Don’t Get Mad, Just Exlax

 Luang Prabang, Laos - photo by JoAnn Sturman

By Steven R. Oberst

During a recent conversation with a friend we reminisced about old football cheers that had seemingly disappeared, probably due to their political incorrectness. “Hit ‘em high; Hit ‘em low; Make ‘em bleed!” is gone. And when was the last time you heard the old brown tide cheer? Come to think of it though, the last time I used this cheer was not at a football game.

The last time was over 30 years ago when I was a helicopter pilot in an Air Force search and rescue unit flying missile support. In earlier stories for FIYE I recounted some of my experiences with Captain Charlie Crown, the Un-leader. Charlie, our unit operations officer, was an overweight, obnoxious, braggart who was not only the worst officer I encountered in my Air Force career, he was basically unfit to lead anyone. I am proud to say that I was part of a group of pilots that basically helped put an end to Charlie’s Air Force career. Unfortunately, Charlie was an abusive person who likely ruined several careers before we took him out.

Every month we met at the Officers Club (O’Club) to plot ways to get Charlie. In fact, we basically went to war on Charlie by pulling every prank and trick we could come up with. The best tricks were the ones that took advantage of one of Charlie’s many character flaws.

Charlie had this annoying habit of stealing food from anyone dumb enough to leave it out on their desk or in the break room where he could find it. One Friday at the O’Club, one of our pilots, Captain Tom Triffick, came up with a way to use this habit against Charlie. “What if,” Tom said, “we made a batch of delicious chocolate chip cookies and left them on the break room table for Charlie to steal and enjoy?”

“Huh? How does that get Charlie?” someone asked.

“Simple,” Tom said, “we mix little pieces of chocolate flavored Exlax in with the chocolate chips.” As it turned out, I calculated that each Tollhouse cookie contained the equivalent of a single recommended adult dose of Exlax. Of course, if someone’s gluttony caused them to eat a half dozen or so cookies, there would eventually be a helluva bowel movement in the works.

Charlie hated to fly, so it was rare that he appeared on the flight schedule, usually just enough to get in his minimum flying requirements for the month. One Thursday afternoon in October, Charlie was scheduled to fly with me as the co-pilot on a routine missile support resupply flight. Wasn’t it nice that someone put a wonderful plate of cookies on the table late that morning?

I was to meet Charlie for our pre-flight briefing at 12:30 PM. As that time approached, I wondered to myself if Charlie would take the bait. I did not wonder long, as Charlie came into the briefing room munching on a cookie. It was all I could do to not break out laughing. Somehow I managed to keep a straight face throughout the briefing. We were airborne by 1:30 and headed south of the base with supplies for a missile support site 120 miles away. This site was basically in the middle of the South Dakota Badlands, which consists of mostly treeless, uninviting terrain. The weather was unseasonably cold with light snow falling.

Flying on these missions with Charlie basically meant that you did all the flying while Charlie assumed his normal relaxed co-pilot posture of feet up on the dash. After takeoff Charlie reached into his flight bag and pulled out two more cookies. I wanted to laugh so bad I thought I might bust a gut. As Charlie munched away, I was thinking to myself, “I wonder how long before the cookies kick in?”

The trip to the site was uneventful although by now there was about an inch of snow on the ground. I landed on the helipad and shutdown the helicopter. The site manager started unloading the supplies. Meanwhile Charlie and I waited in the main building which served as living quarters for the missile crews and support personnel. Once inside Charlie immediately headed to the kitchen to scrounge for food. In honor of the first snow of the season, the Cook had a big pot of chili on the stove. I passed on the chili, but watched as Charlie wolfed down two bowls along with a big stack of soda crackers. He chased this with a big glass of grape Koolaid (a staple in the frig at every site). About 30 minutes later we were back in the air headed for the base. By then I was thinking to myself, “Maybe Charlie has a cast iron stomach and our cookies will have no effect on him.”

Half way across the Badlands it hit. I knew this because Charlie put his feet down and began actively fidgeting in his seat. Within five minutes Charlie came on the intercom and said, “I need you to find a place to land. That damn chili is hitting me hard.”

I responded, “We’re only 40 minutes from the base, can’t you hold out until then?”

It was clear Charlie was in bodily distress as he barked at me “Land now!”

Finding a flat area to land upon was not easy in the Badlands. Fortunately for Charlie there was a dirt road just ahead. As I circled for a landing, Charlie asked if I had any toilet paper. “No, sorry.” I replied. “Perhaps you could use the FLIP (Flight Information Publications) charts.” Charlie grabbed a FLIP for airfield approaches and headed out the door as soon as we touched down. It was clear he was struggling to control the urge to defecate as he quickly moved off the road into the nearby rock formation.

I should pause here to point out the difficulty a pilot encounters when duty calls while wearing a flight suit. Basically you are wearing coveralls with a zipper from the crotch to the neck. In order to take care of number 2, you would have to take your arms out of the sleeves and pull the suit down below your waist. Not all that bad a situation with a toilet available, but all Charlie had at hand was rocks and sagebrush.

Although I had a camera in my flight bag to capture this Kodak moment, it did not do the scene justice because of the falling snow. Just imagine the sight of a fat man, wearing a flight helmet, with flight suit pulled down, straddling a rock while holding a fistful of FLIP chart pages.

Eventually Charlie returned to the helicopter. His flight suit was wet (from the snow), and he was clearly still experiencing considerable bowel distress. I headed the helicopter back to the base. Even though it was fairly late, every pilot was in the hangar to see a doubled-over Charlie exit the chopper. “Damn chili,” he wheezed as he moved gingerly to the restroom at the back of the hangar. Later, an ashen-faced Charlie made it to the flight operations center, grabbed his car keys and headed home. He called in sick the next day. The next week he wrote a letter to the Wing Commander complaining about the chili that made him sick.

Collateral Damage. The day following the cookie caper, the unit commander, Lt Col Brad McMellow, also called in sick. All of the pilots were in on this, so of course none of them ate any cookies. The batch made two dozen cookies and there were ten left at the end of the day. However, you do the math, between Charlie and McMellow, 14 doses of Exlax made it to the intended and unintended victim.

You may think this story is a bunch of crap, but no shit there I was sitting in the O’Club that Friday night leading my fellow pilots in an appropriate cheer: “ Exlax Relax Open Up the Hole. Come on Brown Tide. Roll! Roll! Roll!”

High Noon in Pool

 Matterhorn - photo by JoAnn Sturman

As the college football season commences, a game I attended over 40 years ago was part of an experience I call…

High Noon in Pool

By Steven R. Oberst

Never go on a blind date. This was a firmly held conviction established during my first three years as a cadet at the Air Force Academy. In spite of numerous opportunities presented by well-meaning classmates, I always declined the offer to go on a blind date. That is, until my first class year. It was October and the middle of football season. Our squadron was planning a party to be held the evening after a Saturday home game.

The nagging started in September. “Come on Steve,” Butch pleaded, “You need a date for the big party. Let Sharon (Butch’s girlfriend who attended an all-girls school in Denver) set you up with a girl from her dorm.” After five weeks of listening to Butch pitch the advantages of having a date for the party, I relented and let go of my no blind date conviction. Butch assured me the girl Sharon had set me up with was “really nice.”

The weather in Colorado that late October day was wonderful, with game time temperatures of 72 degrees. The plan for the big day was for Butch and me to meet the girls at Falcon Stadium at noon.
Going into this date, I was not expecting the girl to be beautiful. On the other hand, I was expecting at least average. This expectation vanished when I saw my blind date several hundred feet away, as she and Sharon walked towards us from the parking lot below Falcon Stadium. In hindsight I think I went into some level of shock at that very moment. My brain was racing. What should I do?  1) Choke Butch who was standing next to me and disappear into the crowd. 2) Run to the Men’s room and hide in a stall. 3) Pretend to pass out and fall over next to Butch. Three potential courses of action that came to mind, but instead I just stood there next to Butch, frozen to the spot. 

While we stood there watching the two walk towards us from the parking lot, Butch was saying something about how great the weather was, what a great game it would be, and so on. It was all “blah-blah” to me as I stood there in silence trying to get control of the panic I was feeling. I looked at my watch. It was high noon. 

At that moment, I did think of one positive thing – I was in the ‘ghoul pool’ for the party that night. To join the “ghoul pool” for the party, one merely had to contribute a dollar to the pool. Almost everyone with a blind date joined the pool. Of course, this being my first blind date, it was also my first “ghoul pool.” Over 40 guys were in the pool, mostly 4th classmen. As my date approached, it seemed the money was in the bag.

