The Viper (with apologies to Dr. Seuss)

 Fresno Air Guard F-16

Jad Dennis

An homage to those sad souls fortunate enough to have flown the F-16 and tearful enough to be flying it no more. Especially those Raggedy Ass Militia (Air Guardsmen) who flew on Weekend Drills.  To General Dynamics/Lockheed Martin and Air Force officials it’s the F-16 “Fighting Falcon,” but to the guys that flew it it’s simply “The Viper.”

As all wives and girlfriends know, fighter pilots are nothing more than little boys dressed up in funny looking green suits with lots of zippers – Dr. Seuss is just their speed!

   

Did you drive the Viper jet?
Did you drive it during Drill?
Was it cool as cool can be,
Or was it just your average thrill?

Did you drive them in the day?
Did you drive them in the dark?
Was it only for the bucks,
Or would you do on a lark?

Did you drive the Viper jet?
Did you drive it till you cried?
Told your spouse was such hard work.
She always knew you really lied.

Were you Grinder, Howdy, Mork,
Or were you Siko, Gruve or Pork?
You don’t get to choose your tag.
Just ask the one that we called Dork.

Did you eat RAW eggs and ham?
Did you eat them on a bet?
Would you do it every day,
If you could fly just One More Jet?

Did you ever pinch yourself?
Did you ever question why?
You’re among the chosen ones
To spend your life above the sky.

Would you… could you…
Ahh, what the hell!
It’s time to bid the Viper Jet
A 9-G, Burners, fond farewell.

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?