At one party, I ran into Eddie Rickenbacker and was stunned that he remembered me as a boy from Langley. He seemed to know all about my exploits at Wattisham during the war. By then he had been running Eastern Airlines for several years. His early vision was to turn the former mail and transport carrier into America’s first commercial airline, and he did it with the generous financial investment of one of his greatest fans, Laurance Rockefeller, son of John D. Rockefeller. Laurance was an aviation nut, a pilot himself who spent endless hours engrossed by Rickenbacker’s tales of combat. After a brief chitchat, Eddie dragged me across the room to meet Laurance, and a friendship was born that would last the rest of our lives. Larry was a gem of a guy, witty, down-to-earth, easygoing, deeply intelligent, and unusually kind. I liked him right away. My friendship with him took on many permutations over the years. I introduced him to Ella at the party that night. I had no clue what impact that meeting would have on the rest of my life.
On the home front, Ella was feeling my frustration. I know it affected her television work and her moods. She suffered an entire month of ghastly illness in December, and there was little I could do to help her from Pittsburgh. The phone rang one cold afternoon in my office. It was Ella’s doctor in New York telling me she had suffered a miscarriage. I took two days’ emergency leave and rushed to the city. We’d had no idea she was pregnant. It was a sad two days, but I had to get back to work. Ella did, too, and appeared in a few shows on the new series Robert Montgomery Presents. We were both committed to our jobs.
Back in Pittsburgh, I returned to training pilots for Korea. I kept putting my name at the top of all the lists headed in that direction. My group boss chided me endlessly, saying, “Olds, I can’t get to Korea, and if I can’t go, you’re not going.” It made me mad. Was he really taking my name off the combat lists as they passed his desk? What right did he have to do that? That man became a pariah to me, and I blamed him for the next fifty years. Of course, if I had gone to Korea, I would never have made it to Vietnam. Fate plays a strong role in our lives.
It also brought me my first child. Ella thrived during her next pregnancy in 1951. The doctors put her on a simulated estrogen therapy called DES to prevent miscarriage, and she gave birth on January 5, 1952, in Manhattan to a squalling, healthy girl. We named her Christina Eloise after my mother. Ella hired a nurse and settled her into the apartment with our baby, then got back to the business of regaining her health and svelte form for television and film work.
I kept grinding away at my 71st Squadron CO job and flew often from Greater Pittsburgh Airport to visit Ella and baby Chris in New York City. The flight to Mitchell Field on Long Island was a simple one and I knew the route by heart. I also knew all the radio range station frequencies, flight times, headings, altitudes on the airways, reporting sequences, and fuel-consumption data for every type of aircraft I flew on that route: the F-86, the T-33, the twin Beech AT-11, and even the old Gooney Bird C-47. The route was boring but each visit with my wife and baby daughter made the trip worthwhile.
I gave up trying to get to Korea in June of ’52 after being offered a job as a civilian test pilot at North American. I submitted my resignation. Damn it all. My boss, Major General Freddy Smith, commanding officer of the EADF, easily persuaded me to tear up that resignation. He and I both knew I didn’t really want to leave the air force, and as some sort of compensation for not getting to Korea, I was reassigned to Smith’s headquarters at Stewart as a staff officer. That assignment was the low point of my thirty years of service.
It wouldn’t be until 1998 that I learned the truth about why I never made it to Korea. I heard it from a colonel who had been stationed in the Pentagon in 1950. Ella and her TV producers persuaded Laurance Rockefeller to use his considerable political influence at the Pentagon level to get my name off the list every time it came up. The show had to go on, and a worried and distracted air force wife was not a good investment. It was hard to be pissed at that point, because of the track my career took, but I was sure surprised. More than anything, I felt like a heel for blaming my group CO all that time.