Once the girls got closer, I remembered a character from the Popeye cartoons named Alice the Goon (for a visual image go to Google). My date for the day was the human version of Alice, but Sharon introduced her as Mary Pitts. Alice, aka Mary, shook my hand firmly enough that it made my class ring cut into my finger. She was tall and slouched so that her wide shoulders sagged forward. She had unusually long arms and wore a sweatshirt and jeans. Her dishwater blonde colored hair was stringy and short. She had a long forehead, partially covered by bangs that were worn in a bowl cut. Every basic feature of her face – eyes, ears, nose, cheeks and lips – were droopy, with an almost melted wax-like quality. Her chin was long and prominent. Yes, sports fans, she was ugly with a capital U, but at least I was in the pool. 

I was told later that we won the football game, and Brian Bream rushed for a 100 yards. I don’t remember because I spent the game in a shocked daze. In case you were wondering whether Mary had a nice personality, the answer is an unequivocal, “NO!” As I soon discovered early in the “date,” she had a sharp tongue and a sour disposition. However, she did let me know several times during the game and later, that she was very horny. While hooking up with the opposite sex was a normal pursuit for a cadet, there was no way in hell I was heading that direction. 

After the game we drove to C-Springs in Butch’s car. During the 30 minute drive, Mary sat almost on top of me in the back seat with amorous intent. I pretended to be interested in the scenery and glibly rattled on about the rock formations in the distance at the Garden of the Gods. I also pointed out Pike’s Peak and the sewage treatment lagoon near Fountain Creek. Eventually we arrived at an Italian restaurant off Nevada Avenue. Mary sure could eat, scarfing down a big plate of spaghetti, several meatballs, a loaf of garlic bread, three beers and a bottle of Chianti, at my expense of course. 

The party was held in a big barn on the Pine Cone Ranch in the Black Forest (Sadly, an area that lost a lot of homes during the huge fire of June, 2013). There was a band. I don’t recall how good they were, but I do remember they could play Louie Louie. There was also a keg of beer and plenty of snack foods (no carrot sticks or broccoli within a mile, just the unhealthy stuff). Although the term “ 6-pack ugly” originated years later, no amount of booze would have made Mary attractive. After downing a pitcher of beer in one gulp, Mary wanted to dance. Her dancing technique was basically grabbing me in a bear hug and slowly turning in a circle. 

As much fun as this date should have been for me, I was desperate for a way out of it. Butch planned for the four of us to drive up to Denver after the party. He of course would be sneaking into Sharon’s dorm room. Doing the math, I calculated I would be expected to end up in Mary’s room. Taking a break from the dancing, I got Mary another pitcher of beer. As I stood watching her chug it down, my buddy John came up to me. “Wow, Steve, she sure is one hot looking woman. How did you end up so lucky?” he said with a laugh. Ignoring his attempted humor, I let him know, that as my best friend, he had to help me out of this date and the trip to Denver. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll think of something.”

As the evening neared its fateful conclusion, I began to worry whether John would come through. A minute later he walked by a snuck a note into my hand. When Mary and Sharon left us to go to the restroom, I read the note. “In 15 minutes, take your date outside to see the full moon. When I come driving up, just follow my lead. PS: You owe me big time for this one.”

After one more bear hug dance with Mary, I suggested we go outside to see the full moon. As we walked out from the barn, I saw John’s MGB speeding up from the parking area. It skidded to a stop right in front of us, John threw open the passenger door, leaned over and said: “Oberst! You idiot! What are you still doing here? We’re on the Alpha Roster this weekend and need get back to the dorms before Major Johnston discovers we aren’t in our rooms.”

“Oh damn!” I said in my best panic voice. “Sorry, Mary, gotta go. I know Butch will get you back up to Denver safe and sound.” And, with that I scrambled into the little sports car and John floored it. Not one of my finer moments, but I did not even look back. My sole memento from the night was a Polaroid someone gave me of Mary winning a beer chugging contest held that night. 

On the following Monday, Butch started to give me crap about abandoning poor Mary. I simply held up the Polaroid and said, “You insisted my date would be really nice. Does this picture say that to you?”

Apparently she had whined the whole drive to Denver about not getting laid because of me being on the alpha something. The thought of being alone in a dorm room with Mary reminds me of a joke about the definition of “coyote  ugly,” but I won’t go there. 

Oh, and in case you are wondering, I did not win the ghoul pool. With most of the pool members being 4th classman, their votes made sure one of their classmates won the pool. Even though his date was probably a ‘4’ or ‘5’ and Mary was clearly a ‘1,’ he got the money and I got a memory to share with you. 

The next month I met a girl while attending church with my Grandmother. Maybe she caught me on the rebound, because 10 months later we were married. John was the best man.  After almost 42 years, it was the best possible rebound I could have imagined.

Burn Shine

Boudhanath - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman

My daughter is getting married this weekend and insists I wear dress shoes with my tuxedo.  This may seem like a reasonable request, but for a man who has been able to spend his entire professional career wearing only running shoes or Chacos, her concern is not to be under estimated.  In the closet behind some old suits that have not been worn for decades, I found my black, scuffed shoes covered with dust.  They are home to my feet once or twice a year, when my wife insists I dress for a formal occasion.

For four years and particularly the first of these, I spent many hours shining shoes at the Air Force Academy.  It was not how I intended to wile away spare time during my college years, but shoes shined to such a luster that they resembled black mirrors were the expectation.  A smudge or infinitesimal defect was enough to bring unwanted attention from hounding upper class cadets.
 
Fresh out of high school and oblivious to military life, my first day at the Academy passed in a daze–head shaved, each arm vaccinated a half dozen times, and enough clothing issued to fill two large laundry bags.  At the end of the day I staggered into my dormitory room and saw Jack, my new roommate, with a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth and apparently lighting his shoes on fire.  Or so I thought.  At nearly twenty-two Jack was as old as one could be to be enrolled as an incoming freshman.  As a prior Air Force sergeant and Prep School graduate, he was wise to the ways of the military.

“Hi, I’m Jack. I’ll be your roommate for the next month during First BCT.”

“Good to meet you.  If you don’t mind me asking, what are doing to your shoes?”

“Burn shining them–you put on a thin layer of shoe polish then heat it with a cigarette lighter.  After it softens, you take a moist cotton ball and rub the shoe in a circular motion until the polish clears.  Do it thousands of times, and you’ll be wearing mirrors rather than shoes.”

It was going to be a long summer for me, but Jack was gone within a week.  Immaculate shoes and all, he was unprepared for the vicious hazing from the predatory cadet trainers, who were more inclined to put the soles of their shoes on the top of his than pay him a compliment.

Yesterday I went to the drug store and bought a can of Kiwi black shoe polish–the first in over forty years.  I thought about buying a cigarette lighter to burn shine my shoes for the upcoming wedding, but decided against it.  A couple quick applications of polish were quite enough.  No one ever looks at your feet unless they are afraid to look you in the eye.  Besides my daughter inadvertently might step on them during the wedding dance, and all that work would be for naught. 

Don't Tug on Superman's Cape

Tibet - photo by JoAnn Sturman

By Steven R. Oberst

When I first met Marty, my first thought was, “Wow! This guy has no neck.” It was the Summer of 1970, and Marty and I were assigned as 2nd classman for basic cadet training in Jack’s Valley. Although four inches shorter than me, Marty had to outweigh me by 40 pounds of solid muscle. He had long arms like an orangutan and probably needed a size 48 jacket, so I was not surprised to find out he was a wrestler. We hit it off pretty well in those first couple of weeks while watching Doolies run around in the dirt. 

With a Saturday off, we hitched a ride with a firstie to downtown Colorado Springs. He dropped us around lunchtime at Guiseppe’s by the old Antlers hotel. After some pizza and 3.2 Coors draught beer, we decided to take a stroll around the town. It was a beautiful, warm summer day as we headed up Tejon Street, enjoying the faint aroma of pot that seemed to hover around every little shop we walked past. After a few blocks, we came to Acacia Park which appeared to be completely infested with hippies. Long hair, beards, bellbottoms, love beads and head bands were everywhere.

Acacia Park is the oldest park in Colorado Springs and was established in 1871. It covers an entire city block in the downtown area and has paths that run diagonally from corner to corner. In hindsight, it was perhaps foolhardy for a couple of cadets, whose haircuts definitely branded them as members of the military, to walk through the park instead of around it. It was well known there were some bad dudes in this area of town. These guys may wear peace symbols, but what they actually loved was picking fights with military personnel who ventured into their domain.  I, for one, certainly lacked any experience with fighting. My only fight had been when Mark Putnam spit on my new letterman’s jacket in high school. It lasted only about 15 seconds before a teacher pulled me off of him. Yes, I had survived the challenge of the fourth class cadet physical education boxing class, but doubted that this or the third class cadet training in unarmed combat would be of any value in a real encounter. Marty, however, had no intention of walking around the park. 

