Pinch put me in mind of a story.
Was a time in the Old Navy where it was fashionable at certain points to wear hemi- semi- demi- quasi-humorous name patches on the flight suits of America’s Finest. There were any number of “Roger Ball” name tags at the O’Club on a Friday night. When things got late, there were even raunchier monikers attached by Velcro: “Hugh Jardon” was but the least offensive. There might even have been a “Heywood Jablome.”
I can’t say.
When I was a “selectively retained graduate”, AKA “SERGRAD” instructor at NAS Meridian, MS just weeks after I had gotten my wings, things were a little more tame. Our skipper’s name was Larry “Bulldog” Francisco, and he’d earned the call sign the old fashioned way. An F-8 Crusader jock back before you were “out of fighters,” Bulldog was built like a fire plug, with a barrel chest, a jutting jaw and a low growl when he got angry. Which was often enough.
But he also had a smile like the sun breaking out of a low overcast, and we loved him.
So much that we wanted to be just like him. Especially on cross country flights.
So we all had name tags made up for our weekend sorties. I was “LTJG Larry ‘Bulldog’ Francisco”, because you could plausibly borrow another man’s name, but taking on his rank was right out. The fleet experienced guys were “LT Francisco,” and we even had a “Larrice.” Who was kind of a hottie, and no sort of bulldog.
But anyway.
Usually it wasn’t a problem, because when the weekend came and the road warriors set out to get the Air Nav “X’s” in the box, we were flung to the four winds. Places close to our families, or to our student’s. Or places we hadn’t ever seen before. And wanted to. You’re 25 years old and the Navy gave you the keys to a jet aircraft, and a card to fuel it with, asking only the courtesy of bringing it back by Sunday night with no permanent harm done. The odds of running into another instructor wearing his “Larry Francisco” name tag were vanishingly small.
Excepting, of course, when the weather came in and parts west and north were socked in.
A weekend came where we all found ourselves dropping in at Shaw Air Force Base, in Sumter, South Carolina for the last leg home. Which, the syllabus having certain constraints laid against it, had to be a night flight.
Three of us arrived in short order, and taxied up to the transient line, where a sharp young airman refueled our machines.
“What time are you taking off,” he asked.
“Oh, shortly after sunset,” we replied.
“Oh, no,” he stammered. “We close down at 1800 on a Sunday night”
No way, we cried out tout ensemble. For we had checked the Airfield Directory, and Shaw Air Force Base shut down at 2200. We had loads of time.
“I mean us,” he insisted. “The transient line.”
And what is that to us, we inquired. For we already had our fuel and he was welcome to go home when the whistle blew.
The young man went inside the line shack, looking out of sorts. We were standing around shooting the breeze a few minutes later when an Air Force blue pickup truck screeched up alongside us, and a blue-suited major spilled out fuming and sputtering.
“You will by God take off by 1800,” he insisted.
We would not, we replied, for we were naval aviators and pilots in command, with a mission to accomplish and a good 4+ airfield operating hours remaining, at least.
“Who will pull your chocks, and stand fire watch,” he demanded.
We would do it ourselves. Which apparently didn’t satisfy him.
“I’m taking your names!” he said, muttering imprecations about the goram Navy.
And we scoffed, for we had all been in high school once when names were taken, and were anyway out of his chain of command. This being before Goldwater-Nichols.
Just about then a fourth T-2C Buckeye came thundering into the break, and for all that we were at an F-16 base, and the T-2 was anything but sprightly, yet was the pilot putting the spurs to it, in ways that weren’t – at that moment – countenanced by the blue suited set. A good 400 kts, and five degrees nose down to hold it, he was. It was, to us, a beautiful sight.
Major Impotent was already pulling his notebook out of his pocket and jotting down our names: “LTJG Francisco, USN” and “LT Francisco, USN.”
“LT Larrice Francisco, USN.”
Which was about when “Capt Larry Francisco, USMC” taxied up and shut down, with about ten minutes remaining before the poor, harried Transient Alert crewman was due to hang it up for the evening.
Having written down the Marine officer’s name, you could see the beginning seeds of doubt creeping across the duty officer’s beetled brow.
Shortly after sunset, we were briefed, filed and blasting out into the darkening sky, laughter in our hearts and a mere 1.5 flight hours between ourselves and our home ‘drome. The USAF duty officer duly forgotten.
Until Monday.
