You're Dangerous!

The real reason I decided to put an end to my military career is not so dignified. I had 21 years of combined active duty, Guard and Reserve service. It was a year more than needed for retirement benefits. There was no compelling reason to exit and there were some really good reasons to stay on. But the decision to “depart the fix” came not from any of these ponderings, but from an impulsive outburst of ire and angst. It was about the empty gas cans.

I owned a stunningly beautiful Grumman-American AA-5 “Traveler.” It was a 1975 model, a unique production year that produced AA-5s that had the both the eye-pleasing features and of the older models and speed mods of those of the next generation AA-5s, which were to be called “Cheetahs.” It was not a true 4-seater, but would haul two adults and two kids nicely and do it faster than its 4-seat competitors with the same engine. And, as mentioned, it had ramp appeal that Misters Cessna and Piper couldn’t dream of.

I had bought the Traveler for family trips, which worked well until the family went from four to five. No more family trips. But the beautiful machine found a resurgence of utility when I moved far away from the Guard base. It offered a two hour flight versus a six hour drive to my duty station as a weekend warrior. (Weekend Warrior was, and is, a colossal misnomer. Pilots and crew members in the Air Guard and AF Reserve fly a lot. If you want weekends only—and only one a month at that—join the Army National Guard or Navy Reserve.)

And so I began flying the Traveler to Jackson, MS (KJAN). But parking it at the opposite end of a big airport and begging for a ride around to the military side got old the very first day I did it. So I ventured a visit to the Group Commander’s office and secured immediate permission to park the little bird on the massive ramp belonging to the “Magnolia Militia.” 

After supplying them a copy of my insurance and nodding my understanding that I must file a flight plan for each arrival indicating in the remarks section that I would be parking on the Guard ramp, I fired the Grumman up to go home, looking forward to my next return.

Predictably, on the next trip into KJAN, ground control did not trust me when I told them I had permission to park on the “mil ram.” They had me hold position until they made a phone call. Then they cleared me in. I was met by a pick-up with a “Follow Me” sign. I taxied past rows of C-141s—airplanes that weighed 200 times more than the Traveler, and, in fact, could have held eight Travelers with their wings off.

The truck took me to a far corner of the ramp, well away from jet blast, where I had to stretch ropes a huge distance to the tie down rings designed for long wings. As I was tying down the Traveler the sergeant who parked me pointed to the 12 inch registration numbers on the side of the plane: N141AC. “One Four One!” he cackled. “Perfect!” When I had the plane painted a few years prior, I applied for, and was granted, that number by the FAA, because I loved the C-141. The sergeant thought the “AC” meant aircraft commander, which I was, but they were actually my initials. I didn’t tell him that.

I couldn’t buy AVGAS, of course, on a military base, so I brought four five-gallon plastic gasoline containers with me. The Grumman was certified to use automotive gasoline, so I would simply fill the cans at an off base station and pour them into the plane when ready to leave.

The airmen who took care of the C-141s quickly adopted N141AC. They came out frequently in groups to admire it and always smiled agreeably at the registration numbers. But when I returned from one trip in the Starlifter, “One Alpha Charlie” was gone!

What had happened? Had they hauled it away? Had a thunderstorm blown it away? The van driver who picked our crew up swung by the open door of the massive hangar where they worked on the C-141s. There was N141AC sitting happily in a corner. They had brought it inside because of threatening weather during my absence. I was awed by that. Whose private plane had ever gotten so much TLC by military technicians?

This happy arrangement went on for several months until—predictably, when a bureaucracy is involved—a raised palm appeared in my face: cease and desist.

I returned from a mission to notice that my canvass canopy cover was loose and flapping in the wind. Curious. I was always careful to secure it. I walked to the plane. A pink piece of paper was taped to the canopy. I looked at the checked boxes. I was in violation of government ground safety rules. My plane did not have a static line attached to it. And—horror of horrors—it had gas containers inside. A note in the remarks section indicated that the plane would have to be removed from the base immediately.

I noted the signature, didn’t recognize it. Some second balloon at headquarters had signed it. I ripped it off and secured my cover, then marched to the headquarters building to find the guy. The sign over his office read Ground Safety Officer. With a demeanor that smacked of insolence he proceeded to lecture me about my hazardous sins. I stopped him. “You tampered with my plane,” I said. “You pulled off my canopy cover and didn’t even bother to re-secure it after you spied on me.” He assured me he had authority to inspect any private vehicle or plane that came onto the base, and said he couldn’t figure out how the straps went back together. At this point I was precariously close to an abyss that fell to court martial canyon if I didn’t maintain my composure. As I turned to leave he dispassionately said, “I’m sorry I had to do this.”

I whirled around. “I’m sorry, SIR!” He uttered a condescending, "Sir."

I found a quiet place to ponder this very unwelcomed intrusion on my comfortable arrangement. I considered going to the base boss to ask him to sweep this guy aside. The commander, a pilot himself and a friend, had a duty to support his staff. I didn’t want to put him on the spot. I finally bucked up and headed back across the parade field to base headquarters, but not to see the boss. Instead I went to the personnel office, and I remember distinctly what I said. “Give me the quitting papers!”

The NCO in charge scratched his head. “The what, Colonel?”

"I want to retire."

Later, after I had a chance to think it through more thoroughly, instead of retirement, I requested transfer to the Air Force Reserve in the role of a U.S. Air Force Academy Liaison Officer. That was approved and from then on, my military flying career was over. I served an additional two years counseling AF Academy candidates in my hometown, only needing to attend an official meeting with my boss and peers once each quarter. Later, due to reduced funding, that was changed to once a year. Then I decided even that was too much. I applied for retirement.

But the Magnolia Militia treated me very well. On my last drill weekend they gave me a retirement ceremony, even though I had not officially retired. It was a grand send-off and I have great affection for my old unit and all the friends I made there. Except for one. 

 Two fabulous beauties, but the Starlifter had to go.

                           

  

Next time: The day I gave One Alpha Charlie up. (Have your tissue box ready.)