Chapter 10: My Introduction to the Hun

Processing into Nellis AFB proved to be exceptionally easy. Since they had such a large turnover of personnel attending a wide variety of both long and short training courses, the in and out processing procedures had been honed to run like a well oiled machine. Within an hour I had been assigned a room at the BOQ, a mailing address, a map of the base and the surrounding area, and the myriad of other trivia associated with a short stay here. Then, exhausted by my emotional departure from Taipei and the long return flight, I crawled into my rack at 1500 and slept straight through 'till 0600 the next morning.

After a leisurely breakfast at the club, I wandered down to the flight line. There was a large assortment of aircraft parked there, but I was drawn to a large group of F-100D's and F's parked in neat rows, parked wingtip to wingtip. As I walked up to them, I couldn't help but be a little intimidated by their size. After working with the sleek, low slung F-104s, these birds looked huge and bulky. I stand well over well six feet, but their canopy rails towered at least five feet above my head. It made me think of the awesome power that must be generated by its Pratt & Whitney J57 engine to even get this bird airborne, much less to fight it effectively.

As I was mulling this over, a young Captain wandered over to me and commented, "Looks like a BUMF (big, ugly, motherfucker), doesn't it?"

"I don't know about the UMF part, but it certainly bigger than what I'm used to," I chuckled.

I noticed his name patch read Captain William Otis, but he merely introduced himself as "Willy". We talked for awhile and I learned he had come out of an F-101 outfit in northern California and was being reassigned to the 48th TFW at RAF Lakenheath.

"Well, looks like we're going to be seeing a lot of each other, that's where I'm going also," I said with a smile, then added, "I've been with a MAAG group in Taiwan for the past year ... flying F-104's."

"He laughed and noted, "You've been one lucky son of a bitch on two counts, first Taiwan's a plum assignment, and second you survived a year flying those tricky little missiles. I hear they're a handful to fly."

"You'd have a few MiG drivers who would argue that point ... if they were still alive." I laughed.

"You mean you tangled with MiGs over there?" he asked.

"Yeah, once or twice ... unofficially of course, but I doubt they'd gather much consolation from that." I replied.

"They're still just as dead."

We parted soon after that; he to continue his prowl of the flight line and me to stop by Training Operations to check my training schedule. After learning my first flight wasn't scheduled until the next morning at 0900, I wandered into town to check out the Strip. I guessed it would look more exciting after dark, especially with a few drinks under one's belt, but sober, in the cold light of day, it looked merely cheap and tawdry, so I returned to the base and caught a movie.

The next morning, at 0730, I returned to Training Operations and met Captain Dave Anderson, who was to be my IP for the orientation course. As we chatted, getting acquainted before departing for the flight line, I learned that he had previously flown F-86s in Korea and F-84s in Germany. When he learned that I had been flying with, and teaching combat tactics to, Chinese Air Force F-104A pilots, he grinned broadly and said, "Well then, this course should be a piece of cake for both of us. What say we hat-up and go flying? This morning we're scheduled to fly a tandem-seat F model. It will let you get a feel for her, and then this afternoon we'll go up in the D models and you can get some solo time in. Starting tomorrow, we'll take them out on the range for weapons delivery orientation."

In the meantime, Dave took me back to the aircraft parking ramp where I followed him through a walk-around inspection of the F model we would be flying, with him pointing out the salient parts of this new aircraft that required special attention. At one point, I noticed a tail hook assembly, retracted up against the centerline of the aircraft. Puzzled, I asked Dave if this bird was designed to make carrier landings. He laughed and said "No.

That's for engaging the arresting cable used on most operational bases. They allow you to make a safe landing if you lose all you hydraulic systems and your brakes are inoperative. By releasing the hook on roll-out, it will engage the arresting cable near the far end and stop the aircraft short of the overrun, before you make an expensive, unauthorized gate in the perimeter fence."

The crew chief connected the external power unit as we climbed the boarding ladder and Dave automatically checked the maintenance log for open write-ups while I strapped in.

Satisfied, Dave motioned to the Sergeant that he was ready for engine start. As the engine spooled up I could almost feel the bird come to life. Once the instruments came on-line and the gyros stabilized, he motioned for the crew chief to disconnect the power cart and pull the chocks. The chief disappeared beneath the aircraft and the power unit died. Reappearing after a moment with the chocks hanging from his shoulder, he motioned us forward. As Dave eased the throttle forward and released the brakes, we moved out of our parking slot and turned toward the taxiway.

After holding at the runway threshold for a pair of F-100Ds to land and clear the runway, we received clearance from the tower and took the active. Advancing the throttle to full military, we started our roll before he slapped it into 'burner. There was just the slightest delay before the acceleration thrust me hard back against my 'chute pack, not quite as violently as in the 104's I'd been flying, but then the weight of this bird was much greater than a F-104.

Attaining flying speed, he eased the stick back and we were airborne, climbing out at about a forty-five degree angle. Once we passed through 5,000 feet, he pulled it out of 'burner and leveled off. We were by now well clear of the field. As he came around to a heading that would take us out over the desert, he shook the stick lightly and said, "You've got it, Buzz. Just play with her for awhile and get a feel for how she responds."

