I know it’s out of sequence. Sue me.
F-4 Phantoms. It was 1983 and these were the last years of the Phantom. F-4S, low visibility paint, updated avionics, and slats on the wing that supposedly gave a 50% improvement in turning. We didn’t fly. We were maintenance. We fixed. Most of us took real pride in fixing. Most of us loved those big, ugly, dangerous birds.Cubi Point, Philippines in the summer. The flight line was several acres of concrete and the sun burned straight down. Most of the maintenance was done at night, the birds were buttoned up and ready to fly every day. But there were launches, refueling, and the occasional bird that came back with a downing gripe, so the Marines that were on day shift had to work out on the line. We wore our sleeves rolled down and soft covers. It was the only place I ever went where we were allowed to wear covers on the flight line. Everyone tucked rags under their cover to protect their ears, and we made lots of stupid French Foreign Legion jokes.
We drank water by the gallon, and when we were on the line we took turns walking to the corner of the hanger where the emergency shower was. One by one, we would stand under it, pull the cord, and get completely soaked, then squish our way back to work. If you did it every 20 minutes, you would be dry when you walked back over. Whenever possible you took to the shade. Sitting in a cockpit to troubleshoot was like climbing into an oven. Sitting in the overhang of the maintenance shack, dozing and watching the launches and recoveries was a much preferred activity.
All of this might be our jobs, and all of us were Marines. But we were in the Philippines, and we were living for liberty. Just as the sun started moving for the horizon, the night shift started showing up. The squadron pickup shuttled us up the mountain, as many as could climb in at a time. Marines that had looked half dead an hour ago sprinted to the showers, shaved, threw on their civvies, headed to the taxi stand. The ville awaited. Skipping evening chow, you could be walking out the gate at 1800. You flashed your ID card to the MP at the main gate, crossed the Olongapo River, and entered Oz.
Olongapo in 1983 was not politically correct. It was not civilized. It remains one of the most difficult experiences of my life to describe to anyone that was not there. So I am trying to write this for all the Sailors and Marines that ever hit a liberty port. That seized the night with pay in their pocket, and made memories that bring a wry smile and the shake of a head no matter how long ago. All of you have your stories. These are mine. I made 3 West-Pac tours with an Marine F-4 Squadron. I carried a camera, took thousands of pictures. On my last tour I kept a journal. I observed. I participated. I have those pictures, and the journals and letters are in a seabag in the attic. I’ll be getting it down one night soon. I always thought there was novel in my stories, maybe this will tell if I have the skills to write it.
Lex has invited me to contribute. I am giving him full power as an editor and censor. If he decides at any point that it is not what he wants on his site, I will disappear back to being an appreciative reader. I am here as a voice of the enlisted. In the Navy, my rate would have been “AT”. I worked on the radar and missile control systems on F-4 Phantoms. I did my last tour overseas in QA. It was the most challenging and demanding job I ever had.
I have 4 sons, worked several different jobs, have been a Scoutmaster and Assistant Scoutmaster for many years, and have been married for 28 years. All of that will be future where we are going. Join me as we push back the years. When we were all young and invincible, and our adventures were before us. This is prologue, next time we cross the river.
I think the man’s got potential. I know I’m enthralled.
And I’m remembering. You see: I was there too.
Keep it coming!
Aircraft Technical?
Avionics Technician?
Welcome ASM!
From another Scoutmaster.
Shipmates,
“AT” is Aviation Electronincs Technician. Anything with an “A” for the first letter is an Aviation specialty, or “rate”. The Navy likes to limit it to 2 letters, so much has to be condensed.
For example, my rate was “AW” which stands for “Aviation Anti-Submarine Warfare Operator”. That was different from “AX” which stands for “Aviation Anti-Submarine Warfare Technician”, who is the guys what fixes the gear I break…..
Respects,
AW1 Tim
What’s it about aviation/naval types and the ability to tell a story so well?
Lex has exactly the right word: Enthralling.
From my two west-pac’s in the mid 70′s. The best line about Olongapo sea stories I have heard is “whatever you are told is true”.
You just cannot make up what went on there.
Good, bad, funny or strange it happened.
I think that today the people who work on the fire control system are AT’s but earlier they were called AQ (Avation Fire Control Technician). I think that the AT and AQ rates were merged sometime in the 92-98 time frame. I was an AQ in an F-4J squadron.
“The best line about Olongapo sea stories I have heard is ?
I think that today the people who work on the fire control system are AT’s but earlier they were called AQ (Avation Fire Control Technician). I think that the AT and AQ rates were merged sometime in the 92-98 time frame. I was an AQ in an F-4J squadron.
“The best line about Olongapo sea stories I have heard is “whatever you are told is true”.” To that I would add, even more so.
I first visited PO in the fall of 1970 on the Kitty Hawk. On the way over I was told all the tales and thought that they couldn’t possibly be true. There couldn’t be a place like that! After all, I’d been to Tijuana and you couldn’t get any more over the top than that, could you? I discovered that as amazing as the stories were (or astounding or disgusting, they all work), they were incomplete and conservative. 1970 was before martial law was declared by president Marcos. There were no rules as far as I could tell. You had to be very careful where you went and what you did. Things calmed down a lot after martial law.
The last time I was there was in 1974 for three months on the Kity Hawk beach detachment pending PCS to shore duty at NAS Miramar. By then Po was downright civilizied, at least compared with what I saw in 1970. The streets were even paved!
On the other hand, the Cubi O club was still pretty much the same as it had always been, or so I was told.
I’ll be reading with interest. Although I never made it to Olongapo, I did transit through Clark AB many times during the mid-70s, RONing on each occasion, with some of those RONs stretching into days. I’m quite sure Angeles City was every bit as “colorful” as Olongapo.
It’s difficult to tell these stories outside of the company of those who have “been there, done that,” as most of those stories are quite politically incorrect. Especially for those of us with grandchildren. As a matter of fact, the only times I revisit those days are with the handful of guys I went TDY with back in the day. And the wives ain’t never privy to those conversations…
I’ve told exactly one of those stories on my blog. It’s here, if you’re interested.
Heh.
Practice, practice!
I have a soft spot for “I was there” stories published by military folks who got the book out and sold a hundred copies. Some of my favorites are like that.
A lesser book in that group, but still entertaining, is Subic Bay: The Last American Colony by Anthony Mills.