The Morning Mustering of the Mugs

Posted on 03/10/2011 by Bobo

My first duty assignment, after tech training, was to the 430th TFS (Tactical Fighter Squadron) at Nellis AFB, NV as a Weapons Load Officer.  We were just receiving our compliment of F-111A aircraft.  I loved the assignment, and everything it had to offer.

One of the things I enjoyed most was my 430th coffee mug.  That simple mug gave me a sense of belonging; something I had been longing for all my life.  It made my coffee taste oh so much better!

Soon after I left Nellis I had to ‘retire’ that mug.  For whatever reason it developed a stress crack.

You can see the crack, running down the left side of the mug, as you’re looking at it.  The ‘irony’ of this mug is, on 22 December 1969 we lost an F-111A because of a crack in the wing pivot fitting… 

This morning I decided to have a ‘mustering of my mugs;’ a formation of all the mugs I have collected from my Air Force career.  Plus a couple others I picked up along the way.  It only be fitting they be led by that famous WW I Aviator, Snoopy!

Now they’ll go back on various shelves throughout the house, to await the next ‘mustering of the mugs.’  I like my mugs…

(And yes, there’s a ‘story’ – a blog – with each one of them I’ll be telling you about soon, in the months to come…)

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The Day ‘Billy Bad’ Won the Salad Bowl…

Posted on 03/10/2011 by Bobo

The Commander’s Trophy, which was awarded to the top graduate of every UPT class, was known as the ‘Salad Bowl.’  It’s a coveted award that is supposed to be awarded on ‘objective’ criteria, but on occasion, the grading can become ‘subjective.’  And this can easily translate to ‘political.’  Winning the Salad Bowl in UPT can give an officer a significant career boost.

In November 1976 I was the Flight Commander for “O” Flight in the 25 FTS (Flying Training Squadron).  We had a kid, Bill F., known as ‘Billy Bad,’ who was our nomination for the Commander”s Trophy.  Bill was the second ranking officer of his class section.  He was up against a guy from the other section, in “K” Flight, who was the senior ranking officer (SRO) of his class.  

At a meeting with our squadron commander it was decided that the kid from “K” Flight would be our squadron nominee.  I didn’t feel Billy Bad got a “fair shot;” he had a fatal strike against him.     

One day while flying solo Billy Bad found himself, through ‘no fault’ of his own, low on fuel.  These things happen.  At any rate, on short final, he was directed to go around by the RSU controller because of some damn thing or another.  I can’t remember the exact circumstance, but I do remember it was somewhat inconsequential, and Billy Bad landed. 

We were always told that the RSU controller’s commands were not to be disobeyed, for any reason.  Once he landed that day, in violation of the RSU controller’s command to go around, I had no choice in the matter, but to “unsat” him – fail him for the mission.  That done, I felt the matter closed.  Then it surfaced again in the discussion for our squadron nominee for the Commander’s Trophy. 

I felt this was somewhat of a “cheap shot,” raised by the “K” Flight Commander.  His guy was a good guy, and probably deserved the trophy; but I thought Billy Bad was better.  I called Bill’s T-37 Flight Commander and asked him who their nominee was. It was Bill.  Then I called the Class Commander for their class, Dale M. and asked the same question.  He indicated they were still debating it.  This gave me an “in.”  

I pleaded my case for Billy Bad, giving Dale the background on Bill’s one unsat.  Dale and I had been classmates at PIT and I had a great deal of respect for him.  He supported my argument, and told me he would do what he could…

At the DO’s, (Director of Operation’s) meeting – the meeting to determine the recipient of the Commander’s Trophy – the discussion began with the T-37 squadron commander, followed by the student squadron commander.  They both supported Billy Bad.  Then it was our squadron commander’s turn.  He nominated Billy Bad!  Just shocked the hell out of the “K” Flight Commander!  

And that’s how Billy Bad won the Salad Bowl.  

On the way back to the squadron, the “K” Flight commander asked our squadron commander why the change of heart.  He replied something like, “Mike, when the handwriting’s on the wall, you have to learn to read it.”  And that was that.  I just walked along, quietly savoring the whole experience…  Billy Bad was a good guy. 

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Joe S.

