I have been forced away from the laptop to the study by SWMBO v3.0, and while awaiting the creaking and wheezing of the auncient G4 Mac as it updated itself to the very latest standards of system software, my restless eyes fell on my military flight log books, sitting there on a shelf, dusty and seemingly uncared for.
The first book fell open to the last page, where there stands a testimony to equipment issued by a grateful and expectant nation: BOOTS, Flying, 9 1/2R not to mention a pair of GLOVES, Summer. Also a HELMET, Protective (less liner) and JACKET, Leather, Intermediate. A few months later there was a MASK, Face, oxygen in size “long” to go with the MICROPHONE, oxygen mask, cord, plug, Type ANB-M-C1. Which in turn replaced the MICROPHONE, boom, cord, plug, harness, Type-5A/UR. Knives, both “SURV” and “SHROUD.”
I still have those knives.
The SCARF block went forever unfilled.
I remember sleeping in that first flightsuit (SUIT, Summer, Flying) the night I brought it home, itself stiff and still smelling of the fire retardant chemical the Navy had paid so much for. Telling the Hobbit that it was perfectly comfortable, like pajamas almost. Stretching the truth to breaking point, but after a few launderings both the stiffness and the fire retardant were washed away. We all wore the standard issue GLASSES, Sun for the better part of a week or so before deciding that, taken as a whole, we all looked a little too dorkish in them. Not to mention the fact that the instructor pilots were all wearing Wayfarers and Revos. We learned early on that, even if we had no idea what we were doing, it was very important to at least look and sound cool while doing it.
They had once been dear to me, line after line of cryptically written entries that made up a professional life. The first official entry was May 1983, the aircraft was a T-34C, the flight length 1.6 hours, half of that given over to my first flight instructor, Lieutenant Doug Seward. A flight purpose code of 1D1 – Day Visual, Student aviator training, Fundamentals.
He was a good guy, flew A-6s in the fleet if I recall, and in the best traditions of the service I mercilessly skewered him at the “tie cutting” that celebrated my 19 July 1983 first solo. Felt bad about it afterward. The skewering that is, not the solo.
That flight was my second of the day, flown just after my check ride with a grim faced Marine major whose last name was “Wehrle,” and I remember little about him but for his high and tight haircut, obligatory granite jaw and the fact that he never said anything to me throughout the entire flight apart from terse instructions to begin or conclude the next maneuver.
Never said a word after shutting down the aircraft either. Walked in silence from the flight line to the debriefing space. Filled out the grade sheet while I sat waiting on a chair across the room. Hearing the hall clock tick, a bead of sweat trickling down my back. The buzzing of a fly. Finally handed it to me at last, still silent: Straight ruler-job, averages up and down the page, with that critical “safe for solo” up-check at the end. Any questions?
No, sir. No questions at all.
You’ve got an hour to prepare for your next flight. Brief the SDO before you walk. Don’t make me look bad.
Yes, sir. I mean, No, sir.
The names run on and on after that, but I still remember all their faces. The recently divorced Marine major with the harsh laugh and the reputation for aggressive flat hatting who so concerned me as a T-2 student that I actually made out my will before flying with him. The terminal lieutenant commander in T-34s who killed himself, taking one of my best buds with him, showing off for his friends on a cross country. And all the rest of them in between.
Some of them made general or admiral, some of them made it to the airlines, some of them didn’t make it all. And as an instructor, the names kept coming in the remarks boxes, all in the delicious cadences of our conjoined culture. Smith and Jones of course, but Pavack and Papez, too. Vanasupa, Bianchi and Glackin. Bright-eyed kids that I taught how to wear an oxygen mask and fly a tubine jet who are now air wing commanders or airline captains.
Later, after Hornet training was complete the remarks boxes contain no other names, just airfield identifiers. NLC/NLC – Lemoore to Lemoore. NQX – NQX: Key West to Key West. Fallon to Fallon. Cross-countries too. My sisters lived in Virginia, so there were a number of trips that ended up at Andrews Air Force Base. Other cities came and went, Chicago, Denver, Boston, Philadelphia, Dallas, San Diego, Atlanta. Lubbock.
