Chapter 5 Part 3 THE Trip "Close Encounter of the Wrong Kind"

Charlie Treats the Crew to a Victory Dinner. Photo by JoAnn Sturman

By S.R. Oberst

I awoke to rain splattering against the window of my VOQ room. I met my crew chief LT at base operations and filed a flight plan. The weather officer on duty was a 2nd lieutenant who seemed to know his stuff. He told me since the freezing level would vary between ground level and 1,000 feet, we could expect rain and freezing rain along the planned flight route. Winds were forecast at 30 knots with gusts up to 50. These winds would blow about 45 degrees off our nose as we headed west southwest, further complicating the flight and fuel stop planning. Basically the weather would not be friendly to helicopters; I was ready to cancel. SK also was present for the weather briefing, and he quickly decided to postpone his flight until the next day. As SK was leaving the base ops building, Charlie staggered in looking like he’d had a late night.

I gave Charlie the weather forecast and assumed he would be okay with my decision to cancel. I’m certain that he would have agreed with me, if SK had not been part of the equation. Charlie’s twisted brain concluded that beating SK to Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Arizona would be a meaningful accomplishment. He looked at the weather map and determined we could head south and outrun the cold front moving through the area. His plan was to fly through Oklahoma and Texas to Amarillo and then finally to El Paso where we would spend the night. His new route added nearly 300 miles to the trip.

We took Charlie’s plan and went to get a weather briefing. The 2nd Lieutenant was dubious about being able to skirt the nasty weather. The forecast for the new route was still shaky. Charlie began browbeating the lieutenant for a better forecast. The poor guy probably had never encountered anyone quite like Charlie. Eventually he gave Charlie the forecast he wanted.

Unleadership moment: Unleaders are bullies. They are experts at browbeating, pulling rank, or whatever else it takes to get their way. Charlie scared the weather lieutenant, but the results of his bullying scared me.

You probably have not spent much time looking at low level aeronautical maps of Oklahoma and Texas. But, if you did, you would discover that there are a lot of tall radio towers in these
states. In fact, there are many over 1,000 feet tall and some up to 2,000 feet. It does not take a math or geometry genius to realize the guy wires supporting these huge towers extend out great distances from the base of the tower. As a result, the danger zone around one of the towers is measured in square miles. Flying a helicopter through these areas at 500 to 800 feet above the ground in poor visibility is insane.

When I objected to the new route and the risky plan to skirt the nasty weather, Charlie called me a weenie. I replied, “I’d rather be a live weenie than a dead pilot.” Charlie then put his operations officer hat on and directed me to get out to the helicopter and prepare for takeoff.

The rain stopped as we flew without incident to some nameless airport in Oklahoma. After refueling we continued to head south. After another fuel stop we turned west towards Amarillo. The weather immediately started to turn ugly as we entered an area full of 1,000 foot and taller towers. The rain began to pound against the windscreen, and as visibility began to diminish, so did Charlie’s ability to navigate using terrain features and landmarks. Due to the low freezing level, a climb to a higher altitude was out of the question. Besides, my confidence level in Charlie’s ability to navigate under Instrument Flight Rules (IFR) was about zero (Charlie’s Check Ride Part 1). So, when we came upon a highway heading southwest, we used the visual flight version of IFR – “I Follow Roads.” We turned and flew parallel to it. Who needs a map? Spotting a road sign ahead, I descended low enough to read, “Amarillo 88 miles.” Things were looking up – we might survive this flight after all.

The rain on the windshield changed to sleet. The weather began to deteriorate rapidly and visibility was getting worse. As a result, I found myself flying lower and lower, until we were only about 100 feet above the ground. In situations like these one advantage of a helicopter over an airplane is that you can land a helicopter just about anywhere. As the ice began to accumulate on the windshield I announced we would land. Charlie objected, but did not stop me. As I landed the helicopter on the Texas prairie, the full force of the storm engulfed us.

The next forty minutes seemed like a lifetime, but the weather began to improve, revealing the surrounding landscape. About 100 feet ahead of us was a huge 15 foot tall concrete block used to anchor a guy wire connected to a tower. From the back of the helicopter LT let out a low whistle and said, “Sheeee-ittt Looo-tenant that was too close for comfort.” Charlie must have realized we had dodged a bullet, for he was uncharacteristically speechless. Later, I discovered the tower was about 1,800 feet tall. Had we continued to fly on course, there would have been one more needless aircraft accident. The realization of what could have happened is vividly etched in my memory, and to this day I believe that God made me land when and where we did.