Posted on 02/10/2011 by Bobo

I first met Joe S. at a base intramural softball game at Vance AFB, OK in the summer of 1976.  Our squadron, or flight, was playing Joe’s class.  Joe was playing 2nd base.

I was coaching 1st base when Maj. Don Ross got a hit deep into right field.  As Don rounded 2nd, Joe stuck out his foot and tripped him.  Don sprawled to the ground between 2nd and 3rd, then low-crawled on his hands and knees into 3rd.  Then, in a single motion, Don came up, called “time out” and headed back toward Joe.

Don was a fighter pilot.  He had flown F-100s in Viet Nam.  It was a good thing that Don has an “even-keeled” disposition by nature.  By the time he reached Joe he had regained enough composure not to pound him into second base… 

Joe’s class was just completing “Tweets” (T-37s) at the time.  I think I knew that their class was slated to be my next class in T-38s in a couple weeks.  (I was the Flight Commander of “O” Flight at the time).  

I came across Joe once again at the O’Club one evening before he showed up in “O” Flight.  Sue and I were having dinner with Marty and Karen.  As we proceeded through a buffet line, I noticed Joe sitting off to the side with a couple of his classmates.  I overheard him make a comment something to the affect, “That’s our new flight commander?  He doesn’t look so tough.” 

I was pissed!  I looked over at Marty, reached into the salad bowl with my bare hand, grabbed a handful of salad and jammed it on my plate and said something like, “The last thing I will ever do is take crap from a student!”  The “fight” was on.

A week or so later, when Joe’s class finally got to “O” Flight, I was sitting in my office when Don walked in.  “Who do I have this class?” Don asked.

“Well, let me see,” I replied as I reached for a roster.  I knew however, exactly who Don was flying with.  

“Looks like some kid named Sousaris” I informed him.

Don acknowledged it and turned to head into the flight room.  I got up from my desk and went over to the Flight Commander’s entrance into the flight room to watch the show.  I was standing in the doorway with my arms folded when Don came into the room from the main entrance.

“Who is Sousaris?” he asked as he came into the room.

Joe, who was sitting with his back to the entryway at the time, replied, “That would be me,” and he turned to see who was looking for him.  I think there was immediate recognition as the next words out of Joe’s mouth were, “Oh, shit!”

Don just looked over at me as he headed toward Joe’s desk and said something like, “Real cute Holliker, real cute.”

As it all turned out, Don was probably the best IP I could have chosen for Joe.  They just got long great, and remain friends to this day…              

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Signs – The Beginning: “Free Moles”

Posted on 30/09/2011 by Bobo

About 10 years ago I was on my way home from De-troit when I spotted a sign alongside the road, “Free Kittens.” I thought to myself, “That sign captures the essence of why I live in the country!”  “Free Kittens,’ unattended vegetable stands, neatly manicured farm yards – it all goes toward why I choose to live in the country.  We also don’t suffer the wrath of ‘Home Owners Associations’ out here!  But I digress…

As I continued on my way home that afternoon I thought to myself, “What do I have that I could give away?” As I began thinking about it, more and more, it dawned on me: moles!  I have plenty of moles I could give away!

So the next day I went uptown to our local sign maker.  When I explained my idea to the gal, she asked, “Do you really think people around here are that “stupid?”  I thought about it for a moment, then replied, “Not the folks who are ‘from’ Whitehouse;’ but some of the ones who have moved out here from the ‘Burbs,’ for sure.”  “And a few others,” I thought to myself… It wasn’t long before I had my sign:

It wasn’t long after it went up that I began getting “feedback;” all positive.  I also began to notice folks slowing down as they passed my house, to read my sign.  On occasion someone would stop, get out and take a picture of the thing.  I never knew a $25 sign could bring so much entertainment!

Then one Saturday morning I saw this van coming up my driveway.  I watched as it parked, then I saw a young gal get out from the passenger’s side and unstrap a toddler in the back.  That was about the time I got out front myself.

“Can I help you?” I asked. 

“Oh, we came up to see the moles.”

There is a reason I don’t play poker.  It must have been all over my face: YGBSM!

“Oh, is that sign a ‘joke?'” she asked.  It was at this time I noticed her husband in the driver’s seat, just shaking his head. 