Good people and good dove hunting in Lubbock, even if not much else. Since there was bird shooting to be had, LTJG Dave Dunaway – a classmate of mine, an eager shooter and a Texan to boot – shanghaid some poor kid from Rockville, Maryand, I think it was, to go along with me and my student, whose people “had some land” out Lubbock way. Dave’s student was the kind of kid that wore the collar turned up on his pink polo shirt, he had never shot a gun before and missed everything he pointed at except for one poor bobwhite quail that got up right in front of him. Brought him straight down with beaming pride and evident self-satisfaction, only to face the leadenly heavy, if silent, disapprobation that could only be imposed by five or six, dusty, bone dry Texans on a man who would stoop to shoot a bobwhite quail out of season. And that bird a hen.
I remember how Dave had laughed at me on Friday evening for bringing along my JACKET, Leather, Intermediate to West Texas in September. I remember laughing back at him on Sunday morning, when the temperature had dropped to freezing and we had to deice the airplanes. Him shivering in a thin, borrowed sweatshirt, and probably would have worn a SCARF too, if anybody had one.
First guy to make admiral in our class.
I remember all the intermediate stops along the way on every cross country – places represented nothing more than pit stops at best, and an opportunity for middle of nowhere to break downs at worst – nervously tapping our feet, silently urging the fueling crews to hurry, wanting to get going again, to get there. Wherever “there” might be.
Places I’d mostly never been to before, and mostly have never been to since. Just went because we could, because the student had family there, or because we’d never been.
In the month of February, 1999, when all the world was at peace because George W. Bush was still only governor of Texas there is this entry:
| Day | Model | Serial Number | Flight Code | Total Pilot Time | First Pilot | A/C COMDR. | ARR | Catapult | Remarks |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 2 | FA18C | 164050 | 6T1 | 3.6 | 3.6 | 3.6 | 1 | 1 | CSS-3 Al Faw STK |
It’s written in green ink to stand out, which makes sense when you decipher the flight purpose code: “6″ stands for a combat flight, “T” is for “Attack, non-ASC targets”, and “1″ is for a pre-planned target. Which, scanning all the way to the right, was a sea-launched cruise missile site that had been making things awkward for coalition naval forces trying to prevent Saddam from smuggling oil out of country outside the UN’s “Oil for Peace” auspices.
I planned and led that strike. We came from out of the sun, shacked four out of four DMPIs with laser-guided ordnance, the secondaries were beautiful, nobody laid a glove on us, and the strike made the front page of the New York Times the next day, albeit below the fold.
My 15 seconds.
A few years back I was running late on the motorcycle for an FAA check ride when my luggage bag came off, bumping and rolling almost to the side of Highway 5 before getting hit square on by a Volvo station wagon that never stopped. Everything inside that bag – my logbooks, medical, certificates, my entire professional existence (not to mention Jeppesen approach plates and charts) – exploded into a veritable snowstorm of paper there on the roadside. I almost got greased by a careening Oldsmobile trying to pull over. Gave it up and took the next exit, the clock still ticking. Miraculously found it all, or least all the important stuff. The approach plate into Chino went missing, unlamented. Made it to the airport with about 5 minutes to spare, right there on the inner boundary of acceptable naval promptitude. Waited another 45 minutes for the examiner to show up.
Those four, battered books had once seemed so important to me. So much tied up in them. Mementos of friends come and gone, of experiences good and awful, a lengthening tale of professional experience and future potential. I watched them grow day after day, week after week, year after year with quiet pride.
And now it’s lunch time. Time to put all that away again.
One of the tasks I’m putting off is entering all of Dad’s logbooks into an Excel spreadsheet.
Yes, I know there are web-based applications, but I didn’t like them, and it isn’t like it is a difficult spreadsheet to build. But whenever I look at the dry entries, I wonder what was the story behind this entry or that…
“The SCARF block went forever unfilled”
[Smile]
We do things oddly in Oz. Being an RAN FAA (Navy) pilot some of us were trained by the RAAF (Royal Australian Air Force). Doing advanced flying training at RAAF Pearce (yep, near Perth, Western Australia) in 1968 my RAAF instructor crossed himself (at my wingtip) as I taxied out for my first Vampire Jet Solo.
Confidence eh.
