“You, You’re the One!”

Posted on 31/08/2011 by Bobo

I don’t know where I come up with this stuff, I just do…

In the late ’70s we came to Ohio on vacation.    It coincided with a friend’s birthday.  It was on this trip I told a friend about a ‘prank’ I had pulled a few years earlier.

When I was flying C-141s (1971 – 1973), I would find myself on layovers, all over the world, sometimes with nothing to do.  Then an idea came to me: choose someone and anonymously begin sending postcards to them.  Why?  For nothing more than the hell of it, I suppose.  I have never been “quite right!”

So, being stationed At McGuire AFB, NJ I went to the Philadelphia phone book and arbitrarily picked a guy – I think his name was Clisiak, or something like that.  I then called him to make sure I had a valid guy.

“Mr. Clisiak?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied in somewhat of a rough voice, “who is this?”

“Oh, it’s Bob,” I responded, “and I’ll have to call you back. Someone’s at the door.”

And after this short exchange, I began sending him post cards – from all over the world.  Never from an Air Force base though; didn’t want to give myself away.  I would tell him about my family, about things I had seen and so forth.  And I always signed the cards, “Your Pal, Bob.”

I must have ran this gag for 12 – 15 months, then I received orders to Southeast Asia (SEA).  When I got to Thailand I discovered I had lost his address, and that was that.

When I told this story in the mid-70’s, a friend from college, Tom, asked if I would be interested in doing it again, only this time, with a “twist.”  That got my attention.  Tom had a good friend, Mark, who was a bit “high strung” at times.  Tom said something like this would drive Mark nuts!  Oh yeah…

So Tom gave Mark’s address to me, and the post cards began flowing.  I sent them from all over the States, again, never from an Air Force installation.  Every time I went cross-country, I would either drop one in the mail myself, of have someone do it for me.  Every 4 to 6 weeks, another post card from “You friend, Bob.”  And like before, I just told him about things going on in my life; hobbies, kids, recreation, and so forth.  Whatever came to mind…

After a couple of years I had the occasion to talk with Tom. I asked if he had ever heard anything from Mark, with respect to receiving post cards..  He had not.  Tom then went on to tell me that Mark had been hurt in a motorcycle crash.  Guess what the next card talked about! “I was so sorry to hear about your motorcycle crash, but relieved to hear you will be okay.”

Then I began adding Christmas cards to the mix.  And I began bringing a few friends into the drill.  Once in a bar in Mexico I had everyone at the table sign the card!  Maybe even the waiter?  Then, on another occasion I told Marty Miller about the gag.

Marty was stationed in Hawaii at the time, and he picked right up on it.  Shortly thereafter he sent a card to mark, “Ran into Bob the other day…”  I think before it was all said and done, Mart also sent cards from Australia and Korea!

(Okay, bear with me folks, this story is coming to an end soon…)

In 1989 I began flying with Northwest Airlines.  Sometimes, with just a day or so between trips, I would come down to Toledo to stay with Tom, rather than commute to San Antonio.  One Saturday morning Tom and i decided it was time for Mark and I to meet.  So, Tom called Mark and asked him to come over.

WhenMark arrived, a short time later, Tom said, “I want you to meet your good friend, Bob.”

Mark thought Tom was nuts.  He look at the both of us and asked, “Are you okay?  I’ve never met this guy in my life!”

I think at this time Tom was thinking the gag had been “flipped,” that it was all on him (Tom).  And he began acting somewhat “squirllely.”

“What’s with Tom,” Mark then asked.

“Oh,” I replied, “Tom thinks the post card gag was flipped on him.”

Mark thought for a moment, trying to make sense of it all, then the “light came on!”

“You, you’re the one!” he exclaimed, as he began rapidly turning circles in the kitchen that Saturday morning.

“Son-of-a-bitch, son-of-a-bitch,” he stated among other things!  And around, and around he went.  What a delight it was to watch!  At least for me.  He soon went over to the phone and called his wife.

“Sharon,” he said, “you’re never going to guess who I just met!”

“Bob,” he replied, “yeah, THAT Bob!”  And soon she was on her way over.

When she got there she went on to share with us what it was like for Mark to receive those post cards.  Apparently he would sit in his easy chair for a half-hour or so, just wondering.  She said it kinda drove him nuts!  It got to the point where his brother would ask, Have you gotten your Christmas card from Bob yet?”  “Or, your birthday card?”

And we laughed throughout the rest of the afternoon, and over dinner.  Mark just kept shaking his head.  At one point in the evening he asked, “Who is Marty?”

