Fighter Pilot

by Christina Olds

  On one of those miserable days, when my fever was still over the 100 mark, Colonel Dean Loring came to visit. He didn’t know me and I didn’t know him, so I figured the visit was more than a social “how’re you doing?” thing. Turned out I was right. Loring hemmed and hawed a bit and finally asked how long I thought I would be in the hospital. Good grief, how did I know? He then announced that the people in USAFE headquarters wanted me to take over the training unit at Wheelus, our big base in Libya. For some time all the fighter units in Europe had been sending flights or entire squadrons there for weapons training on a gunnery range at a place called Tarhuna. Did I want the job? Hell yes! But could it hold until I got out of this place? I told him I was his man, but to please be patient.

  With a conspiratorial air Loring informed me that I would be chief of the Weapons Proficiency Center, would take charge of weapons-range scheduling, would have the opportunity to organize the training curricula—in fact, I was to be the boss of all the units deployed. He then asked if I wanted to be directly under USAFE for operational and administrative control. I thought about it for a moment and replied that I felt my unit should be in the normal chain of command under the wing/base setup at Wheelus, and therefore under the 17th Air Force, which at that time was located in Morocco and due to move soon to Wheelus. Then I gave him a caveat. I wanted a direct communication link back across the Mediterranean surfacing at the desk of a good contact in the headquarters at Wiesbaden. That way if I needed extra pull for something, I could get directly to USAFE HQ and bypass the 17th. It wouldn’t be routine, but it was an emergency backup to get the job done. Loring thought about that and agreed. I knew he would have to get my request approved higher up, so I thanked him for everything and said I looked forward to working with him in the future. In spite of my current misery I had some challenging things to think about. I was happy.

  Ella was not. She gave it to me straight in that hospital room. No way in hell was she going to Africa, of all places, nor would she bring our two little girls down there. But I have to give Ella credit. I was sent to her house in London to recuperate and she took good care of me through two more unexpected operations in the military hospital at Ruislip. Her nursing was responsible for my eventual recovery. Once I recovered, she packed her clothes, prepared the girls, and left for California. I wasn’t sure when we’d meet again, but her choice had been made and time would tell.

  With mixed feelings, I closed up the London house and my quarters at Landstuhl, tucked our little dog, Mr. Magoo, into an open flight bag, grabbed a T-33, and left for Tripoli.

  OK, Robin, look around! What’s here? What needs doing? Whom have I got working for me? How have things been organized? What is the relationship of my organization with the base wing? Where do I go to get materials, funding, tools for my ground crews, flight gear for my chase pilots, housing, etc.? And how do I gain a modicum of control over range scheduling? Wheelus was every bit the challenge I thought it would be. OK, just tackle one or two things at a time.

  First, go check out the British-built ground gunnery range at Tarhuna. Clearly it was far too small for our current needs, let alone for the modernizing forces from units in England and Europe. Next, see the El Watia nuclear target area that was out in the desert, 80 miles down the coast and far inland. Its 23,000 acres consisted of a long, straight path bulldozed due south and ending in a target of two old steam boilers painted in black and white checks, filled with sand, mounted vertically on a mound. There were absolutely no support facilities whatsoever. Nothing. No spotting towers, no telephone capability, no bathrooms, just sand. It was nothing, but it was perfect for the task of catching simulated nuclear weapons slung off of fast-moving jets.

  Wheelus was a big base seven miles east of Tripoli, perched at the edge of the Mediterranean. It had been built by the Italians during their attempted conquest of North Africa in 1911. They consolidated this crumbling vestige of the Ottoman Empire into a nascent state called Libya and, in 1923, established the Mehalla Air Base near Tripoli. The Germans joined with the Italian forces when World War II broke out, and the base was used by the Luftwaffe until early 1943. Montgomery’s famous “Desert Rats” captured it as they pursued Rommel across North Africa toward Tunis.

