Nah….

Posted on 23/11/2012 by Bobo

Woke up this morning, around 0105 – laughing my ass off!  I had been dreaming about flying a T-38A at Vance AFB, OK…

The ‘essence’ of the dream was that Marty and I were at Vance, and decided to take a T-38 for a ride.  (We are both now in our 60’s – what?)

So, we show up at the squadron in our flight suits and begin rummaging for some equipment.  Although we both have ‘heaps’ of time in the jet – close to 5,000 hours between us – we decide we probably best have at least one checklist and an inflight guide between us.  So we begin looking through the squadron.  It doesn’t take long to find what we need; students usually leave them laying around all over the place!

And so, after our helmet checks, it’s out the door to the trolley.  We see a jet being prepped, and it looks ‘good enough.’

Once we get to the jet, we drop our chutes at our respective ladders, and climb up to preflight our cockpits.  This is what our cockpits looked like in the ’70’s and ’80’s:

Now Marty and I stood on our ladders looking at:

There was a time, in the mid-70’s, when Marty and I flew together so much that we could almost read each other’s minds.  Today was no different.  We looked at each other, from atop our respective ladders, and simultaneously said, “Nah!”

Leaving our chutes propped up against the ladders, we added the checklists and inflight guides to the pile and walked off the flight line – laughing all the way…

I have frequent dreams about flying in the Air Force.  Hardly ever do I ever dream about commercial flying.  Those dreams are called ‘nightmares.’

“Dreams are not so different from deeds as some may think.  All the deeds of men are only dreams at first.  And in the end, their deeds dissolve into dreams.”    …Theodor Herzel

 

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Wink, TX

Posted on 22/11/2012 by Bobo

UPT (Undergraduate Pilot Training) used to be 52 weeks long.  I entered UPT on 24 April 1970.  It’s amazing – some of the minutia I remember from pilot training.  Minutia that has served me well… like, where Wink, Texas is.

Shortly after entering the T-38 phase we were given an welcome brief by our flight commander.  One of the things he said was, “If you fail to take the throttles out of ‘burner (afterburner) on takeoff, you will find yourself over Wink, Texas going very fast as you flame out!  Why do I remember this?  Hell, who knows?

But he was right.  Wink, TX is 328 miles from Randolph, on a heading of ~320 degrees.  With the fuel consumption rate of the ’38, in burner, that is just about right!  For what it’s worth, he did go on to tell us to allow the jet to decelerate before jumping out – to reduce the chances of injury from wind blast.  Our flight commander loved us…

And that’s how I know where Wink, Texas is… and, now you know!  LOL….

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A Going-Away Gift for Grady…

Posted on 22/11/2012 by Bobo

I think one of the most coveted jobs in a flying squadron is the Operations Officer job – the Number 2 guy.  The “Bad Cop,” of the “Good Cop – Bad Cop” scenario.  If you saw the movie “Top Bullshit” – oh, I’m sorry, “Top Gun,” he was the bald guy on the ship…

I was very fortunate to have had some great Ops Officers.  Col. Mac., Polecat and Grady were three of them.  All 3 were ‘aviators.’  They led by example, not necessarily by regulation.  Sure they knew the regs; but more importantly, they understood the spirit and intent of our regulations.

I knew I was going to like Grady the day we had a problem with San Antonio radar going down.  Because their system was down, we had to cease flying.  (When I went through pilot training – at Randolph – we had no stinking radar.  We had to really use the concept of ‘see an avoid.’)  As the conversation continued, Grady eventually offered his perspective, “I think we should be entitled only to the area we can defend!”  Made sense to me, but it sent the careerists up the wall!

Anyway when it came the time for Grady to leave our squadron, considerable consideration was given for a suitable ‘going-away’ gift.  I just happened to be privy to a conversation one day wherein he was lamenting about leaving.  “One thing I won’t miss, is my office next to the squadron’s men’s room.  I think I have listened to everyone in the squadron take a crap at one time or another!” he said.  And then I had the answer.

I went into that men’s room and took the door off the stall next to his office.  Then I put it on an easel in my office, and ‘put the word out’ for folks to come in and sign it.   Soon it became a piece of art!