I was tempted to claim I had no idea, just to keep it going, but then I thought we had worked him over enough!  So, I told him.  Mark could just not grasp the scope of the prank.  And truthfully, it has been one of my “better ones!”

 

 

 

 

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A Teller of Stories

Posted on 30/08/2011 by Bobo

I have always loved “stories.”  As a kid I loved to listen to my Mom and Dad tell stories of their respective childhoods.  Then I loved the stories of Vacation Bible School.  Many of those stories are with me today.  I am one of those who tend to learn the best from stories.

Who knows when I began “collecting stories?”  But, it was at an early age.  Most of the stories I have I heard at one time or another; others I created from my own life experience.  With some of those, I’m lucky I survived myself.  Where were all those guys we have today, “for our own protection,” when I was growing up?

I have always looked at “telling stories” as a sacred duty.  I think it is an responsibility of a story teller to honor the originator of a story by telling it exactly as it is heard; without embellishment or judgement.

This being said, I know that over time, our perceptions change.  However, in this ‘blog’ I will do my very best to repeat a story as I remember it told by the originator.  Any errors are mine.  Any errors pointed out to me will be changed, or the ‘reported of the error’ blocked from my blog (lol).

On occasion, I have been known to “embellish” a story on my own.  If 400 knots in a story is exciting, think what 500 knots would be like!  Here I will throttle back a bit, and tell them as I recall them…

Some of the stories told here, at LonelyPilotBob.com, are just too ‘precious’ to be lost… Please feel free to contribute, or to give me a reminder of one you might have for us.

When I was in school (high school and college) I did not take any writing courses.  I was afraid that ‘you’ might laugh at me… so I became “the class clown,” to make you laugh!  I also thought that what I had to say didn’t matter.  Not any more folks.  Using something Bev N. gave me, “What others think of me is none of my business,” I am going to write to my heart’s content!  And tell stories that I have saved for years.  I hope you enjoy them as much as I have.  They are my most sacred treasures; you are my most sacred treasures – and this ‘blog’ is my gift to you… Cheers!

 

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The Bridge of My Nose…

Posted on 30/08/2011 by Bobo

This F-111 video was produced in Australia.  I had the opportunity to fly F-111s a couple times when I was ‘down under’ myself.  What a blast!  For aviators, this is a clip that can really get your blood boiling!

I think my favorite part is at the end, where the guy is getting down off the ladder, and he rubs the bridge of his nose.  How many, many times have we done that over the years?  Ahhh, the wonderful memories that simple gesture evokes…

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Okiksapa 1

Posted on 30/08/2011 by Bobo

Never trust a fart over 50.

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Okiksapa

Posted on 30/08/2011 by Bobo

‘Okiksapa’ is a Lakota Sioux word meaning, “to have gained wisdom from experience.”

When I got sober I was looking “to make sense of it all.”  I walked out of a 28-day program at 48 and thought to myself, “What the hell happened?”  After a couple of years I gravitated toward Native American spirituality.  I seem to really relate to their philosophy.

One of the first books I read on the subject was, “The Wisdom of the Native Americans,” edited by Kent Nerburn.  It’s a collection of Indian oration.  I find great comfort in it.  Of note, I was looking for a book on White Man wisdom – there just aren’t any out there today…

While I don’t care to make mistakes, for the most part I have learned from them.  And that’s all we can really ask of ourselves.  When we continue to make the same mistakes over and over, then I suppose we are destined to go through Life as dumb asses.  Just that simple.

I am beginning a ‘series,’ called “Okiksapa.’  These are ‘bits of wisdom’ I have gained from experience.  Some I’ve heard about; others I’ve experienced personally.  They are what the are… and they have helped me along the way.

 

 

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Shoeclerks

Posted on 28/08/2011 by Bobo

Shoeclerk:  Incompetent Bureaucrat.  (Term may be redundant.)

I do not suffer fools or ‘shoeclerks’ very well, at all.  I always have felt these individuals did not exist to assist me in my primary mission, but explicitly to hinder it.  And not only that, I felt they took some perverse, obscene delight in doing just that.

In his book, “To the Last Man,” Jeff Shaara writes about the transition of the US aviators from under the control of the French, to the American army once we decided to enter the war.  One fo the aviators, and aces, Raoul Lufberry, is particularly upset.  He observes, “Most of the officers who are taking charge of the Air Service have never flown an aeroplane.  They are no more than clerks with too much power.”  I suspect Lufberry was the first to recognize this, and call it for what it is.