  At the end of the war, the Allies remained in Libya and the Americans took over Mehalla, renamed it Wheelus, and immediately began air operations. Libya was desperately poor, and the Allies struck a deal that would prove to be a mutually useful relationship for eighteen years to come, paying millions to the ruling family as “rent” for the base. Unfortunately, as in most third world countries, the money flowed right to the richest families instead of finding its way to the poor, and the discovery of oil later in 1959 made that situation worse, instantly transforming Libya into one of Africa’s wealthiest nations.

  Wheelus’s location and clear weather were ideal for the aerial training that ensued. Except for the ghiblis, choking dust storms that roared through with temperatures soaring above 110 degrees, the climate was generally tolerable and pleasant, a lot like Southern California. USAFE took over in 1951 and established the 7272nd Air Base Wing, which later became the Fighter Training Wing as the host unit. Also operating out of the base were several tenant units, including the 7235th Support Squadron and the 431st Fighter Interceptor Squadron “Red Devils” flying F-86D and F models. My command was the new 7272nd Air Weapons Group and, as I had requested, we were under the 17th Air Force. USAFE was quickly modernizing the base; the runway and facilities were being expanded, schools and medical buildings were being erected, and a large housing complex was being built for the assigned troops. The housing was mostly trailers, not very glamorous, but comfortable and efficient. Only a few, choice high-ranking base officers received free-standing houses.

  Wheelus’s primary mission had been “post-strike Recovery,” meaning if the balloon went up, the site would serve as a recovery base for our long-range bombers. When the fighter units started deploying for their weapons training, life on the base changed radically. For one thing, the constant noise of arriving and departing jets soon upset the apple cart. There was more than a little friction between the base permanent contingent and the rotational fighter units. Schedules had to be adjusted on many levels, and flying operations had to cease all noise according to the premandated orders of the muezzin calling Muslims to prayer from the minaret of his mosque.

  The rotational units, both pilots and ground crews, lived in tents with common latrine facilities away from base housing. They had to go clear around the north end of the field to eat and relax in the messes. Always creative, the fighter guys “relaxed” in the isolated atmosphere on the air base side of the field. They were not appreciated for their rowdiness and were frowned upon by the permanent staff. Of course, that only induced the fighter guys to make their antics all the more objectionable, and of course I had no hand whatsoever in influencing any rowdy behavior. I pleaded innocent.

  Shortly after I arrived at Wheelus I paid the customary visit to the wing CO, a man named Colonel Kane. He seemed nice enough but apparently didn’t much care for the fighter units. After a few pleasantries I was informed it would be my responsibility to stop the fighter pilots from painting their squadron numbers on the base water tower. It was an old custom from the first rotations, and I had to agree the tower was indeed a mess. But why hadn’t he stopped the custom himself? Oh well, another welcome to a new command. It seemed part of routine in-processing for me to be asked to quell the pranks of the aircrews for the resident commander.

  A couple of weeks later Colonel Kane called me into his office and asked what I had done about the water tower problem. “Sir,” I replied, “I hung a bucket of red paint and a bucket of white paint on the bottom of the ladder, along with some brushes. I figure it will take about another week for the white squares to be red and the red squares to be white. Then I’ll have the base civil engineer cut off the bottom twenty feet of the ladder. That ought to discourage any further disfigurement of govern
ment property.”

  The colonel was not amused. I didn’t think it necessary to tell him I had threatened each of the fighter squadron commanders with no range time if his number appeared on that damned tower in the future.

  After my arrival the fighter-bombers made much greater use of the El Watia bombing range. We used the airspace overhead for training in air-to-air combat, and the targets for air-to-ground gunnery with conventional and nuclear ordnance delivery. My guys provided the ranges, towed aerial targets for the fighters, and flew the chase aircraft for the interceptor units doing airborne radar training. That had to be done because the interceptor pilots flew under the hood and made their firing passes using their onboard radar and without visual reference. The chase pilot had to make sure the interceptor guy wasn’t locked on to the tow aircraft. The group I had commanded at Landstuhl was the only USAFE unit equipped with all-weather fighter squadrons, so I was familiar with the capabilities of the F-86Ds assigned and didn’t trust either the equipment or the pilots to always sort out the tow ship from the target on a firing pass. Our all-weather capabilities were primitive at that time, and I had several run-ins with HQ over what constituted acceptable weather conditions for training.