DP went on a cross-country mission with Grady once.  Riding in the rear seat, at 37,000 feet or so, DP asked Grady to the heat down.  Instead of reducing the temperature, for whatever reason, Grady opened the Ram Dump switch – instantly depressurizing the cockpit.  Immediately realizing his mistake, he (knee-jerked) closed the switch!  That instantly pressurized the cockpit.  Sure am glad I wasn’t riding with him that day!  Gawd Grady, what were you thinking?  Anyway, DP found a T-38 Air Conditioning and Pressurization panel to add to the door.

There were all kinds of comments added to that door – even a few ‘heartfelt’ ones!  And, it was very well received.  I have wondered over the years, if Grady still has that door…

On the Monday morning, following the party, I was called into the commander’s office and told that I had to replace the door.  I was informed that if I didn’t, I could be charged with destroying government property.  In ‘military terms’ we call a guy like this, an ‘asshole.’  I didn’t need to hear the specific regs, or the specific charges – all I needed was to be asked to replace the door… not a big deal.

The thing I thought about as I walked out of his office was the entry someone put; “Grady, thanks for taking it up the ass for me so I could look good!” signed, RRR.  Appropriate.

 

 

 

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“Well Lloyd, Let’s See What Happens…”

Posted on 20/11/2012 by Bobo

I was flying a ‘contact’ ride one day with 2Lt. Lloyd B.  A ‘contact’ ride is a ride wherein we practice aerobatics and landings as well as ‘unusual attitude’ recoveries.  This ride was toward the end of Lloyd’s training and was more for “proficiency” in nature than anything else.

To “fill the squares,” we planned a Loop followed by a Cuban 8, a Cloverleaf, an Immelmann then  Split-S.  All “high-G” maneuvers and not fun to sit through!  With the exception of the Split-S, all the maneuvers are entered in at 450-500 knots and use 4 to 5 “G’s on the pull into the vertical.

So we get in the area and Lloyd begins his profile.  Up and down we go – 7 times, right after another – up we go.  4 to 5 “Gs.”  Sweat dripping into the eyes, burning.  Up we go again!  Ahhhh….

After we come out of his last maneuver, the Split-S, I take the jet to to allow the ‘gyro’ in my brain to stabilize.  Without fully realizing what I’m doing, I pull the throttles back and transition into the ‘vertical.’  My plan was to then execute a ‘vertical recovery’ – a maneuver where you roll the jet to determine the ‘nearest horizon,’ then add power and pull to it, eventually rolling wings level.  Got that?  (LOL!)  It’s actually a simple maneuver…

However as I wasn’t in any particular hurry that day, by the time I looked for the “nearest horizon,” it was all near!  I was going straight up – with my throttles retarded.  “Oh shit, what’s the airspeed?”  I wondered.  Passing through 100 knots, decreasing!  We are about to be in a self-induced world of hurt!

Taking the jet into (deliberate) vertical stall was a “prohibited maneuver.”   And I was about to discover why!

I recognized right away that we were about to be in a world of shit, but I didn’t want to alarm Lloyd – lest he do something stupid – like jump out!  So, as calmly as I could I asked, “Say Lloyd, have you ever seen what happens when a T-38 runs out of airspeed going straight up?”

“No Sir,’ he replied.

“Well, neither have I,” I responded, with impeccable timing.  Airspeed – zero.

Initially we began ‘backsliding’ – dropping tail first.  Then the aircraft violently pitched over, past ‘the vertical.’  We were now falling, not flying, inverted – hanging in our shoulder harnesses. As the aircraft began oscillating, I began fighting it.  I was working my ass off, but all I seemed to be doing was aggravating the situation.

We entered the vertical stall around 18-19-20 thousand feet or so.  Our mandatory ‘uncontrollable’ bailout altitude was 10,000 feet.  While fighting to regain control, I kept an eye on the unwinding altimeter.  18 – 17 -16 thousand feet…we were really dropping.

I can’t explain this next sequence – all I can do is tell you about it.  At some time during the out of control descent, I heard a voice tell me, “Let go Bob… just let go.”  So, I did.  I let go of the stick…

The aircraft stabilized right away!  Imagine that?  It stabilized in an inverted, nose low attitude.  I knew that since we were still descending, although upside down, the aircraft would soon gain speed to where I could regain control – and that’s exactly what happened.  When the airspeed recovered to around 150 – 160 knots, I slowly began rolling to wings-level.  Form there on out, the ride was ‘uneventful.’