When I was in Munitions school, we spent an entire week learning how to properly read, and interpret manuals, regulations and technical orders (tech orders).  One of the most boring weeks of my life; yet, on of the most instructive.  Little did I know that the torture I was enduring at the time would serve me well in later years!

As a young 2nd Lt. I was called into my Commander’s (Lt. Col. Bob Crouch) office one day and told me that I couldn’t tell a Base Personnel captain (shoeclerk) to write an airman’s proficiency report, then walk out on him…

I had this ‘dirtbag’ in my section, and I had to write an annual Aiman Performance Report (APR) on him.  So, I wrote it to reflect his poor attitude and job performance.  It got “bounced” from personnel 5 or 6 times; because “I couldn’t say this or that.”  The last time I went back to Personnel I had had it.  When my latest effort was rejected I told the smug captain to write  the damn thing himself – and I walked out.

Col. Crouch then handed my last rejected effort to me, and told me to rewrite it, again.  I think I may have asked him if I couldn’t just shove the APR up the Personnel captain’s ass, and be done with it?  That’s when I got thrown out of Col. Crouch’s office…

Although I knew I could never “win” against a shoeclerk hiding behind a reg, it didn’t keep me from trying.  Then I “broke the code.”  I discovered that each squadron had a ‘publications library;’ with all USAF manuals and regulations.  From then on, any time I had a “shoeclerk issue,” I would study the applicable manual or regulation covering the subject, then go in loaded for bear!  Often I would learn why I wasn’t able to do this, or that, and the point became moot.  But on occasion, some shoeclerk would attempt to stonewall me, or baffle me with BS, and I would eat his lunch like a grape!  Good fun.

In a letter to me after retiring, Rick Lanier said it very succinctly.  He was talking about the things in me that ‘inspired’ him, when he noted, “…and finally your ‘attitude’ — the inventor of the ‘never let them see you sweat’ – the gumshoe bureaucrat’s (shoeclerk’s) worse nightmare.”

All things considered with respect to shoeclerks, I think the one thing that both satisfied me, and frustrated me at the same time was the knowledge that, at any time, I could do their job, if I wanted to… however, I doubted that any of them could ever do mine.

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Distinctions:

Posted on 25/08/2011 by Bobo

I have used several terms over the years that may not be familiar to everyone; or at least the context of the terms might be a bit vague.  To this end, I will use this post to clear up any misconceptions.

Shoeclerks:  This is a term used to describe folks who work on base specifically to interfere with the basic mission of the pilot/aviator.  You typically find them at CBPO (Consolidated Base Personnel Office).  They sit on their fat asses, drinking coffee and working crossword puzzles all day.  When they take leave, no one notices they are gone.  The only time they seem to get busy is when they have an opportunity to screw a pilot.  In some quarters, these folks are also known as REMFs (Rear Echelon Mother Fuckers!)

Aviators:  There is a definite distinction between ‘aviators,’ and ‘pilots’ in the Air Force.  In the context of my blog, a ‘pilot’ is one who has successfully completed UPT (Undergraduate Pilot Training).  The motivation for these types is self-centered.  They want to be generals, they want the ‘glamor,’ they are often ‘careerists’ with self-advancement having a higher priority than either a mission or their people.

Aviators on the other hand, are in it because of the “spirit” in their guts.  They carry on the traditions of Eddie Rickenbacher, Jimmy Doolitle, Chuck Yeager and Robin Olds.  They are of the “warrior” class.

In a unit commanded by aviators you tend to find a great deal of ‘esprit de corps.’  Conversely, with a pilot in command you find a culture of “professionalism.”  Often we see ‘pilots’ morph into shoeclerks as they go their merry ways, climbing the command ladder…

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Major ‘Booger’ Malone

Posted on 25/08/2011 by Bobo

(Caution: Explicit language: ahh, more ‘explicit’ than usual…)

There were 70 of us who found our ways to Room 45 in Hanger 12 at Randolph AFB, TX on the morning of 24 April 1970.  This was our designated reporting point for Undergraduate Pilot Training (UPT).  Our class, 71-07, (71-G), consisted of 3 captains, 1 1st lieutenant (me), and 68 2nd lieutenants.  We were all kinda excited and anxious at the same time.  It was an exciting period in our history, as the Vietnam War was still raging.  So there we were; all in crisp khaki uniforms and ‘crew cuts.’  As one might imagine, the room was alive with incessant chatter as we introduced ourselves to our immediate neighbors and speculated on the year to come.  UPT in those days was 52 weeks.

And then in walked “Booger.”