We set off from the SW corner of the park intending to go to the NE corner on Nevada Avenue. Other than a few derogatory comments from the hippies in the park, we made it safely, without incident, to the middle of the park. Up ahead the path was clear, but Marty stopped and said, “Hey, let’s go catch a movie.” The theater was just a couple of blocks south of there on Nevada. So, making a right turn in the middle of the park, we headed for the SE corner. 

Up ahead were three long haired freaky people who looked like Hell’s Angels wanna-bees. “Hey,” said the ugliest one of them. “What are you assholes doing in our park? Shouldn’t you be back in ‘Nam killing babies?” Ignoring them we continued walking until they stepped in front of us. Undeterred, we attempted to walk around them. We were past them and I thought in the clear, when suddenly the three of them came at us. The two biggest ones jumped on Marty. The smallest one tried to tackle me, but he only managed to wrap his arms around me from behind. It surprised me when I reacted immediately with a basic unarmed combat maneuver. I stomped hard on his right foot causing him to drop his arms. I spun and brought my knee up hard to his groin. As he crumpled to the ground, I turned to see if Marty needed any help. 

It was not Marty who needed help, but the poor dudes who jumped him. Marty had one guy in a headlock and had the other guy on the ground with a foot on his back and an arm pulled up behind him. The dummy in the headlock tried to hit Marty, which only pissed him off more. Marty threw him to the ground and pushed his face into the dirt. Both men were struggling mightily to break free. Suddenly, from his knees, Marty grabbed both of them by the back of the neck and slammed them together. I will never forget the hollow thumping sound of the two heads colliding. Both were out cold. Marty looked around to see if anyone else wanted some action. Wisely, the people in our vicinity moved back. The guy who had come at me took one look at Marty and quickly scrambled away. 

I honestly can’t remember what movie we watched that afternoon. For some reason I never had occasion to walk through Acacia Park again. As for Marty, after that summer I did not see much of him. I have often wondered what became of him.

Remember the 1972 Jim Croce hit song “Don’t Mess Around with Jim?" Here’s the refrain:

You don't tug on Superman's cape.
 
You don't spit into the wind.
    
You don't pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger
,  
And you don't mess around with Jim.
 
I’ll bet Mr. Croce was thinking of Marty when he wrote that song, but needed a word to rhyme with Slim.  I'm sure his would be assailants in the park would vote for my version.

The Summer of '69

Tibet's Version of Caltrans - photo by JoAnn Sturman

by Michael Schimmer

It’s been over 40 years since this happened, so I suppose the statute of limitations has long passed.  Let’s hope so.

The summer of 1969 was eventful.  Bryan Adams wrote a song about it, so it must be true.  Apollo 11 put footprints on the Moon, our contemporaries were making love in the mud at Woodstock, and some of us gave up summer leave to jump out of airplanes at Ft. Benning.  But enough of that and on to the important stuff

It was a glorious Third Class Summer with snow in June during SERE training and the vaunted Zone of the Interior (ZI) field trip.  During the latter, we got to see the Real Air Force in action.  As I recall, we went to Cannon, Tyndall, Little Rock, Wright-Patterson, and March AFBs.  I was lucky to get an orientation ride in an F-105 at Cannon and an F-106 at Tyndall.  I say “lucky” now, because back then my stomach and I had a continuing argument where airplanes were involved.  Going up in a fighter jet with fatigues, a harness, and an oxygen mask without a G-suit made for an interesting experience.

Toward the end of the ZI trip, while visiting March AFB, we stayed in the otherwise empty dorms at UC Riverside.  Despite not being able to get a hair cut in the past three weeks, the powers in charge thought this the perfect time for an inspection.  One of our classmates dressed a UCR student in a cadet uniform and snuck him into the ranks.  Lt Col Ron Fogleman (perhaps you’ve heard of him?) walked up and down the line, trying not to look too hard.  However, it was hard to overlook a guy in Service Echo with shoulder length hair.  Fogelman laughed, shook the guy’s hand, and someone took a picture. 

We had the opportunity to visit Disneyland on Sunday, but one could also opt for a weekend pass if there was family in the local area.  My aunt lived in El Cajon (close enough?), so off I went with my thumb out looking for a ride to San Diego.  God takes care of fools and cadets, and I qualified on both counts.  Somehow, I made it to El Cajon and discovered that my aunt and uncle had relocated to La Mesa.  So much for that idea.

I was out on the street, pondering my next move, when a police cruiser pulled up.  The police officer braced me against the car, assuming I was an AWOL Marine from Camp Pendleton.  I proudly told him I was an Air Force Academy cadet.  He asked for identification.  I had lost my wallet during the trip, but who needed ID when traveling as a group?  Thinking quickly, I offered my AF Academy gym bag as proof.  It wasn’t exactly a silver bullet, but I was making good progress until I referred to it as my “AWOL bag.”  Bad move. 

Things were looking dismal, until a Z-28 Camaro rolled up next to the cruiser.  Evidently the driver and the cop knew each other, and they had a long conversation.  The cop said to me, “All right.  You are going to go with this guy and get out of my sight.  If I see you again in this town, I’ll arrest you.”  I took the offer.

My rescuer asked me what I wanted to do.  I told him I had no definite plans other than getting off the street.  He offered to let me crash at a friend’s house, but first he had some business to conduct.  He opened up the glove box and asked,  “Do you know what this is?  50 caps of white acid, and 25 caps of blue acid!  I’m supposed to meet a guy at Salton Sea and sell it to him.  Want to come along?” 

Oh, great!  Now I’m really cooking with gas.  I’m lost somewhere in southern California, riding around with a drug dealer, and the cops don’t like my face.  The dealer dropped me off at his friend’s house then left for the Salton Sea.  He returned with a few friends, and the next thing I knew, they’re lighting up a few joints and getting high.  In the room was a bar with gallon jugs of rum, vodka, and tequila from Tijuana.  “Help yourself to a drink, Mike,” my new friend offered.  I realized this was a once in a lifetime opportunity for someone in my position–no rules, no witnesses.  I mixed myself a huge Mexican screwdriver and for the rest of the night hugged the corners until things quieted down and everyone crashed. 

At dawn I eased out of the house, headed to the nearest street, and hitch hiked to Los Angeles, where I planned to link up with the tour group at Disneyland and ride the bus back to Riverside.  I made it to Disneyland, had a great afternoon, and climbed on the bus.  We returned to UC Riverside at 6:30, where I promptly got written up for being 30 minutes late to sign in for weekend curfew. 

When I returned to the Academy later that summer, I spend the first weekend serving confinements for the late sign-in at Riverside.  Justice must be served, but considering what could have happened to me, the weekend restriction seemed a small price to pay.

Snow Job: The Great Cow Rescue Mission of 1976

 Easy Does It in Tanzania - photo by JoAnn Sturman

By Steven R. Oberst

I have always considered “snow” a four letter word. Sure, it can be nice to look at, build snowmen, or ski on, but who wants to experience the inconveniences of a major snowstorm?  Not many of us. My personal measure of a major storm is a snowfall of more than 20 inches. Of the 13 places I’ve lived since childhood, I experienced at least one major snowstorm in 10 of them. I saw storms with huge amounts of snowfall in Colorado, South Dakota, New Mexico, St. Louis, Seattle, Washington D.C., Richmond, Philadelphia and even while stationed in Germany. Fortunately, most of these places were more prepared for snow than where I live now in the western part of Washington state. Usually it rains here in the wintertime, but sometimes Canadian air will sneak across the border, and we’ll get a few inches of snow every year or two. People here cannot drive in snow, so you can imagine the gridlock this causes. On a rare occasion, like a storm in January 2012, we’ll get a major snowstorm. These get nicknames from the local media like snowmaggeddon or snowpocalypse. I guess this is in order to help explain the sheer terror these storms strike in the hearts of people who live here.  

When it comes to big snowstorms,  none of them can top the April 1976 storm that hit South Dakota the week before Easter. What made this storm significant was not the 25 inches of snow, but the 50 mph winds that came with it, resulting in drifts up to 20 feet high. Every Interstate 90 cloverleaf-overpass in the area was completely filled with snow. It took one day for the crews to get to the overpasses and then two more days for crews to dig them out using big front end loaders (big wheeled tractors with large front buckets) and dump trucks. Because the wind kept blowing after the snow stopped falling, the drifts kept reforming as the snow was being removed. My favorite visual memory of this storm was seeing kids, who lived in base housing, sliding out of second story windows on giant snow drifts. Needless to say, nothing moved on the roads for several days.