Which is when Commander Larry “Bulldog” Francisco got an earful from the base commander at Shaw. Having gotten through the CO’s secretary, the bird colonel was transferred to “Bulldog Actual,” who answered the phone in his most professional voice, “Commander Francisco.”
“What,” came the exasperated reply, “are all of you guys named Francisco?”
We had an all officer’s meeting shortly afterward. A permanent retirement of the “Bulldog” nametags was strenuously required and desired.
We reluctantly complied.
Bulldog was, after all, directly in our chain of command. And he held the keys to the weekend flight schedule.
We were young, and we were stupid. But we knew which side our bread was buttered on.
Awesome story. I seem to remember a certain “Pat McGroin”, among others.
And his brothers Phil and Tug.
I flatted out an E-2 right in the middle of the runway at Homestead AFB, which as per USAF design had one super long runway, so a string of F-16s had to divert to Macdill (including a flag) instead of making it to happy hour at the club. I was a null-P nugget at the time, feeling kind of bad about getting on the binders too hard (it just blew, actually, a bad retread) and the LT Plane CDR was storming around looking all stern and serious with the USAF airfield senior folks, but was wearing a nametag that said Ivan Torriskockoff…
Homestead AFB (now ARB) has that super-long runway because it was originally constructed as a SAC base. Lord knows the F-4′s in the 80′s and the F-16′s in the late 80′s and early 90′s didn’t need one that bloody long.
Don’t forget, “Dick Weide”.
Or Dick Hedde…
Holy cats! That is dang funny. You can’t convince me he didn’t go home that night shaking his head at the situation and finding great humor in it! Seriously, that’s great stuff.
I’m sure for years, CDR Francicso told that story of the boneheads who thought they had come up with a new way to avoid identification, and then tossed out how he and his peers had done it one better in their youth.them most likely.
Great story. Better because senior Blue Suiter was flummoxed…
Larrice. THAT’S funny!
Civilian parallel was back in the day when I worked for a local copier company in the Boston area doing delivery of paper, supplies and copiers to the local colleges & businesses…envariably, you would try to get the delivery truck as close to the place where the goods were being delivered. This being toney Beantown, with many fine porticos and the like surrounding the ivy coverd edifaces of the storied centers of learning, it was not always an easy task to get the box truck where you wanted…..a few times we were guilty of backing over someone’s fine shrubbery in pursuit of our goals…
This would cause an outraged secretary or admin to shriek her discontent and demand our name so she could call our place of employ to have us “keel-hauled” – I and my compadres were more than happy to tell the outraged shrew that our name was ” FRED “…..
This lead to a later meeting up with the expasperated Ops. Manager coming out into the loading dock area later on to exclaim,
” All right, which one of you idiots was ” FRED ” today as I have some college admin on the phone screaming blue-bloody murder…”
Guffaws rained down in multitude as each of us said. ” I am FRED ” in a recreation of the scene from the great movie, SPARTACUS.
It was a time of life when having fun while doing your job was all part of the deal…..such as it ever should be.
Great story as always!
When I was a young and foolish JO, I used a NROTC classmate’s name while in Subic Bay, (He was a jerk.)
This included the lovely day when ENS Jerk was paged on my ship…which confused the entire crew, since we did not have an officer by that name..I just smiled and ‘seemed’ to remember a classmate by that name when my Dept Head asked.
At a party in San Diego, as newly frocked LT, with several of my NROTC classmates including the jerk, it was discovered after the jerk discussed the strange reactions to his name in Subic that there were at least four of us who used his name there.
Yes, even ‘blackshoes’ will borrow names.
Usually we wore nametags reading “Hugh G. Rexian” into the “O” Club at Ft. Drum when we were up visiting for Annual Training, but remind me to tell you about the week back in 1984 that CPT C.D. “Skippy” Dyckman was shunned by all and sundry when he wasn’t being screamed at by people he’d never met before, including the Provost Marshall.
The week just happened to begin three days *after* six of us CW3s arrived…
Neil Zaneicha – Richard Gozinya — Buster Hymen. I’ve seen ‘em all. If you REALLY wanted to go full stealth, you also acquired a squadron patch from a sister squadron, for just such occasions. But it can lead to mishaps. O’ Club, Rota. One of my compatriots had just such a name tag on. From across the room comes the welcoming glance of one of his NA classmates, who heads over to reunite, right then and there. My shipmate, a hale fellow well met if there ever was one, shouts out “Hi, JIm!” Said professional surface warrior’s normal look of befuddlement takes on a new level of cluelessness — he can’t remember his classmates name. Decides to sneak a peak at the erroneous name tag for a little reminder. Now all of two feet away, eyes fully focused not on his classmates face, but rather on his left breast, shouts out for all of SW Spain to hear, “THAT’S NOT YOUR NAME!”