It’s appropriate that I recall this story at Thanksgiving.  I am so thankful we didn’t have to jump out that day!  I was never afraid of dying in the jet, but I was scared to death of “embarrassing myself” in the jet.  At 10,000 feet I think I would have commanded Lloyd to eject – but I don’t know if I would have followed him…

My other “take away” is, it’s amazing how Life tends to sort itself out when “Bob” gets out of the equation!  When “Bob” is not in control!  (Or, at least, when “Bob” thinks he’s ‘in control!’  LOL)  “Just let go Bob.”  And how well this has served me in sobriety.

Just let go, Bob…

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The End of Two Potential Careers…

Posted on 20/11/2012 by Bobo

I think I have always had ‘farming’ in my blood, although I have never farmed, per se.  My ancestors were farmers here in Whitehouse.  I do enjoy gardening, and landscaping – anything associated with Mother Earth!

When we lived in Puerto Rico a childhood friend of Dear Ole Dad’s came to visit.  Lester.  I asked Lester to bring a handful of wheat when he came; and he did!  Dad (grudgingly) allowed me to dig up a very, very small portion of the yard ( maybe a 1-foot x 2-foot section) to plant my wheat.  I think I may have wanted to raise the wheat, then make it into flour, and ultimately, bread.  Ohhhh, the naivety and innocence of a kid!  Anyway, Dear Ole Dad grew impatient with God, and one day mowed my wheat field.  The asshole!  And so ended my career in farming, and subsequently baking…

If that mower hadn’t started that day, who knows?

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Uncle Bob: “Did You Buy a Cheap One, Mable?”

Posted on 19/11/2012 by Bobo

Uncle Bob owned and operated a meat processing plant in Lebanon, Oregon.  He also had a smokehouse out back.  On occasion, folks would bring their own meats over for Uncle Bob to smoke – he didn’t mind, and was glad to help.

One year, at Thanksgiving, this lady showed up with a nice 24 – 25 pound Butterball turkey.  She told Uncle Bob she had 10 – 12 folks coming for Thanksgiving dinner, and asked him if he could smoke it for her.  “No Problem,” Uncle Bob told her, and he put her turkey in the smokehouse.

Then he went into town and bought a capon (a large chicken), and put that in the smokehouse as well.

When the gal showed up a couple days later Uncle Bob went out to the smokehouse to retrieve her turkey.  He took the capon, and draped the turkey packaging over it.  He then returned to the house, with the capon in one of his hands and a very concerned look on his face.

He held the bird out to her in his big hand and said something like, “Mable, I don’t know what happened to your turkey – it shrunk!”

She had a complete look of horror on her face as her guests were scheduled to show up in only a few hours.  And when he saw her reaction, Uncle Bob bored in for ‘the kill,’  “I’ve never seen anything like this before; did you buy a cheap one, Mable?”

Well, he had her!  He let ride for a bit, then couldn’t hold it together any longer!  That was my Uncle Bob – God love him!

And now, I am just waiting for someone to ask me to smoke a turkey for them…

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

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Who Will Tell the Children?

Posted on 18/11/2012 by Bobo

In 1971 Sue and I were stationed at McGuire AFB, NJ.  I didn’t have to fly that Thanksgiving so we decided we would have our first “traditional” Thanksgiving dinner as a family, even though it was just the two of us…

We set the menu, and bought a nice Butterball turkey.  I was really into it.

When we got up that morning I fixed us each a ‘screwdriver’ as we began our dinner preparations.  Sue concentrated on the salads and potatoes, and I began to prep ‘ole Tom.’

One of the things I look forward to at Thanksgiving is giblet gravy.  I think it’s a holdover from the holidays I had as a kid.  My job was to cut the giblets before Mom tossed them in the gravy.  So I began ‘field-stripping’ Tom to find the giblets.

I looked all over that damn bird, and no giblets!  YGBSM!  No giblets?  And I looked everywhere.  No giblets… and that really pissed me off!  So I decided I was going to let the fine folks at Butterball know what I thought of it all.  No giblets!

I then grabbed a cold beer, (this was now serious, and I didn’t ‘have time’ for screwdrivers), and I sat down at my desk and began writing.  I addressed my letter to the President of the Butterball company.  I don’t remember ‘exactly’ what I said, but something like:

“Dear Sir,

I don’t make a lot of money but this year decided to ‘splurge’ at Thanksgiving, and buy one of your fine turkeys.  Thanksgiving is a very special holiday for our family.