The day after the storm, our helicopter unit received dozens of urgent flight requests. There were five pilots who lived on base. A snowcat was dispatched to pick us up, because there were absolutely no wheeled vehicles moving anywhere. Enough maintenance people lived in the barracks to get five helicopters ready to fly. And, most importantly, our Operations Dispatcher, Sergeant Goodman also lived on base. The other nine pilots and the rest of maintenance would not be able to make it onto the base for over 48 hours. An army of snow equipment blasted out an area in front of our hangar, so we could get the helicopters out of the hangar and into the air. All five pilots logged over 10 hours of flying time that first day. Then, since the snowcat was not available to take us home, we slept on cots in the operations dispatch area. We had plenty of hot cocoa, sodas, and peanut butter sandwiches, but not much else to eat that evening. The next morning, the snowcat brought hot food and coffee from the dining hall, and we were soon back in the air for another 12 hour shift. Sgt. Goodman played a critical role, since he was the only person in the operations dispatch area while we were flying. Somehow he managed to keep track of all the missions, assign new ones, man the phones and the radio, and keep his sanity.

Most of the first day missions were in support of the people located in the missile support sites. There were 15 of these sites located in a 240 degree arc between 70 and 150 miles from the base. We carried fresh food and some replacement crews, but most of the needed replacements were stuck at home. With just one pilot per chopper, we had one of our maintenance personnel fly with us,so they could help with loading and unloading. A typical flight was about 2.5 hours with stops at three sites, and then back to the base for fuel and a new load of food and people.

There were helipads at each of the 15 support sites that had to be cleared by the site personnel. Each site had a front end loader, but it was still quite a chore to clear the helipads so we could land at the site. The helipads were 50 foot concrete squares and the snow had to be removed to create a 100 foot square of cleared area. This meant that a great deal of snow had to be piled around the helipad. Knowing that we were bringing food and replacements, the people at the sites were highly motivated to clear the pads.

It was of fun landing at a site helipad surrounded by a ten foot high wall of snow. But flying into these snowy sites could be tricky. Helicopters can create their own white out conditions when flying in close proximity to the snow covered ground. Normal helicopter takeoffs and landings start and end in a hover. In snowy conditions, hovering is not a good idea, because the snow will get caught up in the rotor wash and in a split second you are in a zero visibility cloud of swirling snow. Fortunately, our pilots all had lots of experience at making takeoffs and landings in these conditions. By planning and executing landing all the way to the ground, a skilled pilot would never lose visibility prior to touchdown. Once you landed, the snow would engulf your helicopter until you slowed the rotors by moving the throttle to idle.

Along with more missions to missile support sites, on the second day we started getting rescue calls. One for three people burned in a house fire, one for a pregnant woman going into premature labor, another for someone in urgent need of insulin, plus about a dozen or so requests to rescue people stranded on the interstate or a highway. Both days were a blur. I think I refueled four times on day one and five on day two, but at some point on day two, I realized that we could not keep this up for much longer. Fatigue was starting to catch up with us.

On day three just the five pilots and Sgt Goodman were plugging away. The mission requests kept coming, but some roads were starting to open, so the end was in sight. My last mission on day three involved a mission request from the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA). They sent an unusual rescue request directly to Rescue headquarters (HQ) at Scott AFB, IL. Rescue HQ then directed our unit to complete the mission on a major Indian Reservation to the south. I had just returned from what I hoped was my last flight of the day, only to be turned around for this BIA rescue mission.

I left the base with less than two hours of daylight remaining. The last thing I wanted to do was search for the survivors in the dark. With me was Airman Gerry Lewis, a small guy, but tough as they come. Our first stop was a ranch south of the base where we picked up emergency food supplies for the survivors. We were able to find a place to land near a large barn, and we loaded the back of the helicopter.

We headed further south to an area of the Reservation adjacent to the South Dakota Badlands. I had nothing but map coordinates as a probable location for the victims. Once we arrived in the general area, I set up an expanding square search pattern using the largest rock formation in the vicinity as a visual starting point. We could only fly at an altitude of about 700 feet because of the cloud cover. Visibility was five miles, but everything was covered in white. The terrain was full of draws and small canyons. With daylight fading it was a tense job scanning the snowy landscape for signs of survivors. Finally, after 20 minutes of searching, Airman Lewis spotted the survivors, about 25 in all, up to their furry chests in snow.  Yes, the survivors were a herd of cows, but not just any cows. Since they were owned by the BIA, these were federal cows.

There was no place to land, so Airman Lewis pushed out bales of hay and feed as I hovered at about 20 feet, just high enough to avoid losing visibility in the swirling snow. We got the stuff as close to the main part of the herd as possible, but the snow was so deep we had to wonder if all of the cows would actually make their way to it. As we headed back to the base, it began to snow. Fortunately, it would only be a few more inches added to the blanket of existing snow. By the time we landed I had far exceeded my 12 hour crew day, but I doubted anyone was paying attention to this detail in all the havoc caused by the storm over the past few days. 

And so came an end to my first and only cow rescue mission as well as the other storm related missions. I went home and slept for about 14 hours straight. Flight operations the next few weeks seemed boring after what we had been through. The unit got a letter from the BIA thanking us for getting food to their cows, and it was weeks before the other guys stopped “mooing” when I walked into the office. One of our pilots, Chris Polley, was quite good at drawing cartoons. The next week at the Officer’s Club, the guys presented me with a framed cartoon drawing, showing a helicopter dropping bales of hays to a herd of cows and mounted on a large, frozen cow pie. What better way to memorialize the great cow rescue mission of ’76?

Charlie the Un-Stud: A Holiday Tail

 Anchorage to Denali N.P. - photo by JoAnn Sturman

By Steven R. Oberst

Background

In 2011 it was my pleasure to share with FIYE readers some of my experiences with Captain Charlie Crown in a series of stories entitled “Charlie the Un-Leader.” Charlie was by far the worst operations officer in the history of USAF helicopter flying units. Serving with Charlie allowed me to learn a lot about leadership. By observing the ultimate Un-Leader, I was given real life examples of how not to lead. Charlie was the classic bully who tried to intimidate everyone he encountered. So, it should come as no surprise that Charlie was also the penultimate male chauvinist pig. His verbal treatment of women in the 1970s was shocking even 35 years ago. In today’s world he would most certainly be dealing with numerous sexual harassment claims.

Our unit flight operations center was located in the front of a large building which also housed the offices of other tenant units in the rear of the building. People entering the front of the building had to navigate past our operations counter. To Charlie, every woman who came by the operations counter was either “Hun” or “Babe.” Charlie acted as if he were God’s gift to women, but he was more like a lump of coal in a Christmas stocking.

Charlie, aged forty-four, wore his gray hair in a crew-cut that looked like a brush. He had a perpetual sneer, squinty eyes, and fat hands. He was 5 feet 9 inches tall, weighed 245 pounds, and wore his flight suit with the velcro strips extended to the max in order to accommodate his substantial girth. He looked more like a green Pillsbury Dough Boy than Cary Grant, as he stood at the operations counter making sexually suggestive comments to every woman that dared walk past him.  After a few encounters with Charlie, women would walk an extra 200 yards to the back of the building to get to their offices - even if there was a blizzard outside and the snow was three feet deep. In the eyes of these women, Charlie the Un-Leader was Charlie the Un-Stud.

Barbie

One morning as Charlie stood by the operations counter, in walked a new victim. Second Lieutenant Barbara Bravo was newly assigned to the base communications squadron whose offices adjoined our flight operations center. The only way to access those offices from the front door entailed a walk by the operations counter. 2/Lt Bravo was a tall, attractive blonde with a nice figure had been in the Air Force for only 90 days; this was her first day on the job in the operational Air Force. Leave it to Charlie to give her a rude introduction to the dark side of male behavior.

“Hey,” Charlie called as the lieutenant walked by,  “you there, new Babe in town, I’m the town Sheriff.  So step up here to the counter for your interrogation.”

“Excuse me, Sir,” she said, trying to gain her composure, “are you talking to me?”

“I sure am, Hun, unless there’s another new Babe in here besides you,” Charlie remarked through his best shit eating grin.

“I am trying to find the 92nd Communications Squadron, Sir,” she replied.

“You’re in luck, Hun. You’ve come to the right place. We are here to help.” Charlie said as he leered over the counter at the befuddled lieutenant. “Come right up here and let’s take care of you. First of all, what is your name, Hun?”

“Sir,” she replied dutifully, “I am 2/Lt Barbara Bravo.”

“Well, Barbie, I’m the Operations Officer here, Charlie Crown. So…, are you a natural blonde? What are your measurements? I’m guessing 38-24-36. Right?”