As she began stuffing the kid back in his car seat, I replied, “Yes mam, I am not well…”  And they soon drove off.  At least I had the courtesy to wait until they got partially out the driveway before bursting out laughing!

Over the remainder of the summer I had two more young gals come to the house, wanting to see the moles!  Unbelievable.  When the second gal showed up with her boyfriend, I was ‘prepared.’  I had placed two lawn chairs off to the side of my yard.  I told the pair that the moles would be running soon, and that they were welcomed to sit and watch.  I really wanted to get their picture, sitting there, staring at a mole trail!  They declined – damn!  

I also received a note from a nun around the corner.  She was very gracious in telling me how much she enjoyed my sign; although some of the others “didn’t get it.”  She also provided a  recipe for cooking wild game…

I left that sign up for the better part of the summer; then someone stole it!  That’s when I knew, “civilization” was coming to the country, to Whitehouse…
 

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I Got to ‘Stick My Hands Under Mike Webster’s Butt, One More Time’…

Posted on 27/09/2011 by Bobo

Years ago I happened to hear Terry Bradshaw’s induction speech into the NFL Hall of Fame.  As he was speaking, he hesitated a moment, looked up to the heavens and lamented, “What I wouldn’t give to stick my hands under Mike Webster’s butt – just one more time…”  Mike Webster was the Steeler’s All Pro center from 1974 – 1988.  He played with Terry Bradshaw when the Steelers won four Super Bowls in the ’70s.  There was something about the way Bradshaw said what he said that day that resonated deep within me.  I didn’t know what it meant until many years later.

In the late 1990s I was invited to speak at the USAF Resident Flight Surgeon’s course at Brooks AFB, TX.  I spoke on how pilots hide their alcoholism from flight surgeons.  It really isn’t hard; we just either lie to them, or we ‘withhold’ information from them.  My objective was to give these folks some insight into an alcoholic – from an alcoholic’s perspective vs. that of a clinician, or commander, or someone from “Social Actions.”  Over the years I lectured on course I got a lot out of it.  And from the feedback I received, I think I was able to offer some ‘clarity’ on the nature of the disease – on how alcoholics think.  Our brains just aren’t wired like you ‘normal’ folks.

During one of my presentations I came to a point where I thought about all the years I flew the T-38 drunk – not necessarily “drunk” physically, but certainly drunk emotionally and psychologically.  I thought about my alcoholism, and my subsequent recovery and that is when Bradshaw’s comment came back to me.  I stood there on stage for a moment, then lamented myself, “Oh, what I wouldn’t give to fly that jet (the T-38A) just one more time, sober.”  And wouldn’t ya know it, one of the young residents was paying attention!

In May 2006 I was invited to Columbus AFB, MS to give a series of presentations on my drinking experience to the IPs and students.  Over two days I gave seven lectures; and they gave me a ride in the T-38C!  Way beyond my wildest beliefs!

Oh, I was excited as hell!  I was 59, and it was unheard of for someone like me to get a ride in the ’38.  It was if I was a kid again…

After lunch I went through seat training.  It was if I had never left; everything was so familiar.  Then I had to take a mini physical.  I was afraid my heart might be racing too fast, but it was fine.  Then it was down to the squadron to meet my IP, and the briefing.  

I could hardly focus through the briefing; I had given and heard so many of them before.  That done we headed off into the ‘chute room.  Again, it was just like yesterday.  First the anti-G suit, then the helmet checkout and finally the parachute fitting.  I loved every moment of it!  Then we stepped to the jet.

Once we got to our jet, we did a walk-around, then posed for “Hero” shots.

 

After pictures were taken it was up and into the jet.  And again, it was if I had never left.  The feel, the smells and the sounds were all too familiar.  Strapping in was a blast.  I was just loving it, struggling to keep what little composure I had.  

Engine start, taxi and takeoff were just as I remembered from 18 years before.  On climbout my IP had to turn the air conditioner to full hot – to blow out the moisture in the system.  I had forgotten all about that, and it felt so uncomfortable, and yet, so good!

The T-38″C” model we were flying is an updated version from the “A” model I flew.  Performance wise, it was about the same.  The differences were in the instruments.  We had a ‘glass cockpit’ now; all digital.  I felt like the RCA dog, staring at a TV!  

