by Jim Carter
Now came the fun part.
On our return trip we loaded up with refugees who had assembled at this operating base hoping they could make it to India. The problem was that there were only the flat pallets for them to sit on; and there was no shortage of refugees. These people had been driven from their homes. The majority of them were Hindus fleeing the wrath of the East Pakistani Muslim Army. India was the only safe haven they could hope to reach. They fled with only what they could carry, and some had been on the road for weeks. There were thousands who wished to go. International aid workers picked the lucky passengers who would go with us.
The refugees streamed into a temporary camp, which had been set up near the airfield. They were given the basics of food and shelter until it was their turn to be transported to more permanent camps in West Bengal. International aid workers from the UN interviewed the refugees and established their priority for evacuation. Our job was to take them safely to the refugee camp in West Bengal. Of course the term “safely” encompasses many items when discussing airplanes, especially those operating in remote areas of India.
Just as with the LAPES (low altitude parachute extraction system) drops the loadmaster had to worry about getting the center of gravity just right, which could be somewhat tricky to do with dozens of refugees filling the airplane. All had to be calculated by the loadmaster to ensure that our center of gravity was “in the green.” To seat all these people, the loadmasters had to be creative. We were working with the flat metal floor of the pallets, and we wanted to carry as many refugees as possible. But these were small people; there were no overweight refugees.
We were able to jam many in the plane and still stay within our CG limits. The loadmaster would start at the front of the cargo compartment and sit them in a straight line across the pallet, facing forward. As soon as one line was seated, he started in on the next and so on until we reached the maximum number that could be carried on that particular flight. The loadmaster would take a cargo strap and run it across the passengers’ laps and secure it on the other side. Voila! Instant all coach accommodations.
The C-130 could hold five pallets. Figuring ten people across, we could fit 50 people per pallet. At a maximum, we could fit 250 refugees if all the CG numbers worked out. We never got that many on a flight. Our record was 218 on a mission flown by Operations Officer, Lt Col “Sweats” Tollefson.
Sweats earned his nickname by sweating constantly and always sweating the small stuff. Whenever I saw Sweats he was red-faced and smoking a cigarette. I don’t think he ever slept or had his blood pressure drop below 170/100. He was a chain smoking worrywart who was scared to death of letting people do the jobs they were trained to do. “Sweats” was not a delegator. He was a doer and a rechecker. If it were possible, Sweats would have flown all the missions himself while simultaneously manning the command post and sweeping the flight line with a broom stuck up his ass.
Although it was rewarding for us to help so many people survive, we did have challenges to work through.
The flying facilities were primitive or nonexistent. We were used to accurate navigation facilities so we could get from point A to point B in the weather. These facilities didn’t exist in India in 1971. The flying was VFR or “visual flight rules.” The navigators needed to see the ground in order to get us to our destination. If the weather rolled in, we didn’t fly. Many of the airfields were dirt strips. We parked the airplanes on the grass, which had been overlaid with perforated steel planking (PSP). PSP was reinforced steel planks with holes. These planks were laid on the ground to prevent the aircraft from sinking into the grass or mud. It is still used at remote airfields around the globe.
And then there was the one factor none of us had counted on, the smell. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this smell. Most of these refugees had been on the road, fleeing death and destruction. There were no showers or baths on the refugee trail. They fled with only the clothes on their backs, and they were still wearing them. They ate large amounts of curry and spices, all of which came out in their sweat and breath. It was a sharp, acrid, painful, nearly nauseating odor that the stifling heat did nothing to alleviate. It was June in India and the temperature and humidity stayed in the nineties. It was tolerable in the open air but closed up on an airplane with 200 of them for an hour-long flight — Stink City.
When I first experienced it I had trouble breathing. I had to put on my oxygen mask. This gave a new and terrible meaning to the term “eye watering.”