By this time the poor lieutenant was completely flustered, but at that moment the Commander came out of his office. Knowing Charlie, he quickly rescued the young woman, taking her by an arm and escorting her safely to her new office.

Give 2/Lt Bravo credit, even after this obnoxious encounter with Charlie, she continued day after day to come through the operations center and endure his verbal assaults. Charlie seemed to enjoy his “dirty old man” role, and you could tell he anticipated her arrival each day to have fun at her expense. He always called her “Barbie,” in spite of the fact that she would correct him each time by quietly saying “Barbara.”

One morning Charlie called her over to the counter, “Come here, Barbie, there’s something I want to show you.” She hesitated for a moment, but at least in military rank he was a superior officer, so she approached the counter.  At that moment Charlie unfurled the centerfold of the latest Penthouse magazine. “Hey, Barbie, get a load of these melons,” he smirked. “I’ll bet your uniform is hiding something just like these.” The lieutenant turned red and made a quick exit towards her office.

The pilots in our unit held a monthly “We Hate Charlie Crown” meeting at the Officer’s Club. It was therapeutic for us to sip a few beers while sharing stories of the unbelievable crap pulled by Charlie during the past month. During one such Friday meeting, our unofficial meeting chair, Captain Tom Terrific, spotted Lt. Bravo sitting at the bar.  He approached her, chatted for a couple of minutes, and brought her over to our table. “Gentlemen,” he said, “Barbara has been assigned here for three months and has weathered verbal assaults from Charlie on a daily basis. I say we invite her to join us.”

“Here, here!” we all agreed.

That first month the lieutenant sat quietly as each of us described our favorite “Charlie-capade” of the past few weeks. Tom told about Charlie getting lost in the missile field and chewing out the dispatcher, Sergeant Goodman, as if it had been Goodman doing the flying. I told about Charlie’s horrible airmanship and flying skills on a recent training mission. Bruce related a story about Charlie chewing him out for wearing white socks with his flight suit.  And so it went for a couple of months. Then at her third monthly meeting, Barbara Bravo opened up. She told us how she hated Charlie calling her Barbie and the constant verbal abuse. She continued with considerable embarrassment, telling us about a package left on her desk one morning. It contained an electric vibrator and a dirty note that said, “Hope this little hummer feels good.” The note was unsigned, but she was certain that it had been left by Charlie. “I sure wish I could get this bastard.”

“Yeah,” we all agreed, “and then some.”

Although we frequently made Charlie the victim of pranks like spreading black shoe polish on the earpiece of his phone, letting the air out of his tires, or removing the lead from the mechanical pencil in his flight suit, we were always looking to give Charlie a high level shaft job, like the time Dave set him up for a checkride with the Squadron standardization pilot.  I looked over at Tom and could see the wheels starting to turn. “Gentlemen and lady, we can’t let this Fat Flightsuit with a crew-cut get the best of us. We shall come up with a plan.” Confident in Tom’s abilities as a conniver, we adjourned the meeting until next month.

Sister Ann and the Plan

At the next month’s mid-December meeting, Barbara showed up with a beautiful, slightly older version of herself. She introduced her older sister, Ann, who was visiting for two weeks over the holidays. Barbara bragged that Ann was one of the first women detectives in the Denver Police Department. As usual, we began sharing Charlie stories from the past few weeks, including  Barbara’s admission that last week she found a package on her desk with a pair of string bikini undies and a note, “Thinking of you with nothing on but this!”

“Why do you guys put up with this prick?” Ann asked us. We tried to explain that he was the Operations Officer, out ranked us, and that even the unit commander was afraid of him, but she was thinking to herself what a bunch of wimps.

“Barbara,” Tom said, “has Charlie met or seen your sister?”

“No,” she replied. “Why?”

“Good,” Tom answered as he jumped up out of his seat with a big grin on his face. “Don’t let Charlie meet or see her. If Ann is up for it, I have a plan.”

I instantly knew what Tom had in mind. It was well known among our group of pilots that Charlie was a geographic bachelor when he was traveling. Away from home, Charlie would chase women like a man possessed. It was my personal observation that Charlie had a “go ugly early” approach to picking up women, so his pick-up success rate was fairly high. Every year around the Christmas and New Year holidays, Charlie’s wife, Edith, would visit family in Texas for a couple of weeks. Charlie’s whole demeanor changed when Edith made these visits. He kept himself totally off the flying and alert schedule during these visits, so he could be free to pursue his passion for picking up women, or in his words “chasing tail.”

The previous year while Edith was absent during the holidays,  my wife and I were driving through town at about 9:30 one evening. “Hey, Steve,” she said, “ that looked like Charlie Crown coming out of the Cowboy Billy Bar with some woman, and it’s not Edith.”

This I had to see, so I circled the block and pulled up across from the bar’s parking lot. Sure enough, there was Charlie supporting a large, obviously intoxicated woman, as they staggered through the parking lot to his 1974 Cadillac El Dorado. My wife was amazed that Charlie would act so audaciously in a city near the Air Force base. I was not surprised, however, it was just Charlie being Charlie. Still, I could not resist following the El Dorado as it made its way downtown. Charlie pulled into the General Custer Motel, named no doubt after the general of Little Big Horn fame. But for Charlie, it would be a place for a one night stand instead of his last stand. Of course, I duly reported Charlie’s indiscretion at the next “We Hate Charlie” monthly meeting. Now, using this intelligence coup from last year, Tom and I concocted a plan beyond dastardly.

Charlie’s Holiday Tail

I had a little trouble getting into my disguise. The pants were too tight and the fake mustache made my nose itch. I did, however, like the cowboy hat. There I was with Tom dressed as my cowboy buddy, sitting in a dark corner of the Cowboy Billy Bar on a Friday night after Edith’s departure to Texas. The Cowboy Billy included a spacious room with a huge bar, ample table seating, and a dance floor. The bar catered to a mix of singles, adulterers, and drunks. On Friday and Saturday nights they usually had some country band wailing beside the dance floor. Tonight’s band would surely play holiday favorites like “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” 

The bar was well known as the area’s best pick-up spot. Sitting at the bar, Ann Bravo, one of Denver’s finest, looked very much like a loose woman on the prowl. She donned a brunette wig to hide her blonde hair and carried an indiscreet purse that was just big enough to hold a small tape recorder. More than a few of the Cowboy’s customers made a run at her, but she had another game in mind.

“Gee, Tom,” I said, as I sipped my beer, soaking my fake mustache, “I sure hope Charlie shows.” 

“He’ll show alright.” Tom confidently predicted, “Like a bear to honey.” 

Sure enough, only moments later Charlie sauntered into the bar, complete with his cowboy shirt and bolo tie. Charlie was a regular at the Cowboy Billy, so before he even reached the bar, the bartender had his standard Jack and Coke waiting for him.  Unknown to Charlie, Tom had made friends with the bartender and given him $20 to make sure Charlie got secret doubles all night long. We watched as Charlie took a drink and slowly perused the area for likely targets of opportunity. We blended in well, and Charlie barely even looked our way. He did look at Ann though, but made no move. Knowing Charlie’s penchant for ugly women, I began to wonder if Ann looked too good.

I did not have to worry long;  Ann Bravo was a pro, and Charlie just a rank amateur. After a short while, Ann moved in, “Excuse me, sir, but didn’t I see your picture in the Fast City Gazette this week? Something about a search and rescue mission for a missing hiker?”

Charlie came to life and a big grin spread across his face. “Yes Mam, that was me.” (Earlier that week Tom and Bruce piloted a successful rescue mission when their crew found a lost hiker and flew him safely to the local hospital. Charlie, of course, conducted the interview with the local paper, taking as much credit as possible, even though his actual involvement was sitting behind the operations counter and harassing the dispatcher who was trying to talk to the crew on the radio. For his efforts, Charlie’s smiling picture made the Wednesday newspaper under the headline “Rescue Unit Saves Lost Hiker.”) “I’m the Operations Officer for the rescue unit at the base,”
Charlie continued.

“Oh!” exclaimed Ann, eyes wide with excitement, “Are you a pilot?”

Charlie could barely control himself. “Well, Mam,” he said with as deep a voice as he could muster, “I don’t mean to brag, but my fellow pilots consider me one of the best pilots in the entire Air Force.”

“I’m not use to all this ‘Mam’ stuff.  I’m Gidget.” she said.

“Well, Gidget, I’m Charlie and it is an absolute pleasure to meet you.”  Charlie was on a roll now, and he proceeded to take credit for every rescue, dangerous mission, and important flight that had taken place in the past 15 years. Ann sat there and listened, looking as if she were a star struck school girl. This continued for another half hour until the band started playing. Then Gidget led Charlie to the dance floor. With each dance Gidget held Charlie tighter and closer.

