,” vowed the behemoth. It struck Ourecky that the man’s words were not a threat, epithet, or casual comment, but a simple statement of fact. If he had learned nothing else in the past five days, he knew that the interrogators were intensely professional in their tasks. And very, very confident.
Wright Arms Apartments, Dayton, Ohio
1:30 a.m., Saturday, May 3, 1969
Bea gasped as Ourecky shuffled through the door. His right eye was purple and swollen, and several bruises marked his face. She stood up to hug him; he winced in pain at her embrace.
“Tired,” he muttered. “I really need to sleep now, Bea. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Okay, Scott. We’ll talk in the morning. You really stink, though. I’ll run you a bath. You’ll probably feel a lot better if you soak a while.”
He nodded and allowed her to guide him to the bathroom. If his bruised face had not been bad enough, she was even more shocked as she helped him out of his clothes and assessed the full extent of the damages. For all the past injuries that he could not or would not explain, this was the worst she had seen. His body was covered with scrapes, bruises, and contusions. Bea’s mind swirled with a multitude of dire scenarios that might explain his appearance.
It dawned on her that he might have been flying with Carson in the past three weeks, and suddenly there was a logical explanation. “Please tell me you didn’t have to eject, Scott.”
Grimacing, he shook his head. “It’s really not as bad as it looks, Bea. And I didn’t eject.”
“Then what? Car wreck? Bar fight?”
“No, Bea,” he mumbled, canting his head to look at her through his unswollen left eye. “Nothing like that. Someday, I’m sure I’ll be able to explain.”
“Don’t bother, Scott. I’m just glad you’re home.” After helping him into the tub, she went into the bedroom to replace the new sheets with older ones that wouldn’t be ruined as he slept. She heard snoring from the bathroom and went back in to find him sound asleep with the water still running. She lowered the lid on the toilet, sat down, and contemplated him as he slept.
Maybe someday he will be able to explain, she thought, but that day would likely be long in coming, if it ever arrives. As strange as their circumstances were, at least he came home. That was a lot different from a lot of Air Force officers and other military men who left with every intention of returning, but died or were captured in Vietnam. So she resolved to be patient with him, in hopes that one day she would understand.
Bachelor Officer’s Quarters, Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio
2:15 a.m., Saturday, May 3, 1969
By the time he made it back to his two-room suite in the BOQ, Carson was physically beat. Ourecky had been in no shape to drive, so he had given him a lift to Bea’s place.
It had been an excruciatingly painful ordeal. Right now, all he wanted to do was strip out of his clothes, take a shower, and get some sleep. He dropped his B-4 bag in the closet and zipped open the side compartment to extract his Dopp kit. As he pulled out the leather bag, he noticed a crumpled envelope stuffed in the compartment. He quickly recognized it as the one Pete Riddle had handed him on the morning of his ill-fated flight. In the rush of coming back here and immediately jumping on the treadmill to prepare for the June launch, Carson had completely overlooked the envelope and had forgotten about Pete’s last minute request.
Suddenly overtaken by guilt, Carson tore open the white envelope. Expecting to find a solemn farewell letter, he was instead surprised to find some official papers. The papers were accompanied by a simple note, hand-written in Riddle’s unmistakably neat block lettering. Reading the note’s succinct instructions, Carson grinned; for someone who always seemed to have his head in the clouds, Squeaky turned out to be an exceptionally practical guy.
36
INSURANCE
Flight Crew Office, Aerospace Support Project
11:35 a.m., Tuesday, May 6, 1969
Humming along to “The Age of Aquarius” as it played on the AM radio, Carson carefully addressed a large manila envelope. “Man, it hurts me just to look at you,” he observed, studying Ourecky’s still-swollen eye and puffy bruises that were just now starting to fade. “I sure hope you feel better than you look, because you look like hammered crap.”
“I feel fine,” noted Ourecky, rubbing his eye. “Just a little sore, but I’m healing quickly.”
“If you say so. Hey, I need to swing over to the post office to mail something.” Referring to Riddle’s notes, Carson verified the address. “It has to go by registered mail. You want to ride over with me? Maybe catch some lunch at the O Club afterwards?”
“What are those?” asked Ourecky, looking at some documents in front of Carson.
“Well, if you must know, this is a notarized copy of Pete Riddle’s death certificate. I got it from Sherry this morning, down in Personnel.” Carson pointed at the other paper. “And that little gem is the official accident report that shows that Pete died in a flight training accident.”
“So what do you need them for?”
“I’ll tell you, but I would appreciate it if you didn’t share this with anyone else, especially Virgil Wolcott, unless he specifically asks you about it, and I don’t suspect that he will.”
“Done,” agreed Ourecky. “So what’s it about?”
“As it turns out, Squeaky bought a term life insurance policy before he flew. It was one of those policies that’s pretty restrictive. For example, it would have been invalid if he had been killed while flying in combat, but there were no restrictions about training flights. So I submit this paperwork, with Pete’s death certificate and this documentation that clearly shows that he didn’t die in combat, and his parents will receive a big check.”
“But didn’t they already get his government insurance?”
“Yeah, a whoppin’ ten thousand bucks worth,” replied Carson. He gave the paperwork a once-over glance and stuck it the envelope. “But now they’ll be receiving a windfall of half a million dollars. So I think that it’s safe to say that they’ll be set for life.”
Ourecky tried to picture what half a million dollars would look like, and then suddenly he thought of Bea. “Drew, do
you think that I . . .”
“I know what you’re thinking, Scott. I figured that you might ask that. I looked over the policy’s fine print, and the beneficiary has to be a direct relative. Sorry.”
Carson heard distinctive footsteps outside in the hallway; he switched off the radio and flipped over the envelope just as Virgil Wolcott walked in. “What brings you upstairs, Virgil?” he asked. “We don’t see you up here too often.”
Wolcott held out a red-bordered report. “Good news, of sorts,” he said. “The investigation has been finalized. We should be able to launch next month.”
“So what happened, sir?” asked Ourecky. “Did they find out what happened in February?”
“Yup. The investigation narrowed it down to a failure in an itty-bitty component called Module 7651. The post-mortem showed that someone on a subcontractor’s assembly line used a strand of wire that wasn’t to spec. So we lost two good men and a rocket to a danged snippet of copper wire less than three-quarters of an inch long.”
“That’s all, Virgil?” growled Carson, clinching his fists. “Some son-of-a-bitch subcontractor wasn’t happy with his profit margins and he decided to substitute some shoddy, lower quality wire, and Big Head and Squeaky were killed as a result?”
Wolcott solemnly shook his head. “It ain’t quite that danged simple, hoss. Before you rush out the door with your six-shooters blazin’, you need to hear the whole story.”
Wolcott explained. “No one did anything with malicious intent. No one was tryin’ to cut corners. What happened was this: a minimum wage assembler on the line ran out of the proper wire. She substituted a segment from another spool that looked exactly the same to her.”