One of the delights of our Thanksgiving dinner is the giblet gravy.  It has always been a real treat for us.  Imagine my horror this year when I discovered no giblets in our turkey as I began the preparation.  How could this happen?  Somebody at the Butterball company screwed up, and we have no giblets!

It is still early Thanksgiving morning, and I am wrestling with how I will tell the children why there is no giblet gravy this year.  I hope you enjoy your Thanksgiving dinner, with giblet gravy…

I don’t know if I will ever buy another Butterball turkey or not – I am too focused on getting through the day.  You won’t have to look into the sad eyes of your children – to tell them there is no giblet gravy this year.  I will…

Sincerely,

RFH”

I then took my letter over to the base post office and sent it on its way.  Satisfied with my expression of righteous indignation, I soon went back to prepping the bird – and discovered the giblets in the neck cavity!  Oh, shit!  They had been so frozen to the side of the bird that I did not see them.   Oh well…

A short time later I received a reply from Butterball – a nice letter of apology, and a gift certificate for another turkey.  Send it back?  Oh, hell no!

And now I know where they hide the giblets…

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Test Pilot School

Posted on 18/11/2012 by Bobo

I was infatuated with all aspects of Air Force flying as a kid.  I watched everything; whenever I saw or heard a jet.  In the late 1950’s, when we were stationed at Ramey AFB, Puerto Rico, I began to notice jets with drag chutes – small parachutes deployed upon landing to help them decelerate.  Fascinating.

One day Dear Ole Dad showed up at home with a small cargo parachute for us to play with.  Where he got it, who knows?  Anyway, I began to consider various uses for it right away.

The first thing I looked at was the roof of our garage.  Nah – even at 11 or 12 I was good at enough at physics to see death staring me right in the face!  Then I remembered seeing the jets landing with drag chutes.  Now, that had potential.

At the time I had a real nice Schwinn bike – with those nice wide tires.  Those tires gave me a great deal of controlability, and maneuverability.  I could really lay that bike over in a turn!  Anyway, it soon came to me that I could use that small parachute (chute) as a drag chute on my bike…

As it was, there was this road that ran down a hill, through an intersection and into the Base Exchange (BX) parking lot.  Ideal for what I had in mind!

That small chute had two standard parachute clips that just happened to have the width between them to clip onto the belt loops on my jeans.  So it was all coming together!

One Sunday afternoon, with light traffic, I got up on the hill – on my bicycle, with the chute clipped to my belt loops.  I had a friend watching for traffic.  When he  gave me the “all clear,” down I went.

As I continued down the hill, I continued to gather speed.  Through the intersection and into the parking lot I flew.  I then reached back and pulled the rip chord on the chute.  I expected it to deploy and I would come to a smooth stop… didn’t happen that way.

I didn’t realize just how fragile those belt loops were in those days.  When that chute deployed, it ripped those cheap belt loops right off my jeans!  And left me speeding toward the curb!  Crap!  However, with skill and cunning I averted disaster.

Not to be denied with my concept, I repacked the chute, and took another approach.  I got some clothes line (remember that?) and wrapped a couple loops around my waist.  Then I clipped the chute to the clothes line.  Good to go!

Back up to the top of the hill, clearance from ‘Ground Control,’ and down I went.  Again I gathered heaps of speed as I went down the hill and into that parking lot.  And again, I reached back and pulled the rip chord to deploy the chute.  This time it worked – only too well.  The chute stayed attached to the clothes line, but there was nothing attaching me to my bike!  And off I came!

I can distinctly remember thinking, looking down at the asphalt, “This is going to hurt!”  And it did.  I hit and rolled; my bike crashed on it’s own – and that was the end of my ‘test pilot’ experience.  Both as a kid, and later while on active duty!  The pain of that day has yet to leave me…

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What More Could I Have Done?

Posted on 17/11/2012 by Bobo

Dear Ole Dad died on 12 Dec. 1992.

He had had a stroke in mid-November, and wound up in the VA hospital in San Antonio.  Of course I was told of his stroke, but decided not to go down to San Antone.  At that time I was of the mindset – ‘What’s the point?  To see a pissed off man languishing in his own crap?’  I had seen enough of that throughout my life.

