Chapter 6: Westover AFB

Only a few months after we had returned to Burlington wanderlust set in, a problem that was to hound me my entire career. I would have even volunteered for an assignment to Korea but that war had finally ground to a halt, a cease-fire declared and the country unofficially divided with the two halves separated by a narrow strip of land known as the demilitarized zone, or DMZ. Both sides were now busily glaring at each other suspiciously through binoculars across the thin strip of land. No excitement for a fighter pilot over there at the moment.

Then one day I heard, through the grapevine that the Air Force was in need of test pilots and acting on an impulse I submitted a request for reassignment to the newly formed Test Pilot School at Muroc, California. A couple of weeks later the personnel department notified me that they had received transfer orders for me. When I picked them up, I found that the orders were not for test pilot school as I had hoped. Instead, I was being transferred to the 337th FIS at Westover AFB, Massachusetts, flying F-86L's. Westover was a Strategic Air Command base hosting the 99th Bomb Wing, not Air Defense Command as I would have wished. To make it worse, it was only about a couple hundred miles away as the crow flies. That was not exactly what I'd had in mind but what the hell; at least it would be a change.

As the effective date of my transfer was still a few days away, I said my goodbyes to my fellow pilots and took a short leave. Returning to my hometown in New Hampshire, I visited with my folks, the few high school classmates that were still around and, of course my mentor Jim Morrison, who had gotten me into the Air Force to avoid the draft. I enjoyed seeing my family and friends again, especially Jim. By the time my leave was up I was more than ready to move on again. I said goodbye to my folks on a Sunday morning and made the three-hour drive south to the Boston area, then swung halfway around the city on Route 128, and headed west on the Mass Pike. About mid-day I took the Springfield Exit, followed the signs, and pulled up to the main gate at Westover. I showed my orders to the gate guard and received a map of the base, as well as detailed directions to my new squadron area. Since it was nearly lunchtime, I decided to grab something to eat at the Officers Club before reporting in. Following my map, I found the club after only two wrong turns.

Entering the stag bar, I ordered a sandwich and a draft beer. As I was eating, a young First Lieutenant dressed in a flight suit, stopped by my table and asked if I was the new pilot from Vermont that they were expecting. He said he had seen a car in the parking lot with an Ethan Allen AFB sticker on the windshield. I jokingly replied that if he were expecting an F-86 pilot from Vermont, it would probably be me, and then showed him my orders. After scanning them, he stuck out his hand and introduced himself as William Garret before adding with a smile, "But everyone calls me Duke."

When I asked him about the F-86Ls I would be flying here, he replied "Don't sweat them, they're basically just 86Ds with some electronics added to allow them to work interactively with Ground Controlled Intercept sites. Theoretically, when we lock-on to the target they direct us to, we activate the CSTI, or Control System Tie In system, which allows them to take over control of our bird and conduct the attack run. I say 'theoretically' because we have been having a few problems with control transition. The last time I tried it I must have been a few degrees off in my angle of attack because it immediately snapped my bird to the correct heading and attack attitude, but pulled six G's in the process. I thought it was going to either snap my neck or rip my wings off!"

"Sounds like a really user-friendly system to me," I observed sarcastically.

"Oh well, there's supposed to be a modification coming out to damp the speed of response, but then there are also rumors that we will be transitioning into new aircraft in a few months anyway," he replied.

When I asked what type of aircraft we might be getting, he replied, "Don't know. The rumors haven't gotten that specific yet, but I'd guess either F-101's, 102's, or 104"s," he opined.

"Well, I've heard some good things about the 101's," I opined, "except that at certain air speeds and attitudes the air flow over the wings tend to wash out the horizontal stabilizer, resulting in a few crashes; haven't heard much bad about the 102's and not much, good or bad, about the 104's though." "I was hoping we would get the Starfighters, but I understand they are still having some engineering problems that need to be addressed before they go into service Air Force wide," Duke commented.

The waitress was hovering nearby, waiting to clean our table so Duke suggested I get checked into the squadron. I followed his car through the huge, sprawling SAC base to a small cluster of Air Defense Command buildings near the eastern end of the main runway. After signing in, I asked about being assigned quarters. Duke said that our pilots were authorized to use the Bachelor Officers Quarters, but due to the odd hours kept by the SAC bomber crews, it was nearly impossible to get eight hours of sleep without being awakened by alert klaxons. He suggested that tomorrow I apply for separate rations and quarter's allowance, and then find private lodgings off base. "I've got a two-bedroom house and you're more than welcome to stay with me until you find a place of your own," he offered. I took him up on his offer and followed him out to his house in Chicopee Falls, about ten minutes from the base.