The weather continued to improve, and we soon were airborne and on our way to Amarillo. From there the trip to El Paso was uneventful. As soon as we landed, Charlie declared that to celebrate the successful mission, he was taking LT and me out for dinner. “Apparently,” I thought, “Charlie has no “Wanda” in the wings in El Paso.”

Chapter 5 Part 2 THE Trip "Wanda Why?"

Winter Rain Storm Utah Desert - Photo by Sam Sturman

By S.R. Oberst

It was late afternoon when we arrived at McConnell AFB. The 60 degree weather seemed warm relative to the 30 degree weather we left behind us. However, a cold front was moving through during the night, so tomorrow’s weather might be an issue. From the flight-line a crew bus took Charlie and me to the Visiting Officers’ Quarters (VOQ). LT stayed behind to do some routine maintenance and to check out the helicopter we would be flying to the Boneyard. He planned to meet us at the base flight operations building in the morning.

As we were checking in at the VOQ front desk, in walks Charlie’s check ride nemesis, Captain SK Reamer. Charlie’s Check Ride Part I and Part II) If looks could kill, both died instantly. Wow! Did these guys ever hate each other. Ignoring Charlie, SK asked me what we were doing at McConnell. I told him we were taking one of their old helicopters to the Boneyard. When SK replied that he was also making the same trip with another helicopter, I could see Charlie’s neck turn red.

Nothing else was said. Our assigned rooms were a few blocks away in another VOQ building. We got our room keys and left the office. On the way to the rooms, Charlie again offered to have Wanda hook me up. I again declined the offer. When we walked up to the VOQ, a large woman got out of a pick-up truck in the parking lot and began waving at us. Wanda greeted Charlie with a hug and a kiss. She looked about 50 give or take 10 years, although it was difficult to tell through all the make-up she plastered on her face. She was wearing a short skirt and a blouse that revealed plenty of cleavage. But with a girth that matched Charlie’s, she was not what I would call sexy. After brief introductions, Wanda said to me, “Oh, Honey, you just have to come with us. My friend Sally would just eat you alive.” While thinking to myself “not in this lifetime,” I politely declined being eaten by Sally.

Reflecting on the Previous Un-Leadership Insight:
Some male Un-Leaders may be God’s gift to some women.

While Charlie was off with Wanda, I walked the few blocks to the McConnell Officers’ Open Mess or MOOM for short. Like the clubs at most missile bases, the MOOM was a boring building with nothing happening on a weeknight. But on weekends it was a totally different matter, those missile weenies really knew how to party. Where else could one play unlimited blackout bingo and feast on all-you-can-eat faux crab meat? I went in for dinner and found myself virtually alone in the huge, drab MOOM room.

As I was about to order, in walks SK. He sees me and asks if he can join me for dinner. During dinner the conversation turned to the events of the past few months. SK seemed to have taken things in stride. He knew that Dave Evalman set Charlie up for THE Check Ride, but he was not angry with Dave. Instead, he expressed his amazement that a person as unethical and unprofessional as Charlie was a Detachment Operations Officer. He also told me that he was convinced that Charlie was behind some dirty tricks. He said his wife was pretty upset when the first package of girlie magazines and women’s under garments showed up in the mail, but after the second and third packages came, she knew someone was trying to frame SK. We chatted for awhile, and it became apparent that SK’s bark was worse than his bite. SK’s parting words to me after dinner would soon prove to be prophetic, “Don’t trust that SOB. He’s always looking for shortcuts - always trying to get the edge. Someday he’ll get what’s coming to him, so check your six o’clock with this guy at all times.”

Old Jack

Inca Trail, Peru - photo JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman

My mother's father, Jack, was a cattle rancher and banker from western Nebraska near the Wyoming border. He was a small man and despite a third grade education a wealthy businessman. He wore tailored suits with a large Stetson hat, smoked four packs of Camels a day, and enjoyed his whiskey.  One Christmas he gave all eleven of his grandchildren a picture of himself in profile wearing his customary hat and suit.  That particular gift selection was vintage Jack.

When Jack was sixty he decided to travel the world and documented his trips with thousands of Kodak slides to show his grandchildren. We saw pictures of mountains, deserts, cities, local inhabitants and fellow travelers. In the midst of photos from a presentation on Thailand was a child taking a crap in the middle of the road.

“Grandpa, what's that?” I asked.

Never mincing words that he considered terms of endearment, he replied, “That's a kid taking a shit in the road, WR. Those c**ksuckers are so tough that if they live to be five, you have to cut their heads off to kill 'em.”

