Chapter 11: Welcome to the 'Heath

Our conversation was cut short as the engines cranked and came to life one by one with much grumbling, popping, and belching of blue-gray smoke. A young Lieutenant stepped through the flight deck door and passed through the passenger compartment, checking that all personal belongings had been securely stowed in the overhead compartments and that all seat belts were fastened. He then returned to the front of the passenger compartment, lifted a mic from its hook on the bulkhead, glanced at his watch and announced that we would take off in twelve minutes. Then pointing to a red light above the flight deck door, he informed us that all passengers were to remain belted-in until the red light was turned off. After that, we would be free to move about the cabin. As he ducked back through the door and returned to the flight deck, I glanced out the window and noticed the ground crew pulling the wheel chocks.

After a long taxi out and another short delay, we finally moved onto the runway and without further delay the engines were firewalled. As the big bird lifted off and clawed for altitude, I watched as the ground dropped away, knowing that this would be my last look at American soil for at least three years, not that it bothered me all that much.

Once we had reached altitude and settled onto an eastward course, I didn't stay awake too long. The droning of the engines made me drowsy and I was lost in thought; thoughts of Mae Ling and what she might be doing right now.

Sometime during the night, I came awake as the flight deck door opened and a Captain emerged, making his way slowly down the aisle checking on the passengers. Something about him seemed familiar. It was too dark in the cabin to make out his features; it was more in the way he walked that rang a bell. Suddenly it hit me as he returned up the aisle and was about to reenter the flight deck. "Billy?" I asked, "Is that you?"

He spun around, stared at me for a long moment, and then asked hesitantly, "Iggy?"

Since my seatmate was sound asleep, snoring softly, Billy said, "Come on up to the flight deck and have some coffee with us."

I eased out of my seat and followed him to the crew compartment. The flight deck was bathed in the dim green glow from the instrument panels; the pilot's seat was empty, one Lieutenant occupied the right seat and another manned the Flight Engineer's position. Billy motioned me to a jump-seat behind the co-pilot. "Hey folks," he announced, "this guy saved my life once, back in my Mustang days."

The co-pilot twisted around, extended his hand and said with a grin, "You should have just let him auger in, Captain. It would have saved us all a lot of grief."

That earned him a playful punch in the arm from Billy, who said, "Don't pay any attention to these guys; they're just jealous because I made Captain before they did."

Turning back to me he said, "Damn, it's been a long time, Iggy! I guess you made it through "Dog" school ok, but what have you been doing since then?", as he filled two cardboard cups with strong black coffee from a stainless-steel vacuum jug strapped to the bulkhead, then slipped into the pilot's seat.

I told him about my being transferred to Westover, flying F-86Ls before transitioning to the Starfighters and pulling a yearlong MAAG tour in Taiwan with the Chinese Air Force. I also mentioned my MiG-15 shoot-down, but omitted any mention of Mae Ling, except to say that I'd been assigned a female interrupter and protocol advisor, and finally about my F-100D training at Luke, adding that I was now on my way to Lakenheath to join the 48th TAC Fighter Wing.

When I had mentioned the female interrupter, the copilot had broken in saying, "Damn, if they're issuing females, I've got to get a transfer to Taiwan!"

The Flight Engineer replied, "That's the only way you're ever going to get one, Jake."

As their banter continued in the background, I ignored them and inquired of Billy what he had been doing. He merely replied that after going through multi-engine training, he'd been assigned to the Military Air Transport Service, first flying the Pacific routes for a couple years before transferring to the Atlantic runs. He seemed to be quite happy about getting out of fighters and content with being an airborne bus driver. It sounded boring as hell to me, but if he was happy doing it, more power to him. I was just glad it wasn't me!

After about an hour's conversation, I wished him well in his career, said good bye to the other two crewmembers and made my way back to my seat, where I fell asleep; dreaming of Mae Ling being with me and how nice it was going to be discovering Europe together. That is, until the Flight Engineer rudely awakened me as he made his rounds, making sure everyone was belted in prior to landing.

