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.)

The Time Machine

I have always been a fan of Jules Verne, especially his "Time Machine," but I never thought I would get a chance to ride one. I did. It was a costly mistake. I am writing to you from the past. I hope you get this. Be careful of these machines. They tend to be clustered around airports and are easily accessible. They are built in Brazil by Embrerar and they only go backwards in time, never forward.

Here’s how it happened. A few of my old Air Force friends suggested a get-together for the Wichita airshow. Sure, I would go. Due to weather I would have to leave 7SW in its hangar, but no problem, I have virtually free flying privileges on Uncle U and his spartan nephews for the rest of my days. I fired up the United app to list for a flight. After an hour figuring out how to use it I found there was one seat available on the 50 seat spam can going to my old base, Houston (IAH). Back when I was jump seat eligible, that was no concern, but now it is slim pickings. I used one of my eight annual vacation passes to elevate my boarding priority and got the seat. (Don’t get snarky; I get eight vacation passes, not eight vacations. Two people going to Hawaii on a two leg trip will use all eight.)

The second leg from IAH to Wichita (ICT) was a little easier. I got there in time to join my old buds for dinner. Not a bad day. I thought this retired “non-rev” flying, or rather riding, wasn’t that bad.

The mini-reunion was great but the airshow was a pain. Don’t go to an airshow at McConnell AFB unless you enjoy standing in abysmally long four-abreast lines for hours both to get in and to get out. But the Thunderbirds provided some welcome purpose for the suffering. On the day I was to return there were ample seats going out all directions from ICT so I thought I would sleep in. Bad idea.

I got to the airport at noon to get a seat back to IAH, to find the plane had filled with paying customers. My vacation pass would do no good. It only gives me a boost above the other non-revs. Same for the Chicago and Denver flights. I checked American and Delta. I can ride them space available for a small fee. But several seats were available on the afternoon flight to IAH, so I chilled for a few hours.

Then came that so disgustingly familiar announcement that the flight would be an hour late. My mind lit off and spooled-up, crunching  the ramifications to this morbid announcement. I rechecked the schedule from IAH to home. If I got to IAH later than 8:45pm, I was—how should I say it? I won’t say it.

The plane finally got in and they handed me my boarding pass. Then the next announcement. The plane had a problem. Maintenance had been called out. I heard a collective groan go up from my fellow “fliers.” Another delay, and possibly a cancellation. I checked all my apps. No other flights would get me home tonight except for that one. Had to have it. The decision now was to let that flight go if it went beyond 6:45pm, or be stuck in IAH overnight. At least I had relatives in Wichita to bunk up with.

At 6pm they announced the problem solved and we boarded. I tried to relax as well as possible with my knees in my chest as we headed south. Then came a PA announcement from the front office. We would have to land in Dallas for a problem.

Problem? What problem?

“Ah, folks that light that came on in Wichita, that shouldn’t be on, well, it’s back on again. Don’t worry. It’s not critical, but we have to get it looked at. Sorry for the inconvenience.” My half closed eyes popped open. My brain spooled to maximum rpm. I stared at my watch. If the stop at DFW lasted more than a half hour, I was—. That word again. I would miss my second hop to home, assuming we even reached IAH.

At DFW I sat like a nervous Nelly looking at my watch while mechanics went in and out of the cockpit. I was close enough to hear some of the conversation between them and the crew. Finally, a PA call. “Good news, folks [I never used the ‘folks’ word on the PA. It sounds too…folksy], the light is out and we are about to be on our way again.”

I studied my watch and thought it might actually work. I would have only 15 minutes to get to my next flight, but it was a short walk, or in this case a sprint, to the next gate. Now if I could only trust this new development and relax, I might get through the night without a heart attack.

Then, the PA again. I was beginning to loath hearing that clicking sound when the captain keyed the mic. “Well folks, we need to put on a little bit more fuel, so we have called for a fuel truck. Shouldn’t take long.”