Pulled my log books out months ago to check on something and here they remain beside the computer on the desk. So many memories locked in such a small space. My favorite month is one Dec in the previous century (the year will remain a secret to protect the aged). Whidbey/Alemeda; Alameda/Barbers; 3 Barbers locals; Barbers/Wake; Wake/Guam; Guam/Cubi; Cubi/Danang; Danang/Cubi; Cubi/Naha; Naha/Atsugi; Atsugi/Wake; Wake/Johnson Atol; Johnson/Barbers; Barbers/Alameda; Alemeda/Whidbey. 19 flights, 53.1 hours, three Hotsie baths at the Atsugi O Club and still made it home for Christmas.
So, xairboss, plead guilty to age and fess up when you were a Whidbeyite. There’s a few of us around…
I have a use for my four logbooks, but still havn’t gotten to it after 25 years of retirement. I’d like to put them on an excel spreadsheet so that when I see a Phantom on a pole or in a museum, I can point and say “I flew in that on (fill in date)”.
Lex
Most folks don’t have such a formal guide to important memories in their lives. The emotions and details of ones’ past associations, places they’ve been, machines they’ve loved or hated that one simple little line of gibberish in a logbook can evoke is amazing.
My wife has asked more than once over the year’s what I’m smiling about lounging in the den with one of those old (civilian) logbooks. Though she patiently waits for a punch line through too long of an answer, I think she understands it is simply the memories coming back. Wish I had your yarn spinning talents, Lex…
I benefited from the Al-Faw strike as a shipdriver. Thanks.
No, no – It was my pleasure.
Xbrad. I arrived at NUW in March of 66 and remained, excluding deployments, until August of 78. After 2 years in the five sided puzzle palace, I returend in August of 80 and stayed until the summer of 84. Perhaps, during that time, I had the honor of hoisting one with your dad. It would have been an honor.
My buddy made an interesting comment the other night: “I’m going to take my log book home over Christmas and compare it to my dad’s. I’m pretty sure we’ve flown some of the same aircraft.”
Lex,
I know just how you feel, great writing. So many memories in such small books. Thanks for reminding us all of our history.
Xairboss, you almost certainly did know or know of him back in the 73-78 timeframe. And given the way he and mom drank in those days, yeah, you probably did drink with him.
He was CO of the base 73-75 and then Chief of Staff of the Wing till retirement in 78.
Art Barie
XBrad, indeed I was honored to be acquainted with your dad. I’m pretty sure that he retired to a house close to the Country Club when we lived near there. Tis a small world indeed. You should be very proud of your dad as I’m sure he is of you.
Lex,
if the Target folder for the CSSC-3 was a turnover item from CAG-7, I most likely put it together along with 2 other cruise boxes worth.
Nice work, nice stroll down memory lane
Xairboss,
We lost Dad to cancer in 07.
if you email me at xbradtc *at* yahoo dot com, I would gladly pass along your greetings to Pogo.
“That flight was my second of the day, flown just after my check ride with a grim faced Marine major whose last name was “Wehrle,” and I remember little about him but for his high and tight haircut, obligatory granite jaw and the fact that he never said anything to me throughout the entire flight apart from terse instructions to begin or conclude the next maneuver.
Reminds me of my T-28 Form 14X December 66 with a Marine Capt Inderrieden. I am convinced to this day that the only reason we had to wear hardhats is for cranial protection from the instructors. He unstrapped from the back seat and used his kneeboard to whack me on the head during most of the flight. My wingie said he was laughing so hard he could hardly stay in position. After the flight, I was devastated, I knew I had a down. After shutting down the aircraft, the good Capt. said “not a bad hop”…, bowl me over.
It’s amazing what memories flood back when flipping through my 4 military and 14 civilian logbooks. We are all blessed for the experiences, good or bad.
“That flight was my second of the day, flown just after my check ride with a grim faced Marine major whose last name was “Wehrle,” and I remember little about him but for his high and tight haircut, obligatory granite jaw and the fact that he never said anything to me throughout the entire flight apart from terse instructions to begin or conclude the next maneuver.
Reminds meof my T-28 Form 14X December 66 with a Marine Capt Inderrieden. I am convinced to this day that the only reason we had to wear hardhats is for cranial protection from the instructors. He unstrapped from the back seat and used his kneeboard to whack me on the head during most of the flight. My wingie said he was laughing so hard he could hardly stay in position. After the flight, I was devastated, I knew I had a down. After shutting down the aircraft, the good Capt. said “not a bad hop”…, bowl me over.