The band took a break. Back at the bar Charlie was giving Gidget his best lines, and the bartender made sure his glass was never empty. Gidget pretended to be drunk, but was drinking plain Coke. Around 10:00 PM they returned to the dance floor. Sometimes the truth is harder to believe than fiction, but the band’s next song was Charlie Rich’s “Behind Closed Doors.”  I thought Charlie was going to try to undress Gidget right then and there. “Oh Charlie, I want you so bad!” Gidget purred. “But I’m here visiting my sister, so I have no place we can go.”

Charlie had the answer, “No problem darlin’, I already have a room at a motel just down the street.”

This was another detail Tom had uncovered. When Edith was away, Charlie always reserved room # 11 at the General Custer on Friday and Saturday nights under the name Sky King. Earlier that evening, one of our guys, Chris, accompanied by Barbara and both wearing disguises, got the maid to let them into #11. They then hid a few items in the bathroom and quietly left the motel unnoticed.

Meanwhile, back at the Cowboy Billy, Charlie took Gidget’s arm and escorted her from the bar and to his big caddie. Fortunately it was only a few blocks to the General Custer, so even a drunk Charlie made his way there without mishap. Tom and I followed discreetly behind them to the motel.

Here is Ann’s description of what happened next behind the closed motel door:

As we entered the room, Charlie’s was pawing me like I was some kind of inflatable doll. He was so drunk it was not hard for me to push him onto the bed.  As I stood there, Charlie beckoned me to join him on the bed. “Slow down, Charlie,” I said to him. “We have all night.” Then I pulled a little nightie out of my coat pocket and held it up for him to see. “You turn the bed down and get undressed while I go into the bathroom and get into something comfortable.”

Five minutes later I stepped out of the bathroom to greet Charlie. Laying on the bed in his underwear, Charlie was anticipating a brunette Gidget wearing a little nightie. Instead he was looking at a big .45 pointed at his fat gut held by a fully clothed blonde. I flashed my badge and ordered Charlie to roll over on his stomach. “Don’t move you bastard. I’d love to put a hole in your fat ass.” I quickly put handcuffs on him. “You’re under arrest for soliciting prostitution,” I told     him.

“What?” Charlie croaked. “I never offered to pay.”

I grabbed his wallet and pulled out $200 and said, “Oh look, just what I need for evidence.” Then I pulled off his underwear, rolled him over, placed the money on his fat gut, and took several Polaroids for “additional evidence” of the crime. Before I left I could not resist saying something to this fat turd, “I expected a fearsome helicopter pilot to have a much bigger winkie than that little noodle between your legs. I’m calling a squad car to take your sorry ass and little winkie to jail.” I scooped up all of his clothes and left a naked Charlie whimpering on the bed.

Outside Tom and I were waiting for Ann when she came out of the room. We threw all of Charlie’s possessions, including all of his money into the Caddie and drove it back to Charlie’s house. We left it parked with the clothes and wallet in the passenger seat in his driveway. We hurried back to the base Officer’s Club in time to join all the pilots in our unit for a midnight toast to Ann and Barbara. As Ann recounted her “undercover” evening to everyone, Tom convulsed with laughter, which made the rest of us laugh even more. He was truly the master of pranks. “Gentlemen,” said Ann, “Barbara and I salute you, but this is an adventure that we should probably keep to ourselves for the foreseeable future.”

On Saturday morning the maid found Charlie hiding in the bathroom and notified her manager who called the police. One can guess how Charlie spent the night in that motel room – drunk, naked, in handcuffs, and waiting for the cops’ arrival.  When the cops did arrive, Charlie claimed he had been robbed at gunpoint by a woman claiming she was a police officer, who left him handcuffed in the room and stole his car.

One of our pilots, Dave, lived across the street from Charlie. He reported that around noon a police car brought Charlie home, where his “stolen” car was found conspicuously in the driveway. Dave said it looked like the cops were laughing as they pulled away, while Charlie wrapped in a sheet made his way into his house.    

The following Monday, it was all we could do to keep from laughing when Charlie came into work. When Charlie got to his desk, there was a small package on it. In the package was a Polaroid, ½ of the pair of Charlie’s underwear from Friday night, and a note that read:
   
Dear Un-Stud,

I know where you live. If you ever insult, intimidate, bully or bother another woman in public again, and I find out about it, the other ½ of these underwear and another Polaroid will be delivered to your wife along with a tape recording of your slime ball come-ons in the Cowboy Billy Bar on Friday night. And by the way, say “hi” to little winkie for me.

Have a nice day you low-life, scum bag.  

XXXX  Gidget

Later in the week after the one night stand in the General Custer, the Commander hosted the annual unit Christmas party at the Officer’s Club. Everyone in the unit was invited along with the people in our building. Tom and I were in charge of entertainment, and Tom kept the obligatory holiday tunes playing on his stereo system throughout the night. We had various skits planned to keep everyone entertained. Midway through the party, our group of the pilots came together, accompanied by Barbara and her sister Ann, for a special karaoke song. We were in fine voice, but some of us were laughing too much to get through every word. Halfway through the song Charlie, looking suddenly pale, abruptly got up from his table and headed for the exit. Later that evening, the Commander, Lt. Col Blackburn, complemented me about the party. “Fun party, Steve! You and Tom did a great job on the entertainment, but the karaoke song had me puzzled. Since when is ‘Behind Closed Doors’ a seasonal song?”

With a big grin I said, “Well, Sir, I’m sure there must be a holiday tail behind that song. Besides, Sir, you can’t go wrong with one of Charlie’s classics.”

Charlie was passed over for promotion to major later that year and discharged from the unit by August. During that time, he was still a lousy operations officer and remained every bit the un-leader. However, he took Gidget’s threat seriously, and his open season on women finally came to end.

Terra Cotta Horses in Xian, China - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Too Many Roses

Pavers at USAFA - Photo by JoAnn Sturman

by Scott Sturman

Every five years the class of 1972 meets at the Air Force Academy to spend an extended weekend with long time friends.  It is a festive occasion with numerous social events, but there does not seem to be enough time to greet, much less talk with everyone.

There is a solemn side to the reunion as well, when members of the class meet to pay their respects to classmates who are no longer with us.  The ceremony is conducted outdoors near the Association of Graduates Building, where one is able to view the Rocky Mountains to the west and the Black Forest to the east.  In the courtyard 750 odd bricks or pavers are laid in a rectangular grid each having the name of an individual class member etched deeply into the surface.

Members of the class preside over the ceremony, and after an opening prayer, the name of each deceased classmate is called.  At this point close friends and family members approach that person’s paver and lay a rose upon it.  This year thirty-nine names were honored by tearful widows and grieving classmates.

Printed in the event program are pictures of each deceased classmate when they were First Class Cadets and short personal history, including the cause of death.  Those who passed in their twenties and thirties often died in aircraft accidents or at the hand of aggressive cancers for which there was no cure.  Now in our early 60s a more insidious cause is beginning to take its toll: cardiovascular disease.

Some of us picked our parents right and are blessed with the genes of long life.  No unhealthy habit seems to speed up the time clock.  Others are not so fortunate.  Yet there are ways to hedge one’s bets to enjoy a prolonged retirement: weight control, no smoking, moderate drinking, some exercise now and then, and having a high index of suspicion if something seems amiss.  These are the best life insurance policies.

It is extraordinarily difficult to lose a spouse or friend of over forty years.  Remembering their impact on one’s life, why did they have to depart so soon and leave us without their company?  When we return in 2017 and again in 2022 to celebrate our friendships and honor the dead, hopefully, like Jack Benny, we will be stuck on the number thirty-nine when the time comes to lay roses on the pavers. 

In the Dark of the Night Part 3

The Devil Made Me Do It

by Steven R. Oberst 

AAA Office in Buenos Aires - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Most of the night flying I did during my career was on training missions, but my most infamous night flight and my personal favorite happened on a support mission during my first assignment. Flying in a helicopter rescue unit at a northern plains strategic missile base was seen by many pilots as a bad assignment. Although it is true the primary mission of supporting the missile wing was not particularly exciting, this assignment allowed time for a lot of great flying. It was in this northern plains environment that my fondness for night flying grew. The standard night training missions involved night navigation into the Badlands or Black Hills, landings in remote areas to spots outlined by beanbag lights, and nighttime searches. In addition, there were occasional night missions to support the missile wing.

Most missile support flights were fairly boring, flying something or somebody from point A to point B. The most boring mission of all was flying above a security convoy moving a warhead back to the main base. This involved a tractor trailer loaded with the warhead and several security escort vehicles on the ground, plus a helicopter overhead with armed security police on board. Convoy speeds were typically 25 mph on back roads, 40 mph on paved roads and 50 mph on an interstate. Needless to say, maintaining a position high above the slowly moving convoy was a tedious task.