  To get anything done efficiently, I often made use of the “Link Across the Mediterranean” contact I’d been promised in my hospital bed when I first agreed to change Wheelus from a gunnery camp to a mini weapons center. Colonel Robert Worley was my go-to guy and we met often at some point halfway between USAFE HQ at Wiesbaden and my post at Wheelus. More often than not, it was a base just outside Marseille or Capodichino in Naples. We’d each grab a T-33, he’d come south out of Germany, I’d fly north across the Med, and we’d lunch somewhere near the base and get a lot done. I’d give him status and progress reports, future plans, and lists of things I was having trouble getting. We talked money a lot, too. My boss, General Richard O’Keefe at the 17th, used to wonder how in hell I managed to get bucks for the weapon center so fast, but I never told him until after he retired.

  Bob Worley was great fun because he was always a little on the gullible side—a dangerous weakness around pranksters like me. General Gabe Disosway at the 12th Air Force was also a prankster. He teased his staff a lot and pulled a memorable trick on his guys, including Bob, on one of his trips to Wheelus. He did it as much to tweak General O’Keefe as to put one over on his own staff. One night before General Gabe was to depart for a visit to Incirlik Air Base in Turkey, we had dinner at O’Keefe’s Wheelus base quarters. General Gabe asked me quietly if we ever checked shot records on crew members and passengers departing for the Middle East. I confessed I didn’t know and said I’d sure find out right away. General Gabe smiled and said he thought it might be a good idea, since he’d overheard Worley and Ben Davis [Gen. Benjamin O. Davis, chief of staff, 12th AF] worrying about it on the flight down. Bob and Ben both knew they were way overdue for those shots. I got the hint loud and clear, got up from the table, went into the kitchen, and called the base hospital commander. Understandably, the hospital CO needed lots of convincing, but he agreed to go along when I insisted it was a direct request from General Disosway. I returned to the dining room and quietly told General Gabe the plan was a go. He grinned and told me to keep it quiet.

  The next morning at six o’clock there was consternation and mass confusion out on the departure ramp. The hospital commander was as good as his word. O’Keefe turned brick red (an easy trick for an Irishman) when he got his first look at the medics standing by a white-clothed table complete with autoclave and poised needles. He started to issue some kind of order, but General Gabe interrupted him by saying how much he’d enjoyed the visit and asked him to relay his appreciation to Louise O’Keefe for the excellent dinner. Disosway then pulled out his shot record, went up to the table, rolled up his sleeve, and took his needed shot. After bounding up the ladder into his waiting C-54, he kept poking his head out of the door hollering at his guys to “Hurry it up!”

  There was no way for me to keep a straight face as I watched the aircraft crew, the passengers, and Gabe’s staff jostling for last place in line and fumbling for wallets revealing a lot of overdue injections. Jesus, some of them took a lot of shots! Bob Worley and some brigadier needed five apiece. When they finally departed for Incirlik, I was left on the ramp with a sputtering, nearly apoplectic two-star Irishman. He whirled on me, knowing I was probably the only one in his entire command who could have been involved in the situation.

  “What in hell do you mean pulling a stunt like that on Disosway?” O’Keefe thundered. It wasn’t a question. I tried to look contrite instead of amused. It didn’t work. The Old Man went to work on me and thrust his fiery red face at mine. He reminded me of a first classman on Beast Detail during Plebe Summer at West Point. It dawned on me that I hadn’t handled the situation with a great degree of tact. I knew I was caught between the two generals, as different from each other as any two men could be. One, Gabe, was affable, full of humor, self-confident, hard-nosed, highly respected, and popular throughout the 12th Air Force. The other, General O’Keefe, was also highly respected, but for entirely different reasons. His modus operandi and personality fit his temperament, and his anger was not always the most reasonable trait he possessed. His staff feared him. The more ambitious of them were prime examples of the “me too” staff officer syndrome, forever feeding the Old Man information that satisfied his perceptions rather than reflecting the truth. I didn’t know whether that obsequious form of staff work fooled or flattered O’Keefe, but the 17th Air Force managed to get the job done.