I performed a few shallow banking turns, then some gentle climbs and dives. After a few minutes of this, I got a little more aggressive on the controls and twenty minutes later felt quite comfortable horsing it around sky.

Finally Dave said, "Enough of this shit. Let's head back and I'll let you make a couple of touch-and-go landings.

Then, if you are comfortable with those, you can take us in for a full stop."

This bird had all the grace and nimbleness of a dump truck when compared to the nimble F-104s I'd left behind on Taiwan, but it felt sturdy, steady, and dependable. The thought came to mind that if I had to work down in the weeds, with bad guys throwing rocks and small arms fire at me, this greater mass of metal between me and them might well be reassuring.

Nearing Nellis, I called the tower and requested a touch-and-go, followed by a full-stop. As traffic was light at the moment, we got clearance and I swung into the pattern. Lining up with the runway was a task because, from the rear cockpit, forward vision was very limited, but by flying the cross-hairs of the ILS (Instrument Landing System), it was doable. I touched down lightly about a quarter of the way down the runway, then applied full military power, cleaned it up and went around. On the second approach, I managed to set it down closer to the approach end, then popped the drag 'chute, chopped power and turned off onto the first taxiway.

I soon discovered that taxiing from the back seat was also a real chore in this craft. Since I could only see out the sides of the canopy, we proceeded down the taxiway like a drunken sailor, weaving back and forth between the verges until Dave laughed and said he'd take over and navigate us back to the ramp.

By now it was nearly noon, so we chocked it down and then grabbed some lunch at the club. Upon our return, we went out to two F-100Ds and fired them up. As Dave pulled out, I swung in behind him and we taxied out to the runway.

After waiting for and receiving takeoff permission, Dave moved out onto the left side of the active and I positioned myself to his right. As soon as I was in position, he double-clicked is radio and started his roll. I let him gain a hundred yard head start before releasing my own brakes and applying full military power. After a 'burner climb out, we leveled off at 6,000 and I tucked in on his wing.

"Want to see if we can get some range time now?" he asked.

"Sure. Might as well get all the practice I can," I replied.

After calling Range Control and getting cleared for some passes, we homed in on their beacon and soon he called again, requesting two strafing runs. When the Range Officer came back with "Affirmative" we armed our 20mm canons and rolled in. Dave blew the center out of his target, while I scared the shit out of a prairie dog community about fifty feet to the left of mine. Pulling up and going around, we lined up again and started our second rum. This time I hit my target and it was Dave's turn to send the intrepid little rodents scrambling for cover. After a couple more passes with similar results, we cleared our cannons and broke off, letting a newly arrived pair of D models have the range.

We spent the next hour or so making dry runs on imaginary targets, more for me to become more comfortable handling the aircraft than anything else. By the time we returned to base I was confident in my ability to fly this large, heavy but powerful fighter. After we had shut down our aircraft and stowed our flight gear, Dave suggested we stop by the club for happy hour. I didn't have a better plan so I agreed.

Settling into a booth in the stag bar, we had just received our first round of drinks when we were joined by another pair of pilots; Jack Wilson and Neil Abercrombie. Jack turned out to be another IP and Neil an F-102 driver transitioning into the Huns. When asked where he would be stationed after training, Neil replied, "Lakenheath".

I grinned and stuck out my hand saying, "Looks like we'll be seeing a lot of each other in the near future, I've got orders for Lakenheath as well. I met another Captain on the flight line this morning that is also going to Lakenheath, a Captain named Willy Otis, do you know him?"

"No, don't think I ever met him, but I'd guess a lot of pilots in that wing must be rotating back to the states if there are three replacements in just this one class."

We both wound up staying at the club for supper, exchanging all the information we had about Europe in general and England in particular. It seems that he had been stationed at Bitburg, Germany in the past, and knew about the pea soup that passed for winter flying weather over there. I'd once seen the movie "12 O'clock High", which was about the extent of my input.

Before Dave left, he mentioned that the next day we would practice with the LABS gear. He told me to get a good night's rest because tomorrow would be a long, strenuous day. With that in mind, at 2100Hrs I excused myself and made my way back to my quarters.

I was in bed an hour later, but sleep was slow in coming. On my dresser was a tall, heavy green-glass vase I'd picked up at the BX, containing Mae's twelve long-stemmed roses. I finally drifted off to sleep thinking of Mae and wondering what she was doing right now. Was she lying in her huge lonely four-poster wondering what I was doing? In one way, I hoped she was, but in another, less selfish way, I was hopeful she would soon find someone else who would cherish her as much as I had.

The next morning dawned clear and cloudless. After a quick breakfast, I met Dave at Training Ops, where he dug out some flipcharts mounted on an easel and said, "This is what I was talking about. It's sometimes called loft bombing, over-the-shoulder bombing, toss bombing, or just performing the idiot loop."

The chart showed a drawing of an F-100 coming in low over a building marked 'target' and a depiction of its projected flight path through its bombing run, along with the bomb release point and the bomb's trajectory to the target. The aircraft would pull up into a steep loop, release its bomb about half way up, and then continue on up and over, then completing the loop on the deck and hauling ass out of the target area before the bomb arrives. From its release point, the weapon was slung upward, its momentum propelling it into an arc much higher than the aircraft's loop. If the approach heading, airspeed, and release-point were all exactly correct, the bomb would impact the target.