WHAT? FUEL? ARE YOU [that word] KIDDING ME? You knew you were going to need more fuel the minute you realized you were going to stop in DFW! Why wasn’t it being put on while your mechanic worked on the “little light” problem? I fumed. I wanted to go to the cockpit and grab the 'captain' by the lapels and slap him around, but the company frowns on retirees doing that. I looked out and saw a fuel truck arrive. I counted every minute. Then I heard someone in the cockpit say, “Uh oh! Look! It’s back on again.”

That was it. I threw off my seat belt. I would get a $200/night room at the DFW Hilton and try for a ride on American next morning to get home. Then I heard the co-pilot again saying to the captain, “Oh, wait! It’s out again.” Then laughter. Now I was wondering if I should get off to spare my life. SLAM! The door shut; the engines were spooling. I looked at my watch for the 500th time. Too late. Making it home that night wasn't the issue any more. Living to see home now trumped it.

In the air the flight attendant announced that rooms and meal vouchers would be provided by all those who missed their last connections. Fat chance, I thought, that would apply for me. None-the-less, I got in line with the rest of them at the service counter at IAH. I gave the woman my boarding pass. She smiled and said, "Let's see where I can put you." I relaxed. Then, “Oh!” she said. “You're a non-rev. Sorry, non-revs don’t get anything.” 

I suddenly had a vision of a retired United captain lying in a fetal position on a seat row in the Houston terminal at 4am. Not me, my friend. I thought about my old haunt outside the IAH airport—the Comfort Suites. I still had their number in my phone. I called. They came within minutes and gave me my usual airline discount. It seemed yesterday since I checked in there every week, sometimes twice a week to wait out short-call. It felt as if nothing had happened. I had not retired. The Embrear time machine punted me back into the past, and here I will stay because of a "little light" that’s not supposed to be on. 

I’ve got to get to sleep. The crew desk will likely be calling at 0200 in the morning for an 0700 launch. And I don’t even have my uniform with me.

This made it all worth it. Click on the image

 and turn up the volume.

We gather every couple of years to watch the bomb burst in honor or old friend, 
Willie Mays, Thunderbird Two, (1949-1982), Vance AFB Class 73-06.

Christmas, 1972

There comes a season in a guy’s youth that finds a niche and lingers on in his aging mind and body. It resides there, warm and sweet, lying like a purring cat that you don't pay much attention to, yet are aware it's there, and once in a while you glance at it and nod.

For me it was December 1972.

A week-long Christmas break approached. Soon all the jets at our base would go quiet. Icicles would grow long from their wings and noses, and we, who rode them daily, made plans to head home. “Who is going near Memphis?” I heard a guy say during the commotion of student pilots closing books and gathering gear. I told him I was going through there. He would be welcome to ride.

Three days later we made our way east across I-40 alternately driving and snoozing. There wasn’t much talk. We both were mentally exhausted. Willie loved to crack jokes about my car. In fact, he never saw a chain he didn't try to jerk. I had bought a new Chevrolet Vega (don’t laugh). Being a Corvette man—although he didn’t have one yet—he had asked to see what was under the hood. I popped it and he howled, “Someone stole half of your engine!”

I dropped Willie off in Memphis in the kind of deep cold dark that only December can manufacture and then started south on I-55. By the time I turned east on US 82, my eyes were shutting down. Cold fog and mist streamed by the Vega as I yawned and tried to think about what I was going to tell my mother about who I had met. I didn’t relish answering her inevitable questions about my personal life outside of her purview. Maybe I would just say nothing.

