Hamfist Over the Trail (2 page)

Well, I knew I didn't want a B-52, C-141 or C-130. Someday, after my Air Force career, I would probably want to go to the airlines, and having “big iron” experience would be a plus, but it wasn't what I was looking for at this point in my career. Maybe after I got the “flying a fighter” bug out of my system, but not now.

And I sure didn't want to stay in Del Rio, or anywhere else in ATC, as an IP. While I might eventually want to instruct student pilots, I didn't think I would have the credibility to do it effectively until I had gained some actual operating experience in the real Air Force. It was time to move my career forward, and if I chose an O-2A or OV-10 I'd get to Vietnam, and then I'd get my fighter afterward.

I'd wanted to fly a fighter ever since I was a kid. I'd seen all the movies, heard all the war stories from my dad's friends, and seen the photos of my dad posing in front of his P-51. Dad never spent much time talking about the war, but he had a special look in his eyes whenever he looked up when a fighter flew overhead. I could tell fighters had a special place in his heart right up to the day he died.

Now I had to figure out what the hell was an O-2A and an OV-10. I went to the base library and looked through a book titled
Jane's All The World Aircraft
. Every airplane in the world was shown in the book, just like the title stated. Except the O-2A and OV-10. The O-2A and the OV-10 were so new to the inventory, they hadn't made it into the book.

It was time for me to find an IP with green boots and get some career counseling.

4

October 16, 1968

The inside joke going around the Air Force was that ATC didn't stand for Air Training Command, it stood for Allergic To Combat. Most of the IP force – other than the leadership cadre, like Colonel Ryan – had very little experience in the Real Air Force, whatever that was. A lot of them were plow-backs – guys who had just finished pilot training and then had gone to IP school and stayed in ATC. And some of the instructors had been homesteading on base for almost 10 years. Hell, some of them had been instructing since T-33 days, before the Air Force even had T-38s!

Then there were the guys who had green boots. If an IP had green boots, he had recently returned from Vietnam. That was the only place the Air Force issued green jungle boots. Everyone else had standard-issue black leather flying boots. The guys with green boots had a look about them, it's hard to describe, that said, “Been there, done that”.

I found an IP, a young Captain, with green boots, at the squadron break room, having a cup of coffee. I'd flown a training ride with him, and he seemed approachable. I knew he'd flown F-105s, Thuds, in Vietnam, and I was fairly sure he'd know about the O-2A and the OV-10.

“Sir, can I ask you a question about combat airplanes?”

“Sure, Lieutenant.” He motioned to a chair at his table, “Have a seat.”

“Sir, there are no fighters in our block of assignments. But there are two airplanes I've never heard of, the O-2A and the OV-10. Do you know anything about them?”

“Well, I've never actually seen either one, because they're both totally new to the inventory, but I know they're both FAC aircraft. The best I can determine, they're replacements for the O-1. They're basically the same aircraft. Twin-tail FAC aircraft.”

“Thank you, sir”.

I knew what an O-1 Bird-dog was. It was a small single-engine Forward Air Controller – FAC – airplane used for observation and to control fighters during an airstrike. The O-1 had been used in Korea and Vietnam.

In fact, we had an IP in our training squadron who had flown O-1s, Captain Jack Engram. They called him “Jack the FAC”. I searched him out at his desk.

“Captain Engram, can you tell me anything about the O-2A and OV-10? They're both on the assignments bid sheet, and I couldn't find any information about either one of them, other than they're FAC aircraft.”

“Well, I'm not really familiar with either one of them, but I'm really surprised the Air Force is assigning Lieutenants to be FACs. Usually you have to have fighter experience to be a FAC. They wouldn't let me be a FAC until I had finished my first tour in F-100s.” (Omigosh – this guy's had
two tours
of duty in Vietnam!) “It's great flying. You're going to love it.”

I was starting to feel a lot better about my assignment possibilities. I could go to Vietnam as a FAC and control fighters during airstrikes, and then I would get my fighter afterwards. After all, they promised: my choice of airplanes!

I circled “O-2A” on the assignment selection sheet, signed it, and handed it over to Airman Folsom.

I was going to be a FAC!

5

October 16, 1968

I went to Emily's apartment early in the evening, at the usual time. I had sensed that she was really upset over my aircraft emergency, and I wanted to try to make her feel better.

She seemed distracted. I could tell something was wrong.

“What's bothering you, honey?” We had been calling each other “honey” for over a month.

“Colonel Ryan told me about your assignment choices. I'm sorry you couldn't get a fighter.”

“That's okay,” I responded, “I think an O-2 will be my entry into tactical air operations, and I'll get a fighter when I return from Vietnam.”

When I said “Vietnam” she stiffened.

“I didn't think you'd be going to Vietnam,” she said. “There's a war going on over there.”

“You knew I was planning on getting a fighter assignment. Where did you think I'd be going?”

“You know Sandy, the Wing Commander's secretary?” she asked. “Her husband got a fighter, an F-4 I think, and he was assigned to Europe. Somewhere in Germany. I thought most of the fighter assignments went to Europe.”

I was having a hard time processing this. I had to cut Emily some slack, since she'd only been in an Air Force environment for a few months. But hadn't she been reading the papers? Hadn't she seen the “Air Force Now” movies that were shown every month at Commander's Call? Every “Air Force Now” was about the war, and the role that fighters were playing.

“Honey, our country is at war. That's where I'm needed. The guys who go to Europe only stay there for about a year, then they all cycle to Vietnam. I know you've seen that poster on Colonel Ryan's wall, the one that says 'The Mission Of The Air Force Is To Fly And To Fight'. That's what I've been trained to do.”