It wasn’t long before my IP let me fly.  He wasn’t “suppose to,” but screw ’em!  (The shoeclerks).  And again, it all came right back to me.  300 knots at 17,000 feet; aileron roll to put the canopy bow on the horizon (20 degree dive) and Mil power.  50 knots per 1,000 feet.  At 450kts, clear and pull to 5 G’s.  Where’s the damn G meter?  Oh well, pull to the “tickle.”  Left and right for ‘wings level’ on the way up; on our backs now, airspeed – 200 knots, clear and pull again to the ‘tickle.’  Nose is tracking nicely.  My IP calls for 5 Gs – would be nice if I knew where the damn G meter was.  Pull to it “feels” about right (that’s usually when the IP stops telling you to pull more G.)  Nose coming up through the horizon now, retard the throttles a bit and transition into a series of aileron rolls!  How fun!  And the ‘Dummies’ once paid me to do this!

It was over all too soon, certainly before I was ready for it to be over, and we had to head for home.  But not before I felt the sting of sweat dripping into the corners of my eyes, and stinging the hell out of them.  I was tempted to raise my visor, and wipe the sweat from my eyes, but I decided against it.  The stinging was just too sweet!

The recovery was uneventful and my IP flew a couple-3 patterns to low approaches.  Then it was time to call it a day.  “Base, Gear, Stop,” and we began the final turn.  I just sat there as I had many times before, with my arms resting on the canopy rails.  What a thrill!

Rolling out on final, 155 knots, 3-green and flaps, and now in the flare.  Just about like that, and soon the nose was falling from the aerobrake.  Rollout, clearing the runway, pins and canopies.  We punched the intercom off and dropped our masks.  I just loved it!

As we taxied in I couldn’t help but feel a flood of emotions.  Gratitude, pride, and humility among them.  I was so grateful that I didn’t hurt anyone during the years I drank, and flew the T-38.  I was also “quietly proud” of the realization that, at one time, I wasn’t ‘half-bad’ in the jet.  And, I was humbled that I had been so fortunate so as to have flown for the United States Air Force for as long as I did.  It truly was a privilege, and an honor for me to have done so.            

When we taxied into the chocks and shut down, the realization of it all then hit me: I had just stuck my hands under Mike Webster’s butt, one more time! 

And today, I am so grateful for that experience…

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Chocks Afire…

Posted on 26/09/2011 by Bobo

One night at Korat RTAFB (Royal Thai AFB) we decided we wanted to have a campfire.  We had been drinking for a few hours, it was dark and it just seemed like the thing to do.  So, we cleared an area just outside our center hootch, in the yard between our rooms.  Then we dug out a small pit and it wasn’t long before we had a lovely fire.  Not a large roaring fire mind you; but just a nice-sized campfire – and soon the stories began flowing.  All was well… until the cops showed up!

I don’t remember them walking up to our fire pit – they just materialized.  A couple captains from the hooch next door to us.  The guy in charge advised us that we had an “illegal fire” and that we would have to put it out.  We were clearly in violation of Air Force regulations.  YGBSM! 

We tried all sorts of arguments to get these two guys to give us a break, but they weren’t hearing anything of it.  In the final analysis, here you had two non-rated guys with an opportunity to dump on some aviators – with the support of Air Force regs behind them.  No way were we going to “win.”  After some going back and forth, we finally got them to agree to let us let the fire burn out vs. extinguishing it.  We told them we would not add any more firewood to it, and that we would just let it burn out.  They were cool with that.  

As they headed over to their hooch, John E. got up and headed “out.”  We didn’t pay much attention to him, until he returned with a set of chocks.

(Aside:  Every USAF vehicle that has flightline access has to have a set of yellow, wooden chocks to put under it’s wheels when it is parked on the flightline.  These chocks are are secured to each other with a length of rope, maybe 2 feet long.  They are typically carried in the bed of the pickup, as in the case of our two visitors that night.)

As it turned out John had gone over to the cops’ pickup and retrieved their chocks.  He then casually tossed them in the fire.  Those chocks were not ‘firewood,’ per se; and they added such a nice ambiance to our campfire!  