As we relaxed in his living room later that evening, I asked him about my new squadron. "Well, we have a great bunch of pilots, but morale is pretty low. Our Commander is Major Collins, a WWII gooney bird retread who is far more interested in haircut inspections than pilot proficiency ratings. Rumor has it that he will be retiring in a few months though. Maybe we'll get someone to replace him who's more interested in our Air Defense mission than in the crease in our trousers" Duke replied dryly.

We turned in shortly after that, but before I drifted off to sleep I wondered just what I had gotten myself into. I had seen the squadron flight line earlier and their 86L's looked identical to the 86D's I'd left behind in Vermont, except a lot scruffier; their aluminum skins were unpolished, and their radome's dull and faded. In general they looked as though the crew chiefs had lost all interest in their appearance. I only hoped the maintenance wasn't as shoddy.

The next morning I reported in at the orderly room, and, after satisfying the paperwork requirements, I knocked lightly on the closed door to the commander's office. Hearing a disinterested voice say "Enter," I stepped inside, came to attention in front of his desk and snapped him a crisp salute, as I said, "First Lieutenant Donaldson, reporting for duty sir!"

He glanced up and appraised me critically, then returning something that looked more like a dismissive wave than a salute, he commented, somewhat grumpily, "Your uniform needs pressing and I detect a piece of lint on your left sleeve. We run a tight ship here and I do not accept sloppiness in either my officers or enlisted men. Is that understood, Lieutenant?"

"Yes Sir!" I replied in a loud voice.

After a muttered "At ease," he opened my personnel records folder and reviewed its contents for a few moments before saying sarcastically, "You seem to be some sort of a hot dog, young man. Just what the hell does this Top Dawg Driver award mean?"

I explained that it was awarded in recognition of my being the highest rated F-86D pilot in my transition training class.

"And just what did you fly before you went through this training?" he asked disinterestedly.

"F-51 Mustangs, sir." I replied.

For the first time since I'd entered his office, his eyes glowed with interest. "Mustangs, eh? Now that was one fine aircraft! They saved my ass more than once over occupied France during the big war. I was flying C-47's at the time, you know," he replied, a little more respect in his voice.

"Yes, someone mentioned that sir," I replied politely.

"That will be all for now, Lieutenant Donaldson. Check with the Operations Officer to receive your flying schedule. Dismissed!"

As I about-faced and stepped to the door, his parting shot was, "And get a haircut, Lieutenant!"

Not bothering to tell him I'd gotten one only two days before, I merely replied "Yes sir," then stepped outside and closed the door softly behind me.

As I left the Orderly Room I met Duke who said, "I'm scheduled to fly a training mission this afternoon. Want to fly wing for me?"

"Sure," I replied. "No time like the present to get my feet wet."

"God, I hope you are speaking metaphorically", he chuckled. "The target area will be about fifty miles out to sea, over the Atlantic, south-east of Cape Cod."

I chuckled as I responded, "In that case I hope they issue me a Mae West."

He then guided me to Operations, introduced me to the Ops Officer, and together we toured the flight line and the maintenance shops before grabbing a quick lunch from a passing roach-coach. Returning to the Squadron equipment room, he arranged to have a flight helmet, G-suit, Mae West and parachute issued to me and we suited up. Pointing out the two birds we would be flying today, we performed our walk-around preflight inspections and climbed up into our cockpits. While still on external power, we checked our maintenance logs and radios. Duke then proclaimed it was time to light the fire. The cockpit instrument panel was identical to that of the F-86D, except for the CSTI system, which I decided to avoid on this mission given Duke's discussion of its unpredictable behavior.

After receiving taxi permission, we moved slowly out onto the taxiway and trundled to the runway threshold. After waiting for the 'aluminum overcast' of a huge B-52 to land and clear the runway, we made our 'burner takeoffs and headed east, climbing to 40,000 feet. As we crossed the coast, between Boston and Otis AFB, Duke contacted the GCI site and advised them we were ready to acquire our targets. They provided us with the information that two target aircraft were forty miles east of our position, cruising northward at 30,000 feet.

The radar site operators fed us heading data to the intercept point, and, as soon as we picked them up on our 'scopes, the GCI operator told us to switch our CSTI systems to Active. Duke replied, "Negative on the CSTI. My wingman's system is inoperative and mine just popped a circuit breaker when I tried to power it up. We'll have to make this run on manual. Just vector us in and keep us clear of any other traffic in the area please." The controllers were not happy with this turn of events but, as the aircraft commander has the final say in such matters, they complied with his request. We made a manual intercept on the two RB-57s, keeping our fire control systems locked-on until we received the familiar figure-eight pattern on our 'scopes, denoting all rockets away and the pod retracted, then broke off and headed home.

Thirty minutes later, after a quick tour of the Boston harbor area, we were back in the landing pattern at Westover. Duke led us in, touching down smoothly, and then I followed him back to the squadron's parking ramp. Shutting our birds down, we climbed out of our cockpits only to be met by the Ops Officer, a wide grin on his face.