  I didn’t dare take my eyes off the general as he vented his anger. Behind his head I could see members of his own staff gathered in a knot, looking around the airfield as if not connected with the scene going on in front of them and obviously pleased that the tirade wasn’t directed at one of them. O’Keefe finally gave me an opportunity to answer his question. I tried to explain that General Disosway had told me not to give away his joke. He didn’t want Worley and Davis to catch on before the morning. I knew my words were lame. Realizing General O’Keefe’s position I felt embarrassed and at least a bit contrite. I guess General Gabe figured I was a big boy and could take the consequences of his joke. Things were understandably tense around the Wheelus Wing HQ for a while, but returned to normal in due course.

  I felt I had to return the favor for that memorable ass chewing, so, waiting for General Gabe to be out of reach for any kind of prankish retaliation, I looked for an opportunity to get revenge on some member of equal rank on General Gabe’s ops staff.

  The victim turned out to be gullible Bob Worley, and the opportunity came a few weeks later during one of our lunches at Capodichino. Bob and I had finished our meeting and were in base ops filing our flight plans and Form 21s for the flights home. I saw Bob struggling with his 21, checking frequencies and stuff, so I walked over and said casually, “Hey, Bob, you don’t have to go through all that bullshit. Here’s a 21 I used just four days ago from here to Wiesbaden. All the frequencies are good, and the fuel data worked out to the gallon. I’ve already looked at the winds aloft and they’re the same. Go ahead and use it. Save yourself all that hassle.”

  Bob took the card gratefully. I said good-bye, filed my clearance for Tripoli, and went out to my bird. As I taxied past ops I saw Bob climbing into his T-33 and knew he’d be right behind me when I took off. As soon as I was airborne, I switched frequencies and called Rome Control. Everyone over there knew that Rome Control never answered a position report or check-in. We didn’t know what the hell they were doing in their control room, but it didn’t involve giving a shit about USAFE pilots on their airways. I stayed on Rome’s frequency and waited for Bob to check in as I turned south for Wheelus.

  I was climbing through at about 8,000 when I heard his voice on channel ten. “Hello, Rome Control. This is Air Force 4578. Departed Capodichino 1420, passing 2,000 for 25,000.” All this was spoken in a monotone, knowing Rome wouldn’t answer or even be listen
ing.

  I mashed the transmit button and said in my best Italian accent, “Allo, Aira Forsa foura five sevena eight, thees issa Roma Control. Roger you departa froma Capodichino. Pleeza you giva me you esteemat abeama Civitavecchia. O-vair.”

  I could hear the surprise in Bob’s voice—“Aah, Roger Rome Control”—then a long pause … “Uh, say again your request?”

  “Oh-kay, Aira Forsa sevena eight, thees issa Roma Control. What ees you esteemat abeama Civitavecchia? O-vair,” I repeated, trying to keep from laughing. I knew Bob didn’t have a clue where Civitavecchia was, and I could picture him madly unfolding maps while trying to keep his bird upright with the stick between his knees.

  He came on the air with, “Uh, Rome Control, this is seven eight. I estimate abeam Ponza at 48. Over.” I knew he took that off the Form 21 I had given him and he sounded kind of wistful, like he was asking Rome to accept a substitute.

  “Roger sevena eight, thees issa Roma Contro1, we hava you estimate abeama Ponza, butta what issa you estimate abeama Civitavecchia?” I voiced this with a tone of exasperation and a small flare of appropriate Latin anger.

  “Uh, stand by, Rome…,” and Bob’s voice trailed off.

  I waited a few moments and came back with, “Aira Forsa sevena eight, this issa Roma Control, eef you no giva me you esteemat abeama Civitavecchia, I’m-a gone putta you five-a thousa feeta ana I’m-a gonna leafa you there!”

  Enough was enough. I was already feeling guilty and began hoping Bob would never find out who Roma Control really was. I changed channels and went on past Malta and Pantelleria hoping I hadn’t misjudged his sense of humor.