When I moved to Stewart from Griffiss, Ella and I rented a lovely country house on the north face of Storm King Mountain in Cornwall on Hudson, New York. I was actually able to come home for dinner. Cornwall was only about seven miles from New Windsor, and life settled into a comfortable routine. Little Chrissie was tearing around the house chasing our two English spaniels; we had a nice German couple working for us doing cooking, cleaning, nanny duties, and house and grounds maintenance; and a beautiful second daughter came along on March 12, 1953. We named her Susan Bird Olds after Ella’s mother, Bird Zachary Raines. Our family felt complete and life was full.
The staff job at EADF headquarters at Stewart was chief of the Programs Division. I was unhappy with the desk job yet slightly ambivalent about it. The early 1950s were a time of great change for America’s armed forces, and I found the position as a programming officer somewhat challenging. We were entering the Cold War and building a military force based on deterrence and nuclear weapons with an underlying philosophy of massive retaliation and mutual destruction. It was going to be a huge economic drain to support a force that would by definition be a failure if it was ever used.
The Air Defense Command grew to sixty-four interceptor squadrons based at some fifty airfields. Our airplanes were F-86Ds, F-89 Scorpions, and F-94 interceptors, all armed with 2.75" air-to-air rockets. There was even acquisition of a nuclear air-to-air missile for some of these units. Integrated with this, the army manned surface-to-air antiaircraft missile sites in defense of major cities. Fascinating as all of this was, I developed an aversion to the whole mess. I was convinced that the system lacked any true capability against a determined assault. To me the only positive part was that the ADC created assignments for experienced fighter pilots returning from Korea.
In May 1954 I was moved to Operations as director of Ops and Unit Training at Pittsburgh, and then promoted to full colonel at the age of thirty-three. Many, including me, thought it might be a bit premature, but what the hell, I was determined to do my best. Things perked along at a steady pace, but I was antsy.
Ella had gone right back to television work after Susie was born and she started her own production company, Cornwall Productions, with Joan Harrison. They produced a series called Janet Dean, Registered Nurse, which ran for a year. Ella starred in the leading role as a nurse back from the war who employed her detective abilities to solve military medical cases. Some of the plot ideas came from my Wattisham tales, and those were, of course, the best shows in my opinion. Ella was happy, and, given that she wasn’t the most natural of mothers, we were both grateful for the good care given our daughters by the German governess.
Then things sort of fell apart. Ella decided she wanted to live in New York City again and bought a co-op apartment in a building at 1075 Park Avenue. Off she went with the girls. Her mom, whom I liked, moved into a small cottage with me up on that mountain. None of this was exactly what I had bargained for. The situation went on for more than a year, and then I received orders to Germany. I was assigned to command an interceptor group at a place called Landstuhl.
Now it was Ella’s turn to be pissed off. In so many words, she said “OK, I’ll rent out my New York apartment and take the girls to London. You can find me there.” And off she went.
14
Landstuhl to Libya
In the middle of July 1955 I found my way to Landstuhl after stopping in London to see the family. Ella and the girls were ensconced in a lovely old town house in the Wilton Row Mews of London, near Hyde Park. I had to admit it was more her style than an officer’s house on an air force base in Germany, or for that matter on any base. Ella was already working on a movie being filmed at Beaconfield Studios in Buckinghamshire. The Man in the Road would be her last film. She called me her “Man in the Sky” when I left for Germany. It wasn’t offered endearingly.
The CO at Landstuhl fixed me with a wate
ry sort of stare when I showed up in his office, and proceeded to give me my welcoming briefing. There I was, a wet-behind-the-ears, brand-new full-bull colonel, just arrived, facing the senior colonel who was my wing commander. I had heard of the man before but little was exceptionally positive or negative. My elation at being assigned as the 86th Interceptor Group commander began to waver.
“The 86th has been in Germany on occupation duty since the end of the war,” announced the colonel with clearly discernible disdain. “Its reputation leaves much to be desired, particularly the off-duty behavior of the pilots. I will not tolerate the situation any longer. For your information, the two Georges [previous 86th Group commanders Bickle and Simler] did nothing to stop the custom of breaking all the bar glasses in the officers’ club every Friday beer call. As the group commander I expect you to put an immediate stop to that habit, and I mean RIGHT NOW!”
