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

Roll Over, Cecil Rhodes

W.R. Priskna
fliesinyoureyes.com

Potala in Lhasa - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Who wouldn’t want to win an Oscar, Nobel Prize, Pulitzer Prize, Rhodes Scholarship, Presidential Freedom Medal, “key to the city”, or 4th grade student of the month?  Awards set recipients apart from the rest and recognize unusual achievement or exceptional service.  The problem is how the winners are selected.  Politics, prejudice, and popularity muddle the process.  Einstein’s special and general theories of relativity, which transformed the field of physics, were presented in 1905 and 1916 respectively, yet he had to wait until 1922 to receive the Nobel Prize in Physics for his work with the more ho hum photoelectric effect.  Why did this man only receive one Nobel Prize?  Contrast this with Barrack Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize on the ninth month of his Presidency while the United States was engaged in wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  

During senior year in high school, my friend Dave Sundin and I goaded a sophomore to run for school treasurer.  To pad his credentials we formed three or four clubs with impressive names but without any function or purpose and elected him president of each.  If this happened in little old Podunk, USA, how often are resumes padded for those with real connections, lofty aspirations, and financial resources?  

I am one of those who has gone through life with few awards or kudos, except a slap on the ass from a coach who occasionally liked the way I played.  But I had a chance once long ago in college to make it in a big way: the chance to compete for a Rhodes Scholarship.  My interests were in science and mathematics, but I had a broad background in the humanities and had performed sufficiently well in college that my professors recommended me to represent the school.

“Priskna, we think you got what it takes.  You look like Jack Armstrong, the all American boy, and even through you were raised in the sticks, when you speak you don’t use ain’t or drop the g’s from participles.”  After that heady endorsement, I won my home state competition and then traveled to the regionals in Portland, Oregon, where the winners would be selected.

When the selection committee and candidates met for social hour before interviews, something wasn’t quite right.  I had the impression the swashbuckling Cecil Rhodes preferred the adventurous, beer drinking, rugby playing scholar to uphold the pillars of Western Civilization and defend the Queen’s realm.  Yet the contestants in the room, who were all men, seemed more at home reading poetry and drinking from a brandy snifter.  These were not robust, hardy men, but to their credit presumably first rate scholars from prestigious schools and, interestingly enough, liberal arts majors like all the judges in the room.
  
Several of the contestants were engaged in animated conversations with the professors.  To be thrown into a room full of salty academics and have these older men hinging on every word, one must possess truly extraordinary conversational skills.  Within moments the dialogue had gone beyond “I’m so and so from such and such” to a thorough analysis of man’s destiny.  I strained to listen and found myself moving closer to two of discussants, a dapper elderly man dressed in a three piece suit and a frail, mousey looking student dressed in a similar fashion.

“Professor Humbly, what a lovely carnation in your lapel.  Where ever did you find it?”

“Thank you, Mr. Fooby.  How observant and kind of you to say so.  I know a florist in Portland, who orders them especially for me.  By the way, I’m looking so forward to having you in my English literature class again this next semester.”

“Holy Shit!” I thought.  “These two guys not only know each other personally, but Fooby is Humbly's student!  I wonder if the professor will vote for Fooby only twice.”

The experience became one of my life’s first reality checks.  Since many of the judges and contestants hailed from the same universities and knew one another personally, how could impartiality be maintained?  Perhaps this was the common thread which allowed the dialogue between student and professor to flow so smoothly. 

The interview did not go well.  No softball questions about science, history, current events, or the starting line up for the Green Bay Packers were lobbed my way, just esoteric queries about English literature.  I left the room frustrated, knowing I had lost, and badly.  I wondered how Fooby had fared with his questions about differential equations and the Reynolds number.  Wasn’t it clever how in a polite fashion skillful inquisitors could make one look like a genius or dolt?
Later that afternoon, the winners were announced.  Professor Humbly beamed when his clone, Mr. Fooby, was told he would be going to Oxford.  

Hong Kong - photo by JoAnn Sturman