The depressing night wore on and my gas needle fell low. I didn’t want to run out of gas at that time of night in rural Mississippi, so I perked when a “Sinclair Dino” sign came into view. I pulled into the pump. The station was old and run down, the front festooned with huge tobacco and soft drink adds. An old, bundled-up, stooped-over fellow began to fill my tank. I was thankful of the Vega’s tiny gas tank and soon the fill-up was done. I followed the man inside and saw a pot-belly stove near the counter. I heard its hissing, felt its warmth. I paid the man and he gave me a paper cup of coffee with my change. As I turned toward the door I heard him say, “Come to the fire and sit a while.” I paused and peered at the stove again. I thought about the two and a half hours left in my drive. I uttered no-thanks, and went out into the freezing gloom without softening that fellow's loneliness and maybe having my own life enriched from him. Not lingering by that fire with that old soul has been a nagging regret.

Three days at home was a good respite but hardly relaxing. I had to make the rounds. Nobody talked about the war, although it was all over the news. It had heated up again. A huge air campaign was underway over North Viet Nam—Operation Linebacker II. Although I was moving in a pipeline that ended at that war, strangely I paid no attention to it. I had had fallen in love with two mistresses in the past few months, a woman named Eleanor and a plane named Talon. My mind never really came home.

With my brief visit over I left home without so much as a word to my mother about Eleanor. She would have wanted to know that. She certainly did have a right to know. I guess I was afraid the relationship would break up and I didn’t want to have to tell her that.

Willie was packed and waiting when I stopped to get him in Memphis. He was as anxious to get back as I was. We hit I-40 west and resumed the drive/snooze routine without much talk. At one gas stop he came out of the station and threw a handful of objects into the car. He howled like a hyena as they scattered and fell, some sliding into crevasses. I picked one up. It was a condom. I searched the car for days to get them all out.

Just inside Oklahoma we stopped again for gas and decided to get a bite at an adjacent restaurant. As I parked the Vega I saw blue lights behind me. I told Willie I would join up with him in the restaurant. The officer said I had failed to stop when I came out of the gas station. I told him I didn’t see a stop sign. As he jotted on his ticket pad he said there was a law in Oklahoma that says you’ve got to stop when joining a main highway, sign or no sign. I admitted my ignorance of the law and apologized. He then paused and looked at the base sticker on my car. “Are you in the military?” he asked. I told him we were in Air Force pilot training and were headed back to the base after Christmas break. He lowered his ticket pad. The look on his face puzzled me. It wasn’t one of respect, as a veteran might get today from a law officer, but one of sympathy. People were profoundly tired of the Viet Nam war, and he seemed one of them. He finally said, “Well, I guess ya’ll have got enough to worry about.” He wished us well and left. Willie was astounded when I told him.

We checked back in at the base that night and suited up the next morning to start the final weeks of training. Linebacker II roared back after taking Christmas day off and the slaughter 10,000 miles away resumed. We paid it no mind.

A few days before graduation, when all the flying and academic work was finished, a great party erupted and we vented off colossal amounts of pressure in a little known room in the basement of the officer’s club called the ‘stag bar.’ No women allowed. Expect for certain invited ones. Since I was now about to get issued both wings and a wife in the same week, squadrons of bottles and glasses were shoved front of me and great slaps of congratulations descended on my back. The same songs got played continuously on the juke box, mainly "Witchy Woman" and (ironically) "Love Train." Hearing them this day takes me back to that stag bar.

Suddenly a shout went up followed by hoots and whistles. I turned and saw my classmate Phil had gone onto the stage, joined the dancer and was having a hootin’ good time, as were we all. In the wee hours the party died out and I started toward my dorm. Somebody in the darkness was staggering alongside. It was Willie. “Which way is it?” he slurred. I couldn't answer because I had no idea where I was. There was a lot of grass under us, so it could have been the parade field. A few yards later we were crawling and that’s the last I remember of that night.

A couple of days later our mothers or wives pinned our wings on us on that parade field. My mother got the honor for that with Eleanor at her side, but she wasn’t too happy about being kept in the dark during my Christmas visit.