Finally, on Dec. 12 I returned home from a trip and told Sue that I ‘probably’ should head down – to see Dear Ole Dad… She agreed, so that was the plan.

Early the next morning I received a call from Mom; Dad had died during the night.  All I could think of was, “Well, good – maybe now he’s at peace.”

I don’t know if I went to San Antone so much to mourn Dear Ole Dad as I did to drink.  After all, I had just lost ‘my Father!’  And drink, I did, thank you very much!

On the morning of his services we went to the funeral home for a final viewing.  His services were to be held at Ft. Sam Houston National Cemetery.  When we got to the home, I wasn’t very shot in the head about going in.  I was perfectly content to just sit in the car, and drink.  However, Mom and Sue both told me I had to go in, so…

When I saw him, laid out there in his casket, all I think of was, “Gawd Dad, why are you so pissed off?”  He looked angry, even in death.  I didn’t stay long, didn’t need to.  I had seen him ‘angry’ all my life…

There was a short service at Ft. Sam.  It was a cold, drizzly overcast day; maybe a dozen or so folks outside of family in attendance.  A few folks from his favorite ‘watering hole.’  After a few meaningless words were said, by a minister who knew nothing of him, there was a 21-gun salute.  Haunting, in that weather, for sure.  And then, Taps.

 

As we were about to leave, Mom was presented with Dad’s flag, and 3 spent shell casings.  (In a 21-gun salute, there are 3 volleys fired, using 7 guns.  The 3 volleys represent, “Duty, Honor and Country.)

I remained in San Antonio for another week or so, to help Mom get her affairs in order, and drink.  After all, I had just lost my Father, you know.  When I came home, I decided to bring Dad’s flag, and the 3 spent shell casings.

Upon arriving in Whitehouse, I didn’t go right home – I instead went to the cemetery.  To the grave of my grandmother.  I had always been very close to my grandmother, ‘Gram.’  It was not quite dusk, but it was turning dark that afternoon.  Might have also been overcast.  I took Dad;s flag with me, then knelt down at Gram’s grave, and asked her, “Gram, what more could I have done to have made him love me?”  And I cried… “Why wasn’t I ever good enough?” I asked.  I was 46 years old…

Dad’s flag, with his awards and one spent shell casing.

It took me a long time to realize that there wasn’t anything I could have done – to have made him love me.  I’m sure today, in his own way, he did love me, but he sure as hell, wasn’t ever able to show it…

My take-away?  I let my kids know, as often as I can, how much I love them… maybe I’ll call each of them today.

Posted in Alcoholism, Family | 3 Comments

How Good Was I?

Posted on 16/11/2012 by Bobo

Flying the T-38 was a ball.  I flew it as an IP for the better part of 13 years.   It was a ‘challenging’ airplane to fly, and it took work to be good at it.  To be ‘excellent,’ or ‘outstanding’ really took work.  And, I was never satisfied with just being ‘good’…

In the Spring of 1980 I received orders to Australia.  My last flight prior to leaving was on 6 Jun 1980.

Upon return I was assigned to the 560th FTS, again as a T-38 IP.  When I showed up, the squadron commander, who I had worked for at ATC Flight Safety before leaving, told me ‘they’ weren’t sure what to do with me as they were ‘overloaded’ in majors.  So they decided to put me through the PIT program again.  I was thrilled.  It gave me an opportunity to get “the lay of the land,” while again becoming current in the jet.

So there I was, in a class of 6 or 7 2nd Lts., 2 Saudis and a Captain or two.  Once the academic training and simulators were completed I found myself back in the jet on 30 August 1982.  The “D” Flight Commander and I flew for 1.2  hrs. and I think I laughed the whole flight!  It was if I had never left the jet.

At the debrief, Fred asked me what I thought about the ride.  I told him I really enjoyed myself, and felt right at home in it.  He then told me he was sending me to my check ride the next day!  Just unheard of!  YGBSM!

One ride for that part of the syllabus was the ‘minimum;’ six was the average.  I felt fairly confident when I walked out of the flight room, then I began to think about it.  One ride after being out of flying for over 2 years, then a check ride.  There was really nothing to gain by taking my check ride that soon – other than ‘EGO’ – and in those days, what the hell?

As it turned out, I didn’t take my check ride until 1 Sept. 1982, and it went fine.  I never gave it much of a second thought – flying the T-38 was just something I was very good at…

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