Only minutes later, the Connie banked sharply as we made our sweeping turn onto final approach at RAF Mildenhall. Suddenly the engine nose increased as the prop pitch changed, the flaps deployed and the landing gear thudded down and locked into position.

As I was gathering my carry-on luggage, which consisted only of my shaving kit, a garment bag, and a small briefcase, I stooped to glance out the window. The fog was so thick I couldn't see much beyond the still flashing navigation lights on the wingtips. As Billy stopped to say goodbye I said, "You landed in this crap?"

Billy laughed and replied, "If you can't land in 'this crap', you'd better carry enough fuel to stay airborne for a week or so. This is just normal flying weather over here this time of year."

"Well, it's been nice seeing you again. If you ever get a lay-over here, look me up and we'll have an evening on the town ... if we can even find a town in this crap!"

Billy chuckled, agreed to take me up on my offer, followed me off the plane, and then left to take care of business. I thought how much his attitude had changed since his Mustang days, seeming to be far more confident and happy with his current life. I guess it's true; God made two kinds of pilots; Fast Movers and Trash Haulers, both filled a need.

As I entered the passenger terminal, an US Air Force Captain in a flight suit was standing off to one side, scanning the line of arriving passengers. Spotting the nametag on my chest, he called out to me, shouting loudly to make him heard over the din of sponsors reuniting with their wives and children.

Fighting his way through the milling crowd, he introduced himself as Bill Ingram, my sponsor and a pilot in my new outfit. As we made our way to the baggage claim area, Bill said, "I'm surprised you got in this quickly. I'd heard flights were stacked up because of the weather this morning."

"Well, we just had a good pilot I guess. I'm not really surprised though, he used to fly as my wingman in our Mustang days," I laughed.

After waiting twenty minutes for the luggage to reach the terminal, I located my duffle bag and two suitcases, and then cleared Customs. Tossing my bags into the back of an Air Force blue, crew-cab Ford pickup, we slowly made our way off the base. Bill then negotiated the five miles or so of twisting two-lane secondary road, following a line of cats-eye reflectors imbedded in the center line, to the main gate of RAF Lakenheath. When I commented about the thick fog, Bill laughed and said, "This crap is pretty common this time of year. It'll burn off in a couple hours or so."

He asked if I had eaten, and since I hadn't, except for a box lunch on the plane last night, we stopped at the club so that I could grab some breakfast. True to his word, by the time we emerged forty-five minutes later, the fog had thinned appreciably and I could now make out the shapes of surrounding buildings. Dropping me off at Wing Personnel, Bill said he had some business to take care of and that he'd drop back and pick me up in a half-hour or so.

I signed in, was assigned to the 492nd Tactical Fighter Squadron, filled out some base locator card information and was directed to my squadron headquarters to complete my in-processing. I waited around for ten minutes or so until Bill returned, then he drove me over to the squadron area to check in with them. By then the fog had lifted and the sun was trying valiantly to break through a high, thin overcast.

After a short 'welcome aboard' meeting with my new commander, Major Billingham, I was assigned quarters, where I dropped off my bags as Bill filled me in on the local gossip. It seemed that the squadron would be going to Wheelus AFB, Libya for tactical nuclear delivery systems refresher training in a few weeks, so I would have a chance to get settled in with my new unit before our deployment.

Major Billingham asked me if I'd had any training in that area and I told him, "Not much, sir. I've been flying F-104s for the past two years at Westover and on Taiwan, but in an Air Defense roll. However, I did receive some training in tactical nuclear weapons delivery at Luke before I came over and I can fly a pretty mean Idiot's Loop in the F-100D, if I do say so myself."

"I that case, you may become my new weapons training officer. Our boys seem to have a little trouble perfecting that particular maneuver," he chuckled. I suddenly hoped I hadn't let my mouth overload my ass. We talked for awhile longer; about my experience, the fact that I had held the brevet rank of Major for a year, my shoot down of the MiG, that I'd started out as a Mustang driver and other, more general, matters.

Finally Major Billingham said he had to leave for a staff meeting at Wing Headquarters and excused himself. Before he left he said to Bill, "Why don't you plan on taking Buzz up in one of the F models tomorrow and check him out on the local flying area. It'll give him a chance to get the lay of the land." It sounded to me like more of an order than a suggestion, but Bill just smiled and replied, "Good idea, sir."