NS, Sherlock.
Spent an interesting evening there once helping the bar tender (cute girl) discover the ingredients of a Long Island Ice Tea. The place was dead. Me and two mates off a NOAA ship.
We had an aircrewman who used to catch hell for having the name “Mike Hunt” on his nametag. This was just after the movie Porky’s came out. I remember a LTCDR chewing on his ass for five minutes non-stop, until he pulled out his wallet and showed his ID card. His name really was Michael Hunt.
Back around fall of ’86, one of my buddies in college had a roomie who had just completed his tour with the Navy and was attending on the GI Bill. He had the honest-to-God name of Edward Harley Head. He was also, again honest-to-God, from the little town of Cumming, IA. And had been honorably discharged as a Seaman. The jokes just about writes themselves, don’t they?
I never did see his papers, but somebody had to be chuckling at finally being able to honestly write out an honorable discharge to Seaman Head of Cumming, IA.
– Max
LOL
And don’t forget Hector Vortac. I had one that simply said “Communist Air Boss” but the one I used most often, and even at those parties where you were required to write your name and stick it on your shirt/coat, was “Cecil Cesspool”. That one fit me better.
I wasn’t very popular for some reason at the club. My “alternate” name tag read “C. Howie Phartz.”
Reading all of these I must say I’m jealous. My active duty time was pretty much pre-velcro so all squadron and name/rank patches were sewn on, so pulling stuff like that was–well, just never occurred to unimaginative bus-drivers like us, I guess. Though later in civilian life when I wished to travel “off the grid” I signed in under either the name of a KIA jock I knew or a hated tennis rival from my HS days..
My favorite was on a helo det pilot (HSL-36?) clogging up the wardroom. His tag was Richard Head “but my friends all call me Dick”. Even us boring shoes got into some of the fun. I used Boris Ivanov at the Newport “O” club, waiting for the call of “Table for Ivanov, party of 2.” Some head swiveling among the crowd followed.
Stories like these Lex make me hang my head in shame for not joining the Navy when I was young enough to do so. Well told.
Surely, a truly wasted life.
Did you remember to call the tower for permission to start your engines? Air Farce would hold you at gunpoint if’n you forgot. I’ll never forget the look on the line crews’ faces when I had to roll back out, open up #1, bang on the starter valve with my flashlight and then button her up once she spooled up. It was easy to find the sweet spot – just look for the dented bleed air tube. (TF-34′s on S-3B Vikings)
The look said it all, “You’re going to take that flying?!”
Yep! Good to go!
Sometimes, I worry that you’ll run out of stories.
You and me both, brother.
Two words: Larry Comstock. But we were smart enough to pre-brief where we were all going for the weekend. So as to avoid unnecessary redundancy.
F-14 Buddy of mine used to stroll about the ship with his ‘Max Entropy’ nametag, which usually got some funny looks from the Nuke guys.
OK, the ONLY possible story I have to contribute, I being of the spook, non-seagoing non-flying variety, still is one of the funniest things I ever saw in my almost 10 years active duty. And, it is a flight suit ‘accessory’ story.
Late 80s, Misawa AB, Japan; I was stationed there with the NSGA. There were two squadrons of USAF F-16s on base (the 432nd TFW I believe). The Air Force fighter jocks had the squadron silk scarves they wore with their flight suits. Nice designs on the scarves and everything – I seem to remember seeing red and black with spider designs on some. Very stylish.
On occasion, Naval Aviators off of MIDWAY would come up from Yokosuka in their Hornets and I guess play games with their Air Force counterparts. One of those times, what do I see walking into the Misawa AB “O” club, as I’m walking down the street? MIDWAY’s finest, with their “own” flight scarves around their necks. Featuring the latest designs from Charmin and White Cloud.
I’ve always wondered what kind of reaction those guys got in the club that night…
As a young VT Ensign, I wound up at the P-Cola OClub Bar next to a USMC CAPT Harrier guy with ‘Heywood Jablowme’ on his nametag. No Sh$t, I respectfully asked as we waited for our beers “Is your name of Lebanese origin, Sir?” Needless to say, he and the other three AV-8 dudes he flew in with that Friday had great sport with this young Ensign… and made sure all my buds knew how dense I was.
What’s a name tag?