It’s amazing what memories flood back when flipping through my 4 military and 14 civilian logbooks. We are all blessed for the experiences, good or bad.
Side by Side Vampire Trainer had instructors whacking us regularly on the helmet ‘for good measure’. Students joked that the crowbar behind our seat (for ground crash egress) was our ‘fightback’ gotcha.
Whenever the intercom on the old M-113 went out (which was quite often), us TC’s would direct the driver. A .50 cal cleaning rod was used. A tap on the left shoulder meant turn left. A tap on the right meant turn right. And a severe thrashing about the head and shoulders meant we didn’t like the way he went through the mud and splattered us.
“We learned early on that, even if we had no idea what we were doing, it was very important to at least look and sound cool while doing it.”
Too true! And I admit I slept in my brand new bag too – and I’m sure I stood in front of the mirror for some number of hours in awe of myself to boot. Still have Wayfarers too. And the knives, and the helmet, etc.
I also practiced my radio voice while driving in my car – looking for just the right amount of nonchalance.
I really loved that post, Lex. Thanks.
XBradTC, one of my tank commanders was formerly mech infantry – he used the 113’s radio antenna for making comments on the driver’s driving habits. He lamented the inability to get at the driver in an M60 and had to satisfy himself with kicking the gunner when that person missed a target.
I was going through a box the other day and found all of my notes from basic training, and my field notes from Guard drills. I lost an hour or so to remembering stuff, although I got it back with the time change so it’s all good.
It’s amazing what memories flood back when flipping through my 4 military and 14 civilian logbooks. We are all blessed for the experiences, good or bad.
And we hangers-on are blessed for hearing them… Thanks, all.
I am reminded of The First Epistle of Paul the Apostle to the Corinthians, Chapter 13 if memory serves. Verse 11, to be precise.
“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”
At some point in time those treasures from our youth are nothing more than nostalgia, we decide to keep them for later reminiscing or toss them out that other items we prefer can jog the old memory banks.
Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be, and it takes up space on the shelves, but how can you know where you’re going if you don’t know where you’ve been?
Cherish these memories, folks. They will be yours for all time. Inconsequential acts, though riveting, will be forgotten soon enough.
– Max
OldSkyDog/SpazSinbad
LOL I was in T-37’s in Dec 66 and my IP used to use his kneeboard to the same effect–must be some fraternity initiation they all go through in which they all are pledged to become practicing sadists…..(I’m keeping mum as to whether I deserved it or not!)
Fuel dipsticks have more than one use, I discovered, after being whacked over the head with one. Now I’m careful to stow it out of reach when flying with an ‘old-school’ instructor.
Never did me any harm though, and I’ve never spotted the runway out the side in the flare ever again.
Vampire helmet was lacquered cardboard with an inner canvas webbing to cushion the blows on top of a fabric inner helmet with the radio earpieces. An intercom for the shouting instructor was not necessary.
Side by side we squashed together – only because we had no choice.
Dual Vampire Seating:
http://i98.photobucket.com/albums/l261/SpazSinbad/VampireSideBySideForum.jpg
&
Dual Vampire Front Panel:
http://i98.photobucket.com/albums/l261/SpazSinbad/VampireInstrumentsForum.jpg
Kiwi in a Vampire Helmet:
http://i417.photobucket.com/albums/pp252/pfj_bucket/Barrie-1.jpg
Holy Smokes! I’m so glad I flew a fighter with glass cockpit!
Dang. Thanks for the diversion from the Obi-Messiah on a Monday before election! It let’s me time travel some, too.
You were lucky to go through primary back in ‘83 Lex. In ‘82 the Navy started sending jet pilots who had normally become T-2/A-4 instructors to be T-34C pilots at Whiting. They did that because too many kids were opting outta jets for the comfort of P-3’s (true today too, right Humble?
) and getting the hard sell for helos from all those hardboiled rotary flyers, if you can believe it. All primary pilots before then had been prop or helo drivers. This orders detailing created a big stink for those jet guys but their follow on orders for doing so were “sweet”. Of course you probably didn’t notice though you do know you were especially privileged to get an Intruder pilot instructor!