After dinner at the officer's club, followed by an evening of Pub Crawling in the small village of Mildenhall, which didn't take all that long since there were only two pubs in town, Bill dropped me off at my quarters. Exhausted by the long flight and the busy day I'd spent in-processing, not to mention the beer I'd had at the pubs, I crawled into bed and quickly fell into a deep sleep, not awaking until Bill tapped on my door the next morning.

The cloud cover of the previous day had been swept inland and on westward out over the continent by a brisk easterly breeze. The morning sun was warm and the sky a brilliant blue as we drove to the club for breakfast.

"God, I needed that!" Bill exclaimed, as he finished his first cup of coffee. "I think I'll have to get married and settle down. That way, my wife will get up and have the coffee all made when I crawl out of bed."

"Good luck on that. More likely you'll have to make coffee for her before she gets up," I laughed.

Before he could respond, the waitress arrived with our orders. As she placed them in front of us, Bill looked up at her and asked in a serious tone, "Would you marry me and make coffee for me in the morning, Luv?"

Putting her fists on her ample hips, she stared at him for a long moment before she replied, "I've already got one lazy lay-about in the house now, why in God's name would I want another?"

We all got a good laugh out of it, but I noticed he left an extra large tip when we departed for the flight line.

At the Squadron Equipment Room, I was issued a helmet, G-suit and an inflatable survival vest. When I asked him why the vest, he replied, "This is a pretty small island and a lot of our flying is over some really cold water."

Proceeding to the ready room, we found a group of our squadron's pilots drinking coffee and munching on pastries. Bill introduced me as "Buzz, the new guy," and I was immediately swamped with questions about where I'd been stationed and what I'd flown. They didn't seem overly impressed by my Air Defense command assignments but the 104 experience did seem to impress them, all except one Lieutenant who asked, "Why would anyone want to fly a plane with no wings?" When I mentioned my encounter with the MiG over the Formosa Straights and my subsequent shoot down of it, they were very interested, querying me about all the details of the engagement.

As we were preparing to go out to our aircraft, an older Major with command pilot wings stopped me and asked if I had met a Major Wilson while I was at Westover. I told him that he had been my Squadron Commander and that we had gone through F-104 transition training together. I also mentioned that he had arranged my MAAG assignment, that he was now a full Colonel, and a Wing Commander at Selfridge.

"Glad to hear he's doing well. Good man and one hell of a fighter pilot," he commented. "He saved my ass a number of times when I was a young Lieutenant in Korea."Bill finally broke me loose from my interrogation session by saying that we had to get going because the Major Billingham had ordered him to take me up on a local-area familiarization flight this morning, unless one of them would like volunteer for the privilege. Of course he didn't get any takers, so we departed for the flight line.

Catching a crew van, Bill gave the driver the aircraft's tail number and he wended his way to a hardstand where three F-100F's were parked. The crew chief for our bird was just finishing with his preflight checks and greeted Bill with a big grin and a snappy salute, saying "The POL (Petroleum, Oil, & Lubricants) truck just left. She's topped off and ready to go, sir."

As we finished our walk-around inspection and climbed up into the cockpit, the chief said, "There's an armament crew down at the end of the runway to arm your munitions, sir."

"No weapons this morning, Chief. This is just going to be a little drive in the country," Bill told him.

As we fired up and taxied out, Bill said over the intercom, "Looks like this is going to be a good day to see the area, we've been fogged in for the past two weeks." I agreed that it was indeed a great day for flying, with just a few white cumulous puffballs on the western horizon.

At the runway threshold, we were cleared to the active for immediate takeoff. As we swung out onto the runway and lined up, Bill paused a few seconds to make a final check of the instruments before advancing the throttle and releasing the brakes. After lifting off, we climbed to four thousand feet, and then turned to a northerly heading. We soon passed over another airbase and I asked Bill what base it was. He replied, "RAF Sculthorpe. It's a joint RAF-USAF operation. We have an RF-101 recon unit stationed there at the moment."