After a few days of this routine we were able to somewhat tolerate the smell; but it still watered the eyes. We dropped the refugees off at resettlement camps where they would later move on to more permanent housing. Even living in these tent cities was a vast improvement to what their lives had been like those last few months. Doctors, aid-workers, and UN personnel, all helped out at the camps.
The end of our long flying day meant a shower, a fresh set of clothes, a bite to eat and later, a gathering at the “Officers Club” for a few beers and war stories. Since space was so restricted we had combined the Officers and NCOs clubs into one. It was a 10-foot by 20-foot cinderblock room with bench seats and Indian beer. I had never tried Indian beer before, but quickly became a convert. It had two distinct advantages over American beer: first, it came in liter bottles, and second, it was 8 to 10 % alcohol. The taste was richer and more biting than American beer. Those of us who had grown up on 3.2 beer were soon stumbling around walking into walls and trying to speak Hindi to our Indian Air Force buds; it was pretty good stuff.
After the first night at the club, and a few beers in, I made my way back to my room. I had only been asleep for a few minutes when my fellow co pilot and neighbor called me into his room.
“What’s up Vince?” I asked through my beery, sleepy haze.
“Tell me what the fuck this is,” he said pointing to his chicken-wire screen. Something was caught in the wire and it was still alive. It looked like some kind of prehistoric bug. Not being an entomologist, I squashed it with my flashlight and went back to bed, dreaming of prehistoric bugs.
The next day I corralled our Indian Army rep and showed him the remains from the previous night.
“Oh, that’s a rice bug,” he said.
“Are you shitting me, that’s a bug?” I exclaimed.
“Oh yes sir, very good eating you know,” he replied.
I had no response. The whole concept of a six-inch long bug flying around had eluded me up to now. And as for eating it, as my buddy Vinnie would say, “Fuggettaboutit.”
So as it turned out, our guide on that first day in India had been correct. The chicken wire kept the bugs out, at least the bigger ones. The rice bugs weren’t the only natives we had to get used to. One night I was awakened from a sound sleep by the sound of something scratching across the concrete floor. I turned on the light and discovered a half dozen crabs walking in a straight line across my floor. These crabs were about six inches across and they marched with military precision. I didn’t know whether to smash them or cook them. Instead I let them go on their way. I didn’t know where they had come from or where they were going so I just turned out the light and went back to sleep. I never saw the crabs again after that night.
Chapter 5
About three weeks into our mission we took a trip to New Delhi. Each flight crew was given one weekend of R&R there. We stayed in a nice hotel called the Oberoi Intercontinental. There we could take unlimited warm showers and experience the joys of air conditioning. We would start the day with a big breakfast in the hotel’s opulent dining room. Real eggs and fresh juice were not available in Gauhati so we made sure we got to get our fill of these luxuries while in New Delhi.
After our big breakfast, we would wander the streets taking in the sights and sounds of this very crowded city. One of my favorite activities was souvenir hunting. There were countless side streets with shops selling everything from spittoons to sitars. I mention sitars because I bought one. I had no musical background but
Ravi Shankar and George Harrison played the sitar so how hard could it be, right? My backup plan was to use it us as a display piece just in case my playing didn’t work out.
My lasting impression of New Delhi was the crowds. So many people packed into small spaces. We westerners were used to so much more room. Even the buses and trains were jammed to overflowing. I was standing on a street corner in Delhi and watched a bus approach the intersection. The bus was packed full and there were people hanging off both sides. I held my breath because I felt sure that the bus would roll over. The hangers-on knew what was coming, and as the bus started to lean precariously into the turn they leaped off. The bus righted itself and then they all jumped back on. Only in India.
I was proud of my new sitar and showed it around the base when I returned to Gauhati. I tried unsuccessfully to play it at the Club that night. Maybe the Indian beer had something to do with my ineptitude. At least I managed to learn how to hold it before we left India. But the sitar was destined to decorate my living room.