(I want to credit my roomie, Alan K., for reminding me of this story!)  The last thing I remember about it all is, seeing the remnants of burnt rope laying outside the fire pit when the two cops returned an hour or so later – to check on us.  The fire was drawing down, but that damned rope was there to give us away!  Fortunately they didn’t pick up on it…     

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A “Change of Culture…”

Posted on 25/09/2011 by Bobo

This has been around the internet for a while now – I’ve seen it a couple-3 times.  It showed up in my mailbox again just over a week or so ago.  I’m including it in my blog here as I wholeheartedly support General Stroud’s position.     

By BGEN Greg Stroud (Ret)

“Some of you know that I was recently “retired” as the 162 Fighter Wing Commander.

The decision was made by Brig Gen Mike Colangelo, the Arizona Air Commander, who replaced me because he “just wants to change the culture at the 162nd” — not for cause or performance or any other reason.

This officer never commanded anything bigger than an Air Control Squadron, and somehow he wound up in charge.

Heck, the guy probably got beat up in grade school every day.

I think it is indicative of what is happening in our Air Force and reinforces what Bruce MacLennan and the anonymous author have to say below.

Well, I also have something to say about our changing Air Force and it’s quickly disappearing Fighter Pilot culture.

How many scope-dope drone operators does it take to change a light bulb?

Two. One to change the bulb — and one to kiss my ass.

That’s right.  I said kiss my ass — ‘Cause I’ve had it.

The air superiority fighter and its PILOT are not dead and the Chinese are so far not impressed with drones.

I am tired of Fighter Pilots suffering at the hands of all the pencil pushing REMFs and ladder-climbing opportunists and shitty non-rated managers (who think they are leaders) just because the Air Force is currently more interested in ‘feelings’ and sexual orientation than fighting.

Not all officers have what it takes to lead warriors, yet too many of them are in charge in our military.  At this rate we may lose the next real war.

These shit-bird officers need to be run out of leadership positions and get out of my face already.

We have too many people in our military that feel the need to play political victim and go to court instead of just dealing with it themselves.  No one can have any kind of fun anymore.

Men and women can’t flirt, hug, look at anyone sideways, or drink beer out of mermaid mug because of you “victims” and your lawyers.

Are you happy?

And while I’m at it, Fighter Pilots, who are willing to die so that we can have low prices at the gas pump and shop at the mall, should be able to throw the wildest parties they can manage without one uptight biddy coming in and stopping it.

There were scads of women at The ‘91 Tailhook party who were having the time of their lives, voluntarily being just as debauched as any of the men were.

Everyone who flew a plane, or even knew someone who flew a plane, knew how wild those parties were and what went on.

What does our society expect — a prayer service?

It’s worse now than it was then.

”Victims” need to just throw some punches of their own whenever guys, gals, lesbos, or homos get out of line.

Doesn’t our tax money go to teach all of our military how to fight?

I’m not trying to make the idiotic “she had it coming” argument here, which would go something like “of course they grabbed her breasts, look how big they are.”

Plus, just reaching out and grabbing some boob is wrong no matter what.

When I was at Tailhook, even at our most drunken admin parties we never acted like that.

No matter how hard I try I can’t think of an excuse good enough to do something like that. But it’s still nothing to lose a career over or get your panties in a wad.

Besides, Fighter Pilots are supposed to be aggressive assholes.  That’s how we used to train them.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want a military of Fighter Pilots who are gifted at giving sensitivity seminars.

I want mad-dog, rabid killers going to battle for me and mine.  Man or woman.

When our homeland is threatened by Middle-Eastern Muslim radicals, or when we want to force our form of government on some poor, unsuspecting poppy growing shit hole, or when uppity North Korean despots develop nuke weapons, I want to be able to call on men and women who like to fight and drink.

I want an officer who knows how to whack some drunk in the balls when he grabs her tits, not call a press conference and a lawyer.

If you’re a wimp who doesn’t know how to find the exit at a rowdy party, go fly a kite — not a jet fighter.

Fighter Pilot should always be capitalized because it is a hard-earned title.  So there!

Perhaps it’s time for me to retire.

Greg “Mongo” Stroud”

I totally stand behind “Mongo!”