“But somebody else could go, and you can go later. I'm sure it's not too late to change your selection. Maybe you could stay here at Laughlin as an IP.”

“Honey, I know this is hard to accept. But, you know, Colonel Ryan went to war, in Europe and in Korea. For all I know he might have gone to Vietnam also. He had loved ones who worried about him, like everyone else who went. They went because that's where they were needed.”

When I said “loved ones”, Emily's face softened.

“Are you telling me you love me?” she asked.

I hadn't ever gotten up the courage to tell her.

“I guess I am.”

She put her arms around m
e and held me tight. There were tears streaming down her face, and her cheek was warm against mine.

“I love you, too,” she said. “I know we'll get through this and we'll be better for the experience.”

I kissed her, lightly at first, then more passionately. We sat on her couch and held each other for about an hour, occasionally kissing and saying we loved each other. Then I had to go.

I had to get up early the next morning. It was going to be a big day.

6

October 17, 1968

When I went in to the squadron the next morning, my assignment had already come back: O-2A to DaNang, Vietnam.

Graduation was going to be in 2 more days. I had requested two weeks of military leave, then I would get 3 days travel time to show up at Hurlburt Air Force Base, Florida for O-2 training. After about a month and a half of training I would then get seven days travel time to go to survival school at Fairchild Air Force Base, Washington. Then I would have 1 day of travel time to get to Travis Air Force Base, California, for my port-call on December 25
th
. I'd be leaving for Vietnam on Christmas.

7

October 19, 1968

Pilot training graduation was a very formal event. This was not going to be the standard Saturday parade. While the 48 of us remaining from our starting class of 70 stood at attention, the rest of the pilot training wing would have a parade “pass in review”, and then the Wing Commander would individually present us with our Air Force pilot wings.

I was the first pilot called up to the raised reviewing stand to receive my wings. It was a heady moment. I saluted the Wing Commander and then stood at attention as he pinned my wings on my uniform. Then he shook my hand and I saluted again and left the stand. Each member of our class then was called up, in graduation order or merit, to receive his wings.

After we were dismissed, I removed my wings, broke them in half, and then Emily pinned on another set of wings I had purchased at the Uniform Store the previous day.

The tradition, from well before there was even an Air Force, when it was still called the Army Air Corps, was for a pilot to always break his newly-issued wings in half, for good luck. The pilot would keep one half, and give the other half to a close friend or family member. Only after the pilot dies would the two halves be reunited. I handed the other half to Emily.

I'm not really all that superstitious, but tradition is tradition. And a couple of dollars for another set of wings was a small price to pay for good luck.

Not everyone was into tradition. Don Springer, the number three guy in our class, was one of those. “I don't believe in mumbo-jumbo. I think we make our own luck,” he commented.

And he might have been right. He was certainly an achiever: only a few total points separated him from me in our final grades for academics and flying, and he'd been a straight-A student at the Academy. He'd selected the OV-10, and his orders were quite a bit different than mine. Before going to Hurlburt, he was going to be TDY to Canon Air Force Base, New Mexico, for 3 months. I wasn't sure what that was all about. To each his own.

After graduation Emily and I drove to San Antonio to celebrate. It was a little over a two-hour drive, and we hadn't ever gone there together. We didn't talk a lot on the way. Emily spent most of the time unsuccessfully trying to find a music station that would play on the radio. All she could get was a Spanish Language station playing Mexican music.

When we got to San Antonio, Emily seemed to warm up a bit. We strolled along the River Walk, and walked around HemisFair.

Then we went to see the Alamo. A trip to San Antonio is not complete without visiting the Alamo. I don't know how many times I've been there, but every visit is unique, and I learn something new.

The ghosts of Bowie, Travis and Crockett permeated every part of the Alamo. Here were true American heroes who had crossed that line in the sand, to fight to the death rather than surrender. I wondered if I would have that kind of courage under fire. I hoped I would, but only time would tell.

It was getting dark, and we were both tired. I was trying to figure out how to suggest we stay in San Antonio for the night, when Emily surprised me.

“It's late, and I'd like to see more of San Antonio tomorrow. How about getting a room and spending the night?”

“Sure. Good idea.” I hoped I didn't sound too anxious.

There was a new Hilton Hotel right across from HemisFair, and I got a room with a great, romantic view. We ordered room service, kept the curtains open, and made slow, passionate love well into the night.

8

October 21, 1968

Emily put on a brave front when I had to leave. We held each other, professed our love, and promised to call and write often. She cried a little, and I kissed away her tears.

I'd heard about a program called R&R, and Emily seemed a bit reassured when I told her I'd be seeing her in six months, in Hawaii. She'd never been to Hawaii, and looking forward to our dream vacation together seemed to cheer her up.

I held her one last time, kissed her goodbye and left.

It was easy to get all of my belongings into the trunk of my 1966 Datsun roadster. The bulk of my uniforms and flying gear had already been shipped ahead to Hurlburt, so all I had were my civvies and a few personal items, like my LP records. I also had my blue cardboard pay tube.

“Protect this with your life,” the Sergeant at the Pay Desk said. “This tube has all of your pay records, and you can't get paid without it. Turn it in at the Pay Desk when you get to Hurlburt, sir.”

There's an old expression that the Sergeants run the Air Force. It was the truth. We officers signed papers and gave orders, but the Sergeants got things done. This Sergeant looked like he had more years in the Air Force than I had on the planet, and I took his words to heart. I protected that pay tube with my life.

9

October 24, 1969

I lucked out getting a training assignment to Hurlburt Air Force Base, in Fort Walton Beach, Florida. I had grown up in Pensacola, and my mother still lived in the same house where she'd gotten married. My grandmother, my father's mother, lived just two blocks away. I was really looking forward to visiting them.