“AT-TENTION!” someone shouted, and we all came to ‘the position,’ staring straight ahead.  When I mustered the nerve, I snuck a glance down and caught my first sight of  “Booger.”  He was a slightly overweight man, about 5’10” or so.  His uniform was a little bit ‘frumpy’ and he was wearing yellow ‘shooter’s’ glasses.  He reminded me of the Southern Sheriff character on the old Dodge commercials at the time.  When he said, “You boys – you take a seat now, heah?!”, I knew it was the Sheriff from the old Dodge commercials!  Without any wasted effort, we all sat.

“ I am Major Booger Malone,” he said, as he paced the front of the room.  “I am the Chief of Academics heah, at Randolph Air Force Base.  You boys can all call me by my first name; – ‘Major.’”  It was real quiet in the room at this time….

Booger then launched into a well-rehearsed speech; rehearsed from having been given to many classes which had preceded ours.  I am fairly confident that the following is quite accurate as he had my full attention that April morning….

“As the Chief of Academics, I want to welcome y’all heah to Undergraduate Pilot Training.  You college boys might have heard that 80 ‘par-cent’ is passing heah.  I want ya to think about 1 thing though.  Think about being up over Hanoi some dark night as a copilot in a B-52 jet bomber.  With an 80 par-cent average in academics, that’s what you are gonna get – a B-52 jet bomber.  You’re sittin’ over there in the right seat when a 50 caliber bullet comes up through the bottom of that bomber and blows the fricken brains of the Looo-tenant Colonel in the left seat; right out the top of his head.  It’s night, the AC is dead, the bomber is shot up, you are scarred as hell, and there are a lot of Gomers down there, still trying to kill you.  Do you think that 80 par-cent is going to get you and your crew home?”

“What in the Hell have I gotten myself into?” I, along with 69 other guys, asked ourselves!  About this time, the classroom door opened and in came 2 more 2nd lieutenants… “Holy chit!”  Booger went nuts!

After he regained his composure, Booger asked, “Who’s the Class Leader heah?”

“I am, Sir,” Captain Ken Anderson smartly replied.

“Well Capt. Anderson, I want ‘dem boyses names after the meeting heah.  I’m gonna have a piece of der asses….”  What a great way to begin UPT!

Next, Booger told us, “Take a look at that sum-bitch sittin’ next to you…. Come next year this time, he ain’t gonna be heah!”  Of the 72 guys we began with, we graduated with 36 of the original class.

There were perhaps 8-10 classes that followed us before UPT was shut down at Randolph.  Every 6 weeks, you could walk by Room 45 of Hanger 12, and not help but think of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” as Booger got into the part of his orientation speech about the B-52 over Hanoi!   It almost could bring tears to your eyes…

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Thor’s Hammer

Posted on 25/08/2011 by Bobo

Last week a friend sent a piece to me, “Thor’s Hammer: A Requiem.”  It’s a story about an F-105, ship number 62-4246.

http://www.veteransnewsnow.com/2011/08/07/the-life-and-death-of-thors-hammer/

I just love stories like this, even today.  I can sit here, and feel adrenalin releases as I read the descriptions of the walk-around, the engine start, taxi and takeoff.  Although I never flew the “Thud,” I know what it must have been like, after takeoff.  Check the engine instruments, look for Lead, rejoin and pull the seat cushion out of your ass!  Heavyweight, hot temperature at Korat, heading to “Pac 1” (Hanoi) – any surprise here?  Oh well, back to my easy chair now…

Toward the end of the story the author describes the final moments of a fictional flight unto initial at Davis-Monthan AFB, AZ (D-M).  “246,” as the author refers to this particular Thud, survived the war, only to end up somewhere on a scrap heap.  He felt a more fitting end to ‘her,’ would have been a final resting place at” the Boneyard,” at D-M.  And, of course, he flies ‘246’ on her final flight…

“Of course, a good solid 4-G pitchout to downwind from a 500 knot initial approach would be in order for the last overhead traffic pattern.  To hell with it, make it 650 knots! In for a penny, in for a pound!  Stay just under the mach so I wouldn’t end up in jail for destroying the place with a sonic boom…”

On 15 July 1988, I had my “fini flight,” in a T-38A, at Randolph Field, TX.  I flew with Lt. Col. Rick Lanier in the backseat, Maj. John (Dobie) Gillis and Sq. Ldr. Bill Hartree in the other aircraft.  I would have loved to have hit initial at 650 knots, but we were out of gas!
If someone hadn’t been behind us, I would have flown at ‘max endurance’ to conserve fuel!  As it was, I shut down with just over 600 pounds of fuel – our minimum.  (About 6 weeks earlier, the ADO (Assistant Director of Operations) had checked my fuel upon landing.  He then collared me at the Auger Inn, the bar, and wanted to know why I landed with 620 pounds of fuel remaining.  I told him that 600 pounds was our minimum fuel for landing, otherwise I would have done another touch-and-go… That pissed him off because there was noting he could do about it.  It’s not paranoia when “they” are really after ya!)