Jack liked to show pictures of himself with other travelers. One such companion dressed in a dark suit with a black hat and a long beard looked very different from cattle country westerners. He and grandpa were sitting at a table laughing, having a drink, and obviously enjoying the company.

“Who's that, Jack?” my cousin Bob asked.

“That's one of them New York PhD Jews, Bobby.  I can talk to anyone of them about anything.”

That was not an understatement, for Jack had the gift of gab.  He was profane, inquisitive, and exceptionally quick witted.  It must have been frustrating for him to spend all his life in rural, isolated Nebraska with no one to share his intellectual interests.  New Yorkers must have been fascinated by this little cowboy with no formal education, who made millions and some say did his share of bootlegging and cattle rustling.

When I was teenager the entire family spent a few days of Christmas vacation skiing in Sun Valley, Idaho.  It was the first and last time the family celebrated the holidays away from Nebraska. All of the grandchildren and most of the parents skied, but Jack was no athlete and stayed in his room drinking whiskey.  When we returned, he offered us all a drink while we watched television and talked politics.  A favorite was the riveting game show “To Tell the Truth,” which featured celebrity panelist Kitty Carlisle, a sophisticated New Yorker.  With Jack having a few too many under his belt, the older grandsons decided to have some fun with him.

"Kitty looks like just the woman for you, Jack," I offered.

"You mean too much woman for him, W.R.  She'd tie Jack in a knot and make him cry for mercy," added Bob.

"You got that one right, Bob.  That little heifer would make Old Jack wished he had become a priest," added my brother Lee.

Jack listened for a few minutes, enjoying the banter of his teenage grandsons.  Once it was his turn, he settled back in his chair, took another drink, and declared, “I'd rather f**k a cow than Kitty Carlisle!”

End of discussion. 

“Priskna, four of us are flying two Hueys to North Dakota for reconfiguration at Minot AFB,” said Captain Henry. “It'll be a two day flight to get there. We should have some chances for low level flying. Since you grew up in the area, maybe you can show us around.”

The first day would take us from Arizona to Rapid City, South Dakota, followed by a short leg to Minot on the second.  We'd fly east to New Mexico then north along the Rio Grande Valley until crossing through Colorado, Wyoming, and Nebraska before arriving in Rapid City.

On the afternoon of the first day we landed in Denver to refuel.  I asked Captain Henry, “I haven't seen my grandparents for years, and they live in a town of 300 people in western Nebraska.  It's right on our way.  Do you think we could land there for a few minutes, so I could say hello?”

Captain Henry paused, then answered, “As long we fly under the radar, we'll stop.”

I called my grandparents' home and Jack answered. “Jack, this is WR. Four of us are flying two helicopters from Denver to Rapid City.  We're going to fly over your house, and then land at the airstrip for just a few minutes.  Can you meet us?”

“You bet, WR. Can you and your friends stay the night?”

“We can't. There's no good place to keep the helicopters, and the Air Force doesn't have a sense of humor about unusual itineraries.”

As soon as we cleared the Colorado-Wyoming border, we put the choppers on the deck. At a few feet off the ground and 100 knots the sage brush whizzed by the cockpit. The rolling plains, devoid of trees, people, and power lines, made for ideal low level flying.  North of Agate, Nebraska, we began to look for the distinctive water tower that marked Harrison, my grandparents' home town. Every so often we popped up to gain a better vantage point to spot the tower.  Once I saw the silver cylinder, we returned to ground level and sped towards the town.

Harrison was a very quiet place.  It must have been a shock for the residents of this sleepy ranch town to hear the Hueys screaming a few feet above the roof tops.  It reminded me of the time Bob Wade and I buzzed a town in rural Mexico and sent the chickens flying. We made some tight turns over Jack's house. He and my grandmother emerged from the front door and held onto their hats to keep the rotor wash from blowing them out of Sioux County.

Thirty seconds later we landed in a cloud of dust at the town's dirt air strip just a quarter mile north of town.  Jack pulled up a few minutes later in his Chrysler Imperial.  I jumped out of the cockpit and ran over to his car.

“Grandpa, you look great!  If Kitty Carlisle could see you now!”

“You know what I think about her, WR!”

We could stay only a minute or two, because a convoy of cars from town were speeding toward the airfield to see their version of the Thunderbirds.  They were not the sort to complain and revered the military, but it was not worth the risk of having a phone call made to the closest Air Force base.

It was one of the last times I saw Jack. As he waved good-bye, I sensed he would have liked to be riding with us away from small town life and onward to Rapid City, New York, and beyond.