“Yes, sir,” I answered. Holy shit, I thought. Ten years of tradition, and all of a sudden I should stop it? If it pisses you off so damned much, Colonel, what have you done about it? Obviously the ball was in my court, and whatever happened next would be my doing, not his.
I signed in at group headquarters and was shown to my office. I was in no mood to appreciate the decor or to acquaint myself with the pictures of my predecessors. I had to think about this new setup and try to grasp my position in the pecking order. The air force had recently reorganized into operational wings, as opposed to the old system of groups. The flying group had always consisted of three or four squadrons, at least in my experience. A full colonel normally commanded a group, and a lieutenant colonel or sometimes a major commanded a squadron. Apparently the 86th was the last of the old system, with a wing headquarters grafted on top of it. Back in World War II, a wing contained as many as six groups. Guys at squadron level didn’t even bother to try to understand organization changes. Headquarters seemed to reorganize just to have something to do. Nothing much changed. Responsibilities remained the same. Maybe the shuffle meant the air force could justify more colonels and generals. It didn’t much matter.
It occurred to me that my boss had resisted eliminating the group level of command with pernicious intent. He would place some feckless junior colonel in the position of solving what he considered a serious disciplinary problem, namely the glass-breaking tradition. I knew this to be a weak conjecture, but it suited the moment and gave me resolve to play the game, MY way.
I called in the deputy group CO, my assistant, and asked him to have all four squadron commanders in my office at four o’clock that afternoon. He understood that “ask” was tantamount to an order, and left to go about doing whatever deputy group commanders do. I spent the rest of the day roaming around the base, learning where everything was, meeting the supply, maintenance, and administrative people, and generally getting acquainted. Just before four o’clock I reentered my office and found the squadron commanders assembled. Their expressions were blank when I introduced myself. I knew each was wondering who the hell I was, what I was like, and what I wanted. They were soon to find out.
“Gentlemen,” I began, “this morning I was given a direct order by the wing commander that I would be responsible for stopping all glass breaking in the O club. I suspect that directive has been tried officially and unofficially several times in the past, obviously without effect. Since I am obligated to carry out the orders of my superior, I intend to put an end to this unit’s old tradition. Today is Thursday. Tomorrow is beer call. I expect every officer under your command to attend beer call. No excuses accepted. And if one of your troops breaks one damned glass, you are fired! That’s all. Dismissed.”
I’m grateful looks can’t kill, because I would have been dead on the spot.
The club was packed after work on Friday. I was grateful the squadron COs had taken me seriously, even though the chill in the room was palpable. I pretended not to notice and went around introducing myself. My welcome was less than lukewarm. Every now and then I noticed a hand going up, armed with a glass and aimed at the fireplace. Another hand would grab the arm and there would be a slight scuffle.
When I sensed the mood was right I got up on a chair and whistled for attention. There was immediate silence. Everyone wanted to know what was coming next from this new asshole CO.
I pointed to two of the larger young pilots and ordered, “You two, look around. One of you pick eight of your friends, the other pick nine. Then line up over here. The rest of you make way. We are going to play an RAF game. It’s called ‘high-cock-a-lorum’ or ‘buck-buck.’ I’m sure you’ll think of your own name for it. I’ll join the eight guys. The other team is the down team. OK. Now, each of the down team, line up single file facing your team captain. Good. Now bend over and stick your head between the legs of the guy in front of you. Hang on to his thighs. The team captain serves as the end post, standing facing the guys bent over. A member from the other team will take a running jump at the down team and land on someone’s back. All will jump one at a time in similar fashion. If the down team breaks, the other team gets to jump again. If, once atop the down team, the jumping team so much as touches a foot to the floor, the teams will change position, and the down team becomes the jumpers. You and you, station yourselves on either side. You are the judges. If a jump team foot touches the floor, you are to raise your arm and the sides will change. Should one of your decisions be questioned and the audience agrees with the petition, you will have a pitcher of beer poured over your head. That’s it. Now let’s get on with it.”