"Guess what!" he exclaimed. "Major Collins put in his retirement papers this afternoon, probably because the word is out that his replacement is already on base. In fact I met our new commander at the club. He's Lt. Col. Jim Wilson, the triple ace. From our conversion over lunch, I think things are soon going to take a turn for the better around here. He seems to be a lot more serious about our mission, the condition of our aircraft, and the proficiency of his pilots than Major Collins ever was. And also, but don't mention this because it hasn't been officially released yet, he said we would be transitioning into Lockheed F-104A's within a month or so."

F-104's! I couldn't believe it. The pictures I'd seen of them had shown a small, sleek, needle-nosed fighter with an oversized tailpipe, its horizontal stabilizer mounted high on its tail, and thin, stubby, negative-dihedral wings. The article had also mentioned that test pilot Chuck Yeager had broken the sound barrier in level flight on his first flight in the bird. It also mentioned that the F-104 was the first Air Force fighter capable of attaining Mach II (twice the speed of sound) in level flight. It sounded to me that this was one hell of a little hot rod.

That evening we decided to eat dinner at the club, as Duke had a date later that evening and didn't want to fix supper, and then have to clean up the mess afterward. I couldn't see how much cleanup could be involved after a meal of bologna sandwiches, potato chips and cokes, but I went along with his plan and we departed for the club about 1630 hrs.

As we settled into a booth in the stag bar and ordered our meals, an older pilot, dressed in a rumpled flight suit and jump boots, approached our table and asked if he could join us. Of course we agreed and he slid into the booth, next to Duke and across from me. It was only then that I noticed the name tab on his flight suit;, Lt. Col. J. Wilson, USAF, our new squadron commander!

At first glance he was an unimposing man; short by most standards at about five foot five or six, with the dark swarthy complexion denoting Middle Eastern decent. He was not a man who would stand out in a crowd, at least until you noticed his eyes. They were the hard, intense eyes of a falcon; not a person one would care to have as an enemy.

"I asked the bartender if there were any pilots from the 337th here tonight and he pointed out you two," he said with a smile, "so I guess you've been nominated. I'm your new commander."

The waiter arrived at that point, interrupting our conversation. After taking our meal orders he departed, and Col. Wilson picked up the conversation where we had left off by saying, "I scanned the pilot personnel records this afternoon and noticed that you both went through F-86 transition training at Perrin. Did either of you ever come in contact with a Capt. Charles Ingram by any chance?"

Duke said the name didn't sound familiar, but I replied that Chuck had been my IP in both the T-33 and F-86D transition courses.

"The reason I asked is that Chuck flew as my wing man in Korea for short while. One of the best damn fighter pilots I've ever flown with." Then to me he added, "If he trained you Donaldson, I'll expect great things of you!"

I wasn't quite sure of how to respond to that but Duke got me off the hook by saying, "I heard that you're a triple ace yourself, Colonel."

"Let's just say that over the years I've had a few lucky days, and managed to catch a few of the bad guys on their unlucky ones," Col. Wilson chuckled. "By the way, I'm going to fly my first mission in the "L" model tomorrow and I'm new to this part of the world. Would either of you care to fly as my wingman? It wouldn't look good for the new commander to get lost on his first mission."

Duke said he would be more than honored, but that he was scheduled for his annual flight physical tomorrow. As the colonel turned to me with a questioning expression, I replied, "I just transferred in from Vermont sir, but I know the local area fairly well. I'd be honored to fly wing for you."

The Colonel thanked me, and then looking at his watch, said, "I'm going to have to run now. Have to make a call to my family before the kids go to bed. It was nice meeting you both. I'll see you at Squadron Ops at 0900 tomorrow, Lt. Donaldson."

After finishing our meals, our new commander departed to call his family, and Duke and I left for his place. As Duke showered and shaved for his date, I resigned myself to a quiet evening of reading and watching TV. At times like this I really missed having Jeannie around; not only for the sex, which was great, but also for the companionship we had enjoyed in Texas. I thought, for the first time that I might have to consider finding a girl to marry and settle down with. On second thought, considering my chosen profession, I realized this was not one of my better ideas.

Just then, the phone rang. As Duke was still in the shower, I answered it. A throaty female voice said, "Hi Duke, this is Ann and I have a little problem here. Marjory just arrived to spend a few days, so it looks like I won't be able to make it tonight."

"Duke's in the shower," I replied, "This is Iggy, his temporary roommate. He should be out in a few minutes; do you want me to have him call you back?"

"No, that won't work. I'm calling from a pay phone at the bus station." Then, after a short delay during which I could hear her talking to someone in the background, she asked, "By the way, what are you doing tonight? Are you married?"