Otherwise, you could have ended up a Pelican pilot. Your lovely wife (I refuse to call her a Hobbitt- it ain’t fitting. Does she have hair on her feet?) deserves a life-time Job award for having let you go jets..In my day all the married fellers in flight school (all fellers then) went props. Not hummers of course, Nose- lay off. LOL.
re 2/XC:
Sounds like a Cheney hunt you was on. Dove hunting ain’t hunting, it’s called Dove shooting Lex. Fire in the hole! Duck. That student knew intuitively what tasted better over that livery-tasting dove!
I do know that former j.g. though and pay him quarterly. He’s more a big game hunter seeing what he has hanging on his walls. His better 1/2 owns the local ballet studio- almost as expensive as horses in Del Mar!
e-Yat- Wake was an amazing place. Midway too. Them birds!Places like that are hard to forget. Cubi itself seems like a dream now..Even Alameda.
b2
b2:
Sound like we may have gotten in trouble at some of the same places. Remember the 10 cent mixed drinks at the Atsugi O club? When last call was announced, we just ordered a pitcher of scotch and water to make it through the night.
I still have my two knives and what’s left of my SV-2 after the PR’s took the ’spodie parts out of it. My son and I were digging through some boxes in the garage and found the stuff. He wanted to keep them in his room with all his camping gear. I told him he’d have to wait a few years (he’s only 7), or better yet, go to flight school and get his own.
e-Yat,
Gol-Dang it, you ‘Lectrics are smarter than the average Airwinger, ala Yogi the Bear. Ida never thought of that one! It could still work if’n we could find a club that still served booze in today’s Navy!
Near as I can figure you’re about 3-4 years my senior. I most likely saluted you a few hundred times, chiseled you at Klondike or lept outta your way in the passageway and said “By your leave, CDR e-Yat!”
b2
aeroeng,
BUFFs or KC135s?
As for the same aircraft, I looked up the N number of the plane I flew and solo’d in back in Sep 73 and found it was still around and flying. Belongs to a retired airline captain and ex military pilot in TX. I’d buy it in a heartbeat if it became available. Just because.
b2:
I didn’t realize anyone saluted LTJGs. That’s what I would have been back then. You very well could have taken my skivies in Klondyke – never could win at that game.
Nahhh. I’m about right e-Yat. After rereading your entry, if’n you’ve been into Danang it’s more like 6-8 years, Sir.
NUW in ‘66? Hell it musta been like Dodge City then. You musta been in them 2 seat ‘Lectrics.
Either way your avatar shows you’ve been “rode hard and put away wet”! LOL.
b2
Even worse b2, I was in Whales.
Lex,
I’m really glad we all badgered you into keeping your logs. I think there’s probably a book in there, somewhere, sometime.
Thank you, sir, for sharing.
Cheers!
ChrisP
E-Boss,
Glad to see you got a promotion to Martin-Baker! Alameda must have been paradise in those days before Castro Steet and the whole area “redefined” itself…
b2
A little over a year ago, we took the older of my little ones to Texas so that my grandmother could see her (the other little one, not being born yet)….while there, she was showing me some stuff of my uncle’s that included his own personal logs that he recorded in a non-official logbook of the Stormy (fast fac) missions that he had been flying…the last entry was the last flight before the flight on which he was declared MIA. I had read Bury Us Upside Down shortly before this visit, and it really gave me a better appreciation of his short notes of those flights and the operational tempo of the flights compared to normal.
Virgil, were you still flying out of Danang in 1971? If so, you may have crossed paths with my uncle.
Stormyo3bravo:
Sorry, my tour was 67-68–knew a lot of the DaNang-based FACs tho–both in and out country-fast-Stormys-slow-Prarie Fire, etc. Hell, knew a lot of the 20th TASS in-country I-Corps guys stationed downtown and in Quang Tri City, Hue, Quang Tin and Quang Nai City as well. Used to drink with them when they were in town downtown at the I-Corps FAC “House” at 31 Phan Boi Chau. Was a great place–used to be an old French Officers billet–14′ high ceilings, tile floors, the whole bit–felt like you were in the colonial 1930’s. DaNang was originally built by the French and named Tourane, you know–used as their province capital.
PS: The FAC house at 31 Phan Boi Chau was just down the street and around the corner from the Stone Elephant Navy O Club for all you Navy types.
Was it “Chou” vz “Chau”–memory fades.