My flight engineer, Ed, was at the club that night. Ed was a very good engineer but he was very fond of the “sauce.” He fell in love with the Indian beer and had more than his share that night. When he started speaking in tongues we convinced him to turn in. His building was only about 20 yards from the club so we sent him on his way, confident that he could find his way home.
Around 2 a.m. we called it a night and headed back to our rooms. An irrigation ditch ran along the path between the buildings. It was about three feet wide and three feet deep. As I walked along the path I glanced down into the ditch and thought I saw something. It looked like a body, but I couldn’t be sure. I shined my light on it and discovered a body covered with something. And that something was moving. On closer inspection, I could see it was Ed, sleeping peacefully, and covered with rice bugs! Yuck. I yelled for some help and three or four of us yanked him out of the ditch and brushed the rice bugs off. He was none the worse for wear and was ready to head back to the club. We convinced him the club was closed and walked him to his room
Our crew did get to make one additional side trip while in Gauhati. We were tasked with delivering several pallets of medicine to Calcutta. Our destination was the Calcutta International Airport and all went smoothly, arriving right on schedule in beautiful weather. They parked us on a military ramp right next to a Russian airplane, an AN-12. Before I describe the plane, just a brief explanation of the Russian philosophy of aircraft design: copy the Americans but try to make it bigger and faster. We were scoping out their aircraft from afar when we saw the Russian pilots disembark and walk towards our C-130. Keep in mind that in 1971 we were cold war enemies. We looked at these Russians with a mixture of caution and excitement. None of us had ever met a Russian pilot and none of us spoke Russian. They came up to us smiling, excited and spoke broken but understandable English. Basically, they were in awe of our airplane, our technology, and us. They wanted to show us their aircraft and hoped we would reciprocate. Sounded good to us, so off we went into the AN-12.
The AN-12 was a Russian attempt to copy the C-130. The exterior of the Russian plane did look like the C-130, but inside was another story. In the cockpit, the two pilots sat up high with the throttle quadrant between them. Below the pilots was a flat bench where the navigator would lay face down looking through the glass observation bubble. Next to the navigator’s station were his navigation aids, Esso road maps.
The AN-12 did not have hydraulics and it cruised at 300+ knots, so it took some strength to operate the flight controls. This probably explained why both pilots looked like weight lifters. Both pilots would operate the controls simultaneously. The navigator would give them a countdown, then say “turn right” or “turn left” and both pilots would execute together.
The cockpit instrumentation was right off the set of “Young Frankenstein.” Tubes, rolling drums, exposed wires, giant levers, etcetera, were everywhere. The back of the airplane was even more startling than the cockpit. In the C-130, we had our roller system to easily load and unload freight. No such system existed in the AN-12. It had a plain floor with park benches screwed to the wall. They told us that any airborne equipment drop was an emergency procedure only.
When we showed them the 130 they were mesmerized. Even our old (to us) instrumentation was light years ahead of theirs. A look at our roller system in the back had them yammering to each other accompanied by non-stop pointing and gesturing.
But those Commies could bargain. We had some items they wanted and they had genuine Russian hooch. We swapped several bottles of their vodka for our blue jeans and Marlboros. When we left Calcutta, we were a little wiser in international relations, and a few bottles of Russian vodka richer.
We spent six weeks in India and as bad as conditions were, they were the fastest six weeks of my life.
We completed our mission to India in the summer of 1971. Hostilities against the Bangladeshi separatists continued through the fall.
On December 3, 1971, Pakistan launched pre-emptive air strikes on 11 Indian airbases. This caused India to declare war on Pakistan and to enter the conflict on the side of the separatists. The resulting India-Pakistan War lasted 13 days, one of the shortest wars in history. During these 13 days, Indian and Pakistani forces clashed on both the eastern and western fronts. The war came to an abrupt end after the Eastern Command of the Pakistani Armed Forces signed the instrument of surrender on December 16, 1971. This marked the birth of the new nation of Bangladesh.