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“Three’s Inn”

Posted on 25/09/2011 by Bobo

We have a formation we fly, “The Missing Man Formation,” to honor fallen aviators.  It is performed at funerals, various dedications, and other ‘special events,’ with all sorts of aircraft.  Essentially it is flown with four aircraft in “fingertip” formation.  (Put your fingers all together, and hold them up.  Look at the tips of your fingers.  That’s a ‘fingertip’ formation.)  At a designated time and point, the Number 3 guy pulls up, and out of the formation, into the heavens. 

When the North Vietnamese POWs (Prisoner of War) were released in the early ’70s, the 560th FTS had the honor of re qualifying the guys who were physically and mentally fit to return to flight duty.  This is another story in and of itself… Anyway, one of the rooms within the 560th FTS was converted into a “social room,” kinda like a bar.  It was in this room where we held receptions for these POWs after their first flights – their “Champagne Flights.”  

I don’t know who gave it the name, or when, but it soon became known as “Three’s Inn;” honoring those who returned.  After all the POWs were requaled, we kept “Three’s Inn” for various squadron social functions; and to congregate after flying to “tell lies, and drink beer.”

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Well, Crap…

Posted on 25/09/2011 by Bobo

I first met ‘Joe’ at the 560th FTS in 1982.  He was a ‘nice enough’ guy; maybe kinda ‘anal’ – but conscientious and well meaning.  He tended to ‘micro-manage,’ often overlooking ‘the big picture.’  One evening while we were sharing stories in “Three’s Inn,” one of the young guys told this story about Joe.

The morning briefing was early, somewhere around 0500 – 0530.  Just after the briefing, it was announced that flying for the morning had been suspended due of weather.  So the IPs all grabbed coffee and settled in the flight commander’s office to “shoot the Bull” a bit.  As the stories began to flow, no one paid any attention to Joe getting up and leaving the room.  However, after he returned they all noticed the left sleeve of his flight suit was soaking wet.   

When asked about it Joe offered, without reservation, “Ahhh, you guys won’t believe it.  I went into the john for my ‘morning constitution,’ and afterward, discovered I had dropped my left sleeve in the stool!” 

YGBSM!  To do something like that is one thing; to admit it is another!  Especially in front of a group of pilots!  If I had harbored any reservations about Joe up until then, they were now all resolved…

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My First 39 MiG Kills…

Posted on 21/09/2011 by Bobo

I grew up on Air Force bases all over the world.  It was a wonderful childhood, and at the same time, sometimes a ‘troubling’ childhood.  But, all-in-all, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

One of the bases I lived on is Davis-Monthan (D-M) AFB, Tucson Az., 1955 – 1957.   We lived on Cass Avenue.  If you came out our front door and crossed the street, you we’re literally in the desert.  Not far into the desert was the Air Force “boneyard.”  The boneyard is where the Air Force, and other services stored surplus aircraft – and still do.  When we lived there, the boneyard wasn’t fenced in.  And as it turned out, it was a magic place for kids to play!

On occasion we were “run off” by the the boneyard staff; but more often than not, they left us alone.  We weren’t able to get inside the aircraft, but we certainly climbed all over them!  At it was during these times I got my first 39 MiG kills; or was it 40?  We didn’t play there every day, but enough to leave great memories…

In the Spring of 2010 I had the opportunity to visit D-M one evening.  It was a Sunday evening, and I decided to take a walk after settling in the VOQ (Visiting Officer’s Quarters).  I had an idea where Cass Avenue was, and I wanted to see our old house.  It certainly was within walking distance, so off I went.

As I got closer and closer to Cass Avenue, I saw where the Air Force was replacing the older houses with new ones.  Turning on to Cass, I saw where the left side of the road was fenced off, and there were no houses at all.  I could only orient myself by the street pattern and soon I was standing in front of the area where our old house once stood. 

It was gone.

I was in shock.  A memory I had carried for so many years, for 55 years, was gone.  I just stood there – empty.  Staring at the empty desert.  It was a long walk back to the VOQ that evening….

When you go back to a childhood home, and it’s not there anymore, it’s as if a part of your soul is gone.  Ripped from your heart.  It’s confusing, disorienting.

That experience troubled me for a few months; but then, like everything else, I got over it – at least, for now.  One thing “they” can’t take from me are my 39 MiG kills!  Or, was it 40?   

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