With a suddenness that struck me with a sense of loss, our close-knit class spilt up and went all directions to pick up new jobs in USAF cockpits. The war had ended right after Christmas. Linebacker II was a bloody blow to our adversaries and caused them to seek a settlement. None of our class would ever see combat in Viet Nam, although many of us went there in the aftermath to cover the retreat. But that did not guarantee there would be no casualties. Two years later Phil died in a corn field in northeast Michigan along with his C-130 crew. A few years after that Willie, call sign Thunderbird Two, met death in the desert north of Las Vegas. Neither of the crashes were the result of pilot error.

And so I remember Christmas 1972, and the rest of that winter because of a string of little things, that started with a missed opportunity at a stove, all of which portended things to come—profound things. Good things and sad things. Things that began in a season. 

That Damn Dream

It's been a long stretch of days off since I last set the brakes on a 767 at gate E-18 at Houston in July 2014. Hence I thought I might fire Decision Height back up to let my followers know what has been going on.

I've been busier than a retired man ought to be. My time is split among my growing cadre of grandkids, our church, our boat, the travel trailer trips, and of course, the Fightin' Skeeter, my Van's RV-6. Then toss in disaster relief mission trips, home repair/improvement projects, trying to finish up two books and flying a few trips as a Citation jet co-pilot. But first I should tell you about the dreams because they more or less explain the most common question I get these days. "Do you miss it?"

The dreams all share a common thread. United crew scheduling calls, asks me if I’m doing well and offers me a nice four day international trip. They say they have found a small loophole in the FAA’s age 65 retirement rules that would allow me to come back every now and then, at my convenience of course. I tell them I can work it in. But I'm needed right away and so I throw some things into the Travelpro. Next I find myself in one or more of the following scenarios.

• I am getting off my commuter flight at the airport and I have forgotten my uniform.
• I am looking at a departure board to find my gate but can’t because I didn’t jot down my assigned flight number.
• I can't use the destination city to find my gate because I forgot it. 
• I am at the door to Flight Operations but can’t remember the security code.
• I am at the flight planning computer in operations but can’t remember the log-in password.
• I am with a group of pilots at a flight planning table and they're sore that I have come back to hog more flying.
• I am hurrying along the concourse to my flight but not wearing my pants.
• I am hopelessly confused where my gate is and the pressure is on to get an “on-time” departure.
• I never make it to the cockpit.   

Mind you, the dreams are always a preposterous blend of two or more of these calamities.You would think maybe just once I could get in the jet and take off, or at least taxi it. Not happening. Strangely, after these decades since I retired from military flying I have dreams about that too, and in them I am recalled to active duty but never get the satisfaction of getting into a C-141 or an A-7 cockpit. I always just show up at the base and lose my way. This is cruel. But this is retirement.

So, yeah, I do miss it. I miss the sunsets, sunrises, the aurora and the satisfaying feel of the jolt when the wheels plop down after a 10 hour all-nighter. But mostly I miss the fine guys and gals I flew with. I follow them on their Facebook pages. I love the photos they take and the stories they tell. One of them (subject of “The BlueMoment”) frequently takes me to lunch or out fishing and I get all the scoop on what’s cooking at Uncle U’s.

I have a few stories to share with you in the coming weeks. I’ll tell you about “Decision Height,” the book, still in development. (Only about half the material in it comes from this blog. The rest is new.) I’ll tell you about the greatest flight of my life in the RV-6. You’ll hear about my attempt to pass-ride on United and how it became another commuting nightmare with gigantic rations of deja vu. And I’ll tell you the sorrowful story of how I almost lost my life two years ago in a mid-air collision. (The other person did.)

If you are new to Decision Height I encourage you to browse the archives listed on the right sidebar. To keep your experience the best it can be I don't allow ads or clickbait. Please share the link to Decision Height on your other media. The platform will helpful to me in the coming months when Decision Height (the book) is launched.

 

 

Proud of Uncle U.

 Click the wings for an eye-wetting story.