The statistics of this struggle for independence are shocking. Between 90,000 and 93,000 members of the Pakistani Armed Forces were taken as prisoners of war by the Indian Army. As many as three million civilians were killed in this conflict. It is estimated that the Pakistani Armed Forces raped up to 400,000 Bengali women. Eight to ten million people fled the country seeking refuge in India.
Our mission to India saved thousands of lives but we all felt unsatisfied, not because of those we helped, but for those we could not.
Chapter 6
When it came time to leave India the hot topic of discussion was: which way do we go? Back west the way we came, or continue east and make a complete circuit of the globe. Naturally, all us young guys wanted to go east just to see the places we hadn’t been. We finally won out and headed east to the states.
After careful planning, the navigators came up with an itinerary for our return. The first stop would be U-Tapao Air Base Thailand, then Yakota Air Base, Japan, Elmendorf AFB, Alaska and finally Pope.
Before leaving India, we had to complete the one mission that every red-blooded American pilot was compelled to do: shop for souvenirs. In addition to the stuff we had already picked up in Spain and Italy we added Indian room screens. These were beautiful mahogany, tri-fold room divider screens, inlaid with brass on one side and ivory on the other. This was definitely a must have item for every C-130 pilot’s home. Plus, it went nicely with the sitar — which I now knew how to hold. Space was getting tight on our airplanes: globe bars, guitars, sitars, room screens, silks, paintings and carvings all had to go somewhere. After the souvenirs were loaded, off we went to Thailand.
U-Tapao Air Base, Thailand, about 90 miles southeast of Bangkok, was beautifully situated on the Gulf of Siam and the first stop on the road home. We had been away from home for over six weeks and we were all eager to get back to our families. But all of us wanted to see Thailand. Those of us who had not been there heard all the stories from the old salts about the food, the weather and most important of all, Thai women. Thai women were beautiful, friendly, mysterious and eager to meet American airmen. Six weeks of living in hellhole conditions without the benefit of female companionship was coming to a welcome close. Irv had been talking non-stop for the last two weeks about the charms of the oriental woman. Adding a note of caution, and throwing a bucket of cold water on the whole discussion was our Flight Surgeon, Dr. “Shaky” Akers.
Shaky got his moniker while on a previous rotation to Europe with the squadron. It
seems some of the boys got a little frisky one night and pushed over a coke machine. As luck would have it, one of the young Captains was pinned under it. The Captain came out unscathed except for an ugly gash on his forearm. Since it was two o’clock in the morning, with alcohol involved, the guys decided to take him directly to Dr. Akers’ room, rather than the base ER. The Doc was unnerved by the whole incident and preceded to stitch up the coke combatant in front of eight witnesses. Maybe it was his rude awakening or just the hooting and loud farting noises from the crowd, but Doc shook as he stitched up the Captain. Hence the name: “Shaky” Akers.
Every time Irv told a story about the magical Thai women he had experienced, Shaky would counter with a gonorrhea-from-hell horror story that was guaranteed to shrink your manhood. These discussions usually occurred while sitting in our Indian O club and consuming large quantities of Indian beer.
Young pilots in those days were decidedly different than today’s group. We grew up in the sixties. In the civilian world, it was the era of Woodstock, free love, and smoking dope. As military pilots we had to keep our hair short. None of us would dare to smoke dope. We couldn’t afford to lose our wings and get dishonorably discharged. But we loved the music: Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, The Beatles, and The Stones. While we stayed away from the dope, the free love part appealed to some.
For those who attended pilot training on the Mexican border it was the first foray into the international sex scene. Nuevo Laredo was just across the bridge from Laredo, and waiting across that bridge were places like Boys Town (not Father Flanagan’s). This Boys Town consisted of several brothels, which contained some very beautiful, reasonable and safe prostitutes. The girls all underwent weekly STD inspections from the Mexican health department. This folded neatly into the philosophy; condoms are for wimps, full speed ahead!