Later in the Thud driver’s story he says, “Approach Control would already be on the phone to the Airdrome Officer, making note of the speed violation to be filed.  Screw ’em.  The plastic colonels who would revel in violating this rogue pilot’s transgression didn’t matter. (Exactly!)  Neither would a violation matter.  Thor’s Hammer’s last traffic pattern would not be one of the post-modern era, but from another day, now far int he past when airplane and pilot were at the top of their game.  Anything less could not be done or would not be acceptable.  To wimp out at this point would result in a well-deserved chorus of, ‘You don’t have a hair on your ass!’ rising from legions of Thud drivers living and dead.”  Man, can I relate!  (More adrenalin, if I could only get this easy chair up to 125 knots or so, I could rotate…).

One other “fini-flight” I flew comes to mind here this morning – that of Captain Gregg Davis’.  I was on Gregg’s wing that morning, on initial.  And we were ‘out of gas.’  I was “really” out of gas.  So when Gregg pitched out, I went with him instead of delaying 4 seconds as we usually did.  I would have like to have waited 4 seconds, but I just didn’t have the gas.  I just “floated” the pitch-out a little wide for spacing.  As Gregg turned final, someone in the tower called and asked me if I knew how close I was to Lead.  From where the tower was on the field, I would have “looked close.”  I responded that there was a fully-qualified T-38 IP at the controls, and that everything would work out.  And wouldn’t ya know, it did work out.  Amazing what an aviator can do when he has to “improvise.”  I’m just glad the “ADO Nazi” wasn’t there that day!

And now it’s time for me to unstrap from my easy chair here this morning, and feed the chickens… crap.

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Ho, Ho, Ho…

Posted on 25/08/2011 by Bobo

And so when Christmas rolled around in 1984, one of my guys in Stan/Eval was having a party.  He came to me and asked if I would be willing to play Santa.  My first thought was, “Will this Santa suit make my ass look fat?”  Then I thought, “Hey, this just might be fun,” and so I agreed.

The party was held on a Friday night, somewhere around 2030 hours (that’s 8:30PM in ROTC time).  I told Sue to go ahead and head on over to the kid’s house; that I would be along soon thereafter.  That gave me time to get dressed, and have a few “pops,’ to prime the pump.

I had an idea where the kid lived, but not exactly.  “However,” I thought to myself, “with a lot of cars parked around a specific house in a small housing area, how hard can it be?”  So off I went.  Ho, ho,ho…

It didn’t take long before I found his place – “Ahhh, you clever one, grasshopper,” I thought to myself.  I got out of my car, and picked up the bag of ‘goodies’ I had put together – and I headed up to the door.  I didn’t want to go in empty handed – it was Christmas after all.

As I got closer I could hear the festive Christmas music and chatter coming from inside the house.  I opened the door, and called out “Ho, ho, ho,” as I stepped in.  This was followed shortly thereafter by a “Holy crap!” under my breath – I was in the wrong house!  I didn’t know a soul!

“Hey look, it’s Santa,” someone called out.

“Merry Christmas Santa!” someone else yelled.

“Santa, would you like a drink?” another asked.  Boy did I ever!

Soon there was a Budweiser in my hand and I became caught up in it all.  I took a seat and began handing out gifts.  It wasn’t long before some gal was sitting in my lap, and I was having a ball!  But then it dawned on me that I still had many miles to go before I was done for the night…

I got up, thanked everyone and wished them all a Merry Christmas.  Then I was on my way.  I eventually found the party I was suppose to be at; I knew this because Sue was there.  And that was that, or so I thought.

A week or so later Sue came in from work and asked, “Exactly how many Christmas parties did you go to the other night?”

“Why?” I asked, knowing it best not to admit to anything without background info.

“Well,” she continued, “the postman at school gave me this picture.”

Yep, that’s me, and I can’t tell you who anyone else is!  Wouldn’t have a clue!  But everyone seems to be having a good time…

I think today this would be called, “Busted!”  Until I saw the picture, I had forgotten all about the visit… then I had to laugh.  It was pretty funny; but then I suppose you had to have been there.

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