In 1978, some genius got the idea that moving these convoys at night would provide more security due to not being as visible to the public. As much as I enjoyed night flying, this idea seemed to just move a boring mission from broad daylight to the dark of night. The thought occurred to me that this would also make it harder for us to see the bad guys, but what did I know? I was just a lowly captain.

For these nighttime convoy missions, we would fly the helicopter to the support facility closest to the warhead being moved, arriving at about 10:00 PM. After a briefing with the Convoy Commander, the helicopter crew would wait at the facility until the warhead was loaded and the convoy ready to move, typically about midnight. My first two nighttime convoy missions, although boring, went as scheduled with no problems. It was the on the third mission that things did not go so well for the missile people.

This mission came on moonless night in mid-January. There was a lot of snow on the ground, but the weather that night was clear and cold. The warhead being moved was at the farthest possible missile site from the base, very close to the Wyoming border. It was so cold, we were concerned about temperatures more than it being nighttime. When we arrived at the support facility we were told during the briefing that due to the cold, it would take longer than normal to get the warhead loaded. Sure enough, it was nearly 2:00 AM before the call came that he convoy was ready to move. Within 20 minutes we were flying overhead and waiting for the start of another boring mission. After circling for 10 minutes with no movement on the ground, we contacted the Convoy Commander on the radio. “We can’t get the doors closed on the trailer, the hydraulic system must be frozen.” He replied. After another 10 minutes, the mission was aborted.

As we turned to head home, my co-pilot, 2nd Lieutenant Mike Hotel, commented to me, “Hey, aren’t we near Devils Tower? Wonder what it looks like at night?” Hmmm I thought. I had flown by Devils Tower many times during the day, but never at night. Steven Spielberg used the location in the 1977 film Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Since then, a lot of “crazies” came to Devils Tower because they believed it was a place where aliens from outer space would someday emerge. To me it was just a neat looking piece of geography. It would only be a 15 minute detour to fly by it on the way back to the base. “Okay,” I said, “let’s swing by there and take a look see.”

It was so dark we were almost on top of Devils Tower before we saw it. We were flying at about 3,000 feet above the ground and Devils Tower is about 1,300 feet high.  I entered a rapid descent with the intent of making one complete circle around it before heading for home. On the west side of Devils Tower is a parking area where tourists parked. I don’t know what came over me, but I decided to turn on the searchlight and rotate it back and forth as we circled past this area. We had no way of knowing if anyone saw us or not. I merely turned off the light and headed for home.

The next day I heard reports on the radio that a UFO had been sighted up near Devils Tower early that morning. “Oh crap,” I thought, “I was flying the UFO.” The Base Information Office responded to callers by saying there had been no aircraft in the area. This meant there were no B-52s or KC-135s flying that night. Apparently it never occurred to the Base Information people to ask the helicopter unit if they had been flying, and neither Mike or I were about to volunteer this information. That evening the local TV news reporter interviewed Fred Ziegler  an eyewitness to the encounter at Devils Tower. “It came right out of the Tower and landed over there,” as he pointed toward an area just above them. “Then the aliens took my friend Marvin and disappeared.” Needless to say, most locals were skeptical of Fred’s claims and after a few days the story faded from view.

So, Fred, if you are reading this, it was not a UFO you saw at Devils Tower on January 17, 1979. It was me in a helicopter on a sightseeing trip in the dark. And, as to Marvin, I suspect he was so drunk that night he fell out of the back of your pick-up when you raced away from the parking area to report the UFO. I think he changed his name, went to Hollywood and became a famous movie star. Probably voted for Jimmy Carter, too.

Night flying can result in unusual encounters. That being said, I feel much better with this UFO incident off my conscience.  

Mosaic at Volubulis, Morocco - photo by JoAnn Sturman

In the Dark of the Night Part 2

The UFO

by Steven R. Oberst

Great Wall - photo by JoAnn Sturman

A few years before the last odorous adventure, I was a helicopter instructor at Kirkland AFB, New Mexico. During this time period, the Air Force was spending more and more time flying and training at night. Night flying can be challenging, but throw in a pair of night vision goggles while flying a nighttime low-level route and the intensity level maxes out. It presents an extreme challenge of the pilot’s training, skills and reactions. 

I remember one such low level night training flight I was on in 1981.  The mission was a training flight in a UH-1N twin engine helicopter. We departed Kirkland AFB shortly after sunset. A student pilot was flying from the right seat with night vision goggles on and I was the instructor in the left seat without goggles. With the cockpit bathed in a goggle-friendly red light, the student began flying on a low level route near the Puerco River in the northwestern part of the state. As the student struggled trying to stay on course, the last thing on my mind was an encounter with an unidentified flying object (UFO).

A few minutes into the flight I saw the blur of an object coming at us just before hearing a loud thump as something hit the windshield. Thinking bird strike, I immediately took the controls from the student and directed him to remove the goggles. Starting a slow climb to a safer altitude, I could feel no evidence of any damage to the rotor or flight controls. There was, however, a crack in the windshield and what appeared to be blood. I made a radio call to flight operations alerting them to a possible bird strike. We were directed to proceed with caution to a small airstrip about 25 miles from our location. 

Landing at the airstrip, we got out to inspect the helicopter. The Flight Engineer climbed up to look at the main rotor mast with his flashlight. “Captain,” he said to me, “There is a lot of blood on the mast just below the blades, but I don’t see any damage. Whoa! Here’s a surprise; it looks like hair in the blood, not feathers.” 

Later, a more scientific examination of the evidence verified that it was in fact not a bird strike, but a bat strike. The bat we hit was probably a brown bat with a wingspan of about 12 inches. This was the first of three bat strikes in this area before the Commander wisely closed this low level training area to night flying missions.

Okay, so flying into a bat may not qualify as an encounter with a UFO, but it definitely got my attention. Speaking of UFOs, helicopters flying at night are frequently mistaken for UFOs.

Grand Canyon - photo by JoAnn Sturman

In the Dark of the Night Part 1

Something Spooky in the Air

By Steven R. Oberst

Calavatria Bridge Buenos Aires - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Strange things can happen in the dark of the night. Maybe that is why most helicopter pilots I knew did not like to fly at night. I guess I liked it because it was something different from a normal daytime mission in more ways than just the lack of ambient light. Flying at night meant changing your normal daily schedule. It also meant learning how to navigate and fly without the visual cues pilots are accustomed to using. This made a routine flight maneuver at night a little more intense than the same maneuver in the daytime. You never know what you will encounter in the dark of the night. Here are three night flights with unusual encounters:

I will never forget my last helicopter night flight. It took place in the Florida panhandle on a dark summer night in 1984. This flight was a special operations training mission. I was onboard as the flight evaluator, so I did not sit at the controls, but instead I sat in a jump seat between and behind the two pilots. This check-ride was a simulated combat mission. The objective was the nighttime insertion and recovery of special ops people (appropriately nicknamed “spooks”) behind enemy lines. The flight crew’s job was to locate a remote landing zone (LZ) in the special operations training area and insert a team of three spooks. This area of Florida was heavily wooded with mostly long needle pines. It was hard to navigate there in daylight, so the darkness added to the challenge. Someone in Operations must have been a rock fan, because all of the LZs were named for 80’s rock bands. After inserting the spooks at LZ KISS, the flight crew was to proceed back and refuel behind a C-130. Then they were to loiter until the scheduled rendezvous time and proceed to LZ QUEEN. Meanwhile, the spooks would be doing their thing, simulate blowing something up, and egress to LZ QUEEN for a recovery pick-up. 

It was a hot, cloudy and humid night with thunderstorms to our north, but not in our immediate flight area. The mission briefing, pre-flight and departure all went well. This crew was very professional and it showed. We took off around midnight. Navigating in the dark while flying at low level is challenging and intense. Using night vision goggles, the co-pilot’s task was to identify terrain features in order to keep the pilot on course. The crew successfully found LZ KISS and the spooks rappelled down to the ground and disappeared in the darkness. 

The crew then navigated directly to the C-130 and executed a flawless refueling. It was not until we were flying to LZ QUEEN for the pick-up that the crew encountered its first big challenge. As we left the C-130, the lightning in the thunderstorms 60 miles north started sending flashes of light across the sky that would momentarily shut down the night vision goggles. This was playing havoc with the crew’s efforts to navigate low level to LZ QUEEN. On special operations missions, timing is critical. There was a ten minute window for the pick-up and it took the crew an additional 20 minutes to finally find LZ QUEEN. 