By midnight there wasn’t a rug, piece of furniture, or fixture remaining intact. It turned out to be one hell of a beer call.
As can be imagined, I faced an angry wing commander on Saturday morning. He was livid. My chewing out was classic, although I felt he lacked the vocabulary to win that honor in more serious competition. After much shouting, sputtering, arm waving, and foot stomping, he screamed, “What was that about? What do you think you’re doing? The club is in ruins! Headquarters has already called wanting to know what happened. What am I supposed to tell them? TELL ME!”
“Sir,” I answered politely. “I suggest you tell them the club has not been redecorated since it was first opened. The fixtures were already beyond repair. A collection has been taken and the squadrons are footing the replacement costs, as should be, but most important, in compliance with your order, not one glass was broken the entire evening.”
It was an auspicious start.
* * *
Landstuhl was an interesting assignment, despite its undesirable identification with Air Defense. The 86th Fighter Intercept Group was there as part of USAFE’s role as NATO’s air defense. The nations of Europe, along with Canada, Iceland, and the United States, organized a common defense structure to protect Europe and counterbalance the Soviet and Eastern Bloc threats. We were just one cog in the wheel.
Tactical air power and USAFE were beefed up again to help defend Western Europe. Landstuhl Air Base was an old Luftwaffe command airdrome complete with runways, control tower, ramps, and other flight-related facilities. It would serve while French engineered and designed Ramstein Air Base was under construction by German contractors just three miles away. Ramstein was the location for higher-echelon headquarters, family housing, schools, and base support departments. Both Landstuhl and Ramstein were operated by the U.S. Air Force. To describe the whole setup as complicated would be a vast understatement. The bottom line was a lot clearer. We were there to keep an eye on the Russians.
Headquarters 12th Air Force had been reactivated in early 1951 and assigned to USAFE. It became the first USAFE unit to be committed to NATO and was transferred to newly opened Wiesbaden Air Base. Landstuhl had been equipped with the F-84F Thunderstreak before my arrival. In August 1954 we became the 86th Fighter Interceptor Wing to reflect our new mission, and we flew the F-86D Sabre. Our mission was air defense of Western Europe and if necessary delivery of tactical and strategic nuclear response to Soviet aggression. The concept was “massi
ve retaliation.” I called it a big fucking mess. But the flying was great and the O club was the center of all the best action.
I got to London as often as I could on my off-duty days, and Ella brought the girls to Landstuhl with their German governess from time to time. In true Ella style, we had to rent a small house off-base in a charming nearby village, so once again, I wasn’t allowed to live in housing on base close to my men. Juggling family and fighter pilots was not my idea of how to run a unit. We should all have been together but Ella’s refusal to live on bases where I was assigned was an ongoing struggle between us. After seven years of marriage, mostly good and always interesting, I envied the guys with supportive wives. It takes a special woman to be an air force wife. Ella was certainly special, but her talent wasn’t geared toward being a happy part of the Officers’ Wives Club. The tension created by our vastly different careers came to a boil in 1956, when she lost an important film tryout to an English actress. And it didn’t help a bit when I told her I was being transferred to Libya.
I thought it would help plead my case if I told her from a hospital bed. At least my being flat on my back recovering from a horrendous surgery I’d just endured might elicit some sympathy or pity. I had visions of my beautiful dark-haired wife bending over me and looking at me tenderly with those green eyes as I explained that I was merely a pawn being moved around by the air force machinery. The hospitalization was due to a horrible case of what we termed the “fighter pilot’s complaint,” too many hours, and too many g’s. The radical hemorrhoidectomy to cure the problem caused the greatest physical agony of my life, before or since. Without exaggeration I must say I was one sick puppy. I languished in that hospital for forty days and forty nights, well taken care of but not healing well, and running a high fever for weeks. The joke was that when I got out of the hospital I would finally be a perfect asshole.
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