There was no radio contact with our special ops spooks on the ground. If the helicopter was not at QUEEN by 0200 hours, the spooks were to proceed to the alternate LZ, code name STYX. It was 0230 hours and we needed to be at STYX by 0330 hours. We arrived at STYX on time, but there was no visual contact with the spooks. We landed in a nearby clearing and waited with engines running. We could not wait long due to fuel remaining. Suddenly all three spooks were seen running into the clearing. It was only when they were safely on board that we realized something was wrong. “What’s that smell?” asked the pilot from the cockpit.

“Smells like skunk,” I said. Sure enough, while making their way from QUEEN to STYX, the spooks had a close encounter with an angry skunk. All three got sprayed, but the lead guy got the worst of it. Soon the entire crew, myself included, were gasping for air. 

Needless to say, the primary mission now was to get back to base as quickly as possible. It was weeks before the smell dissipated to an acceptable level in that helicopter. To this day, every time I drive by a dead skunk in the road, the smell reminds me of this ‘spooky’ encounter in the Florida woods. 

Foot Bridge Tibet - photo by JoAnn Sturman

"Birds" of the Philippines

by Jody James

Jody James is an ornithologist and former Air Force helicopter pilot.

Bird of Iguasu Falls - photo by JoAnn Sturman

In 1978 I was transferred from southern Arizona and my detachment pilot position supporting missile operations and participating in an occasional rescue to become the leader of a special team that evaluated bird hazards to world wide military operations.  BASH, Bird Aircraft Strike Hazards, is known to all military pilots and safety officers today.  I had a couple of degrees in vertebrate ecology (zoology), and the job was a good fit with my background in aviation and safety.  I heard from a colleague years later, that my case had been used as an example where the Air Force Military Personnel Center actually tried to match people with jobs that they were academically prepared to do.  (Know of any others?)

The BASH Team visited flying installations and presented its findings to Wing and Base Commanders, so they could implement the necessary changes to reduce the hazards.  During my first six months as leader, our office received an urgent message to provide BASH assistance to Clark AFB in preparation for an upcoming “Cope Thunder” exercise that would bring flying units from all over the globe to fly various missions in the rugged terrain of the Philippines.  Budgets being tight, the BASH Team could send only two people, Bill, a Senior Airman, and me. Bill had a bachelor’s degree in biology and had been on the BASH Team for a couple of years, and I relied on his experience to make the mission a success.

This was the BASH Team’s first trip to the Philippines, so the team had no reference material on hand about the birds that we would encounter. It was also my first trip out of the continental United States, much less the tropics, and it would significantly test my knowledge about birds.  The Philippine Islands are home to nearly 600 species of birds. Luzon, where Clark AFB is located, has around 377 species. Birds have physical attributes that enable an ecologist to generalize biological needs. Without an accurate field guide, however, the team might misidentify the species and associated habitat or food requirements which ultimately may be important to their management, control, and flight safety.  

We could have requisitioned some bird books through the supply system, but it was too slow and cumbersome to meet our scheduled departure.  An interlibrary loan wouldn’t work either.  In those days before the Internet or Amazon.com (we didn’t even have a computer on our desks until the mid-1980s!), it was far more expedient to buy the books in the country or region of interest and claim them on our travel vouchers.  We could expect to find books written in English in the Philippines, so we made our flight arrangements and departed.

When we landed in Manila International Airport, we had several hours before we could catch the shuttle bus to Clark.  We decided to use local transportation to find a bookstore downtown, secure our reference materials, and return to catch the bus.  The best book on Philippine birds at that time was John du Pont’s book, Philippine Birds.  There was an early book by the noted Philippine researcher, Dr. Rabor, but the drawings were crude and the information dated and sketchy.  

Manila is an expansive, cosmopolitan city:  lots of people from many countries and islands.  There are many unique modes of transportation.  Jeepneys, extended, ornate open air jeeps and “trikes”,  motorized rickshaws, dominated the roadways.  We left the airport and took a jeepney to a bookstore, where we found Rabor’s book.  I asked the shop-owner if he knew where I could get du Pont’s book.  He called another bookstore and confirmed that they had a copy but it was a mile or two away. While I was trying to get better directions to the other store, an attractive, well-dressed woman, who had been shopping in the bookstore, interjected, “I know where that store is.  I can take you there.”  

Not wanting to be a burden, I thanked her and noted that we could probably get local transportation to get there. “Nonsense,” she said. “It is on our way home.  We would be happy to do it.” 

I looked at Bill and agreed, “Okay. It will help us make our shuttle bus to Clark.”  We left the bookstore and entered her chauffeur driven vehicle.  I noticed the chauffeur was quite burly for a Philippine man, more like Oddjob in the James Bond movie, Goldfinger.  He wore a full, dark suit and tie.  He didn’t smile or speak to us.  

I sat in the back seat with the lady, and Bill sat shotgun in the front.  She sat in the center next to me with her shopping bags between her and the window.  Enroute to the bookstore, our hostess pointed out some points of interest and mentioned she was trained as a nurse and wanted to work in the United States.  As she was talking, she continually put her hand on my thigh.  I thought this gesture might be a cultural thing, so I ignored the overt familiarity.

Then she asked me, “Why don’t you two come to my house to meet my family?”  I replied we really did not have time to buy the book and return to the airport to catch the shuttle to Clark.  Again, she insisted and reassured us her car would be at our disposal and would not cost us anything.  Not wanting to be unappreciative guests, we agreed to meet her family, but just for a few minutes.  After a short drive through a residential neighborhood, Oddjob stopped the car in front of a neat, two-story, frame house with a steep staircase.

The hostess led Bill and me up the steps into a finely appointed room with a few cozy couches and lots of pillows.  Several nicely dressed girls and young women appeared, and our hostess introduced them to us.  We greeted them.  One of the names caught my attention:  “Cherry,” who may have been a thirteen year old with brightly rouged cheeks and too much makeup for her adolescent face.  Despite my inexperience with Filipino customs, I realized we had landed in a brothel and our hostess was the madam.  I looked at Bill and he at me, as we simultaneously came to the same realization.  I thought to myself, “Oh, shit!  How did we get into this mess?” 

At that point our hostess asked us if we wanted anything.  “No!” I declared.  “We need to find our bird book and get back to the airport to catch the shuttle.”  

Then the madam said something very strange, “Would you like some drugs rubbed on your neck?”  I had never heard of such a thing.   I asked her what she meant, thinking it was another cultural misunderstanding.  She repeated the same drugs-neck phrase.  Life was going to get a lot more complicated if we delayed our departure.  What if my superiors found out about my whereabouts?  The episode wouldn’t look too good on the record.  And my wife, what would she think?  “Honey, Bill and I were buying some bird books in a book store and met this beautiful woman, who invited us to meet her family.  So, not to hurt her feelings we accepted.  How was I to know she was going to make me have sex with a thirteen year old and rub drugs on my neck?” 

Bill and I looked at each other and I said, “Let’s go!”  We pushed past the women in the room, exited through the door, and ran down the steps.  Oddjob was leaning against the car having a cigarette.  He looked quizzically at us, as if to say, “That was fast!”  

If he thought our escape in the whore house was fast, it was nothing compared to how fast we sprinted away from the brothel. We were lost in an area somewhere in Manila with no maps or recollection which direction would take us back to the airport.  Bill and I took off towards the most city noise, making as much distance as possible between us Oddjob.  After four or five blocks we arrived at a heavily traveled street which led to a bigger road and then an even bigger one full of jeepneys.  

Speaking of dumb luck, but the first thing I saw on this busy street was the bookstore with du Pont’s book.  We made a quick purchase and asked the storeowner for directions to the airport.  After a couple of jeepney transfers, we made the shuttle bus with plenty of time to spare.  Bill was quiet while I thumbed through the book on the bus ride to Clark.  Both of us felt that we had escaped from an unpredictable, possibly dangerous situation, and we had been only in the Phillipines for a few hours.  

My idealistic side toyed with the idea that the hostess actually wanted us to meet her family before she took us to the bookstore.  The opportunity to put drugs on my neck was a gracious offer to put isopropyl alcohol on my skin to help me find some relief from the tropical heat.  And, of course, the young girls looked so beautiful because they had returned from Catholic Mass.  Then my realistic side took charge and shouted in my brain, “Jeff, that was a whore house, those were not choir girls, and the lady of your dreams was a madam who wanted all your money and would have used any brain rotting drug on the planet to lure you into her web!”

Acquisition of the bird books allowed us to complete the BASH evaluation, and hopefully it was our input that prevented any bird strikes or loss of aircraft during the exercise.  I think that would have been the least of my concerns, if I had let my curiosity get the best of me and let those birds in the brothel put some drugs on my neck.

Tibetan child - photo by JoAnn Sturman