Sky Spy, Memoirs of a U-2 Pilot

by Jim Carter

  Incirlik was famous for their Turkish crew van drivers. These guys sold pistachio nuts and porn pens. These pens would display several pornographic images as you rotated the barrel, extending or retracting the nib of the pen. These were a must have item for every crewmember and a real conversation starter when we showed them to our friends back in the US. But aside from the pens and the nuts, Incirlik was rough duty.

  As bad as Incirlik was, Adana was much worse; at least the hotel we stayed in was. The room keys were giant, dungeon like, with big, carved wooden balls attached to them. I guess they didn’t want anyone sneaking off with one in their luggage. It wouldn’t fit anyway. At least they put us all on the second floor. Our rooms had small balconies overlooking the street.

  My first order of business was a hot shower, so I headed into the bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain, only to discover about four inches of standing green water. After two room changes (the next room had no sheets covering the soiled mattress) I was finally able to clean up and prepare for the evening. We had a delicious meal of roasted goat kabobs. For all I knew I may have eaten the goat that chewed through the ILS cable the night before. We discussed this possibility at dinner but it didn’t, in the least, detract from our enjoyment of the meal.

  After dinner we left in search of some real Adana nightlife. Turkey is a majority Muslim country but it has a secular government. This meant that alcohol, though strictly controlled, was available. We found a small nightclub not far from the hotel. After several cocktails Herb, Bill and I got up to leave, but Ed Parman insisted on staying. Clint said he would stay with him so we said our goodnights and started back to our rooms.

  I was sleeping soundly until I was awakened by loud, angry, Turkish voices coming from the street below the window. I stepped out onto the balcony in the early morning light to find the cause of the commotion and noticed several people pointing up at the second floor. I looked over to see Parman, in his skivvies, peeing off the balcony onto the sidewalk. He had rained on several people on their way to work and they were making their displeasure known. I saw Herb stick his head out of his room and we acknowledged each other with a nod and both raced to Parman’s room. We yanked him off the balcony and back to bed. It took some serious sweet-talking to convince the hotel manager not to call the police. We told him that Parman had a medical condition that caused him to sleepwalk. We assured him that Parman would take his medication, thereby allowing the citizens of Adana to proceed to work without getting pissed on.

  After four days in Turkey, we were all grateful to be back in Mildenhall. We had a few days off to do some socializing and to catch up on letter writing and laundry. I ran into Irv at the O Club that night and was introduced to his new girlfriend, Angie.

  She was a local girl from Thetford, a village not far from the base. She seemed a good match for Irv. She loved to drink and party and, of course, had answered in the affirmative to Irv’s standard question to every woman he met: “Hi, do you wanna fuck?” Angie knew Irv was married so she wasn’t looking for any long-term commitment, just a good time; and he provided it.

  Angie was a beautiful woman and would bring several friends to the Officer’s club with her. We called them “The Thetford Girls.” The girls had been coming to Mildenhall since long before our arrival. They knew when the C-130 crews were rotating in and made it a point to show up at the club that first week to screen the newcomers for potential boyfriends. Most of these girls weren’t as pretty as Angie. Actually, they were all pretty ugly, but available. The kindest phrase one could use when discussing the possibility of having sex with these babes was, “There’s not enough beer.” They were good sports, however, and could put away their share of the beer.

  Chapter 8

  One of the most colorful characters in our squadron was Captain Buzz Sawyer. Buzz had been an aircraft commander for three years and had been on several rotations so he was very experienced. He was an Air Force Academy grad affectionately known as a Zoomie. We all admired Buzz but knew that he could be a troublemaker when he overindulged. One night at the O Club, Buzz had knocked back a few too many and was cut off by the bartender. This did not make Buzz happy, and it led to a heated exchange with the bartender. Unable to resolve the issue, the bartender called over the club manager. Buzz would not back down; he wanted a drink and he wanted it now. The club manager escorted him to the door and kicked him out. That worked for about five seconds. Buzz came storming back in and then all hell broke loose.

  The club manager and the bartender jumped on his back and Buzz bounced around the room doing his best imitation of a Brahma bull trying to toss off not one, but two riders. Herb and I helped subdue him. We convinced him, for his own wellbeing and for the sake of his Air Force career, that he should go to bed. We escorted him back to his room on the second floor of the BOQ, got his keys away from him, and locked him in his room. Our work having been accomplished, Herb and I returned to the club.

  The club manager was so shaken up that he called the SPs (Security Police) and had them stand guard at the main door of the Officer’s club just in case Buzz returned. The club manager’s hunch was correct.

  Buzz did not give up easily. After just a few minutes of lying in bed he decided to head back to the club. Finding his door locked, he figured he’d just go out the window. The drawback to this was that he was on the second floor. Not a problem for Buzz; he was a pilot — he could fly. He jumped out the window.

  Luckily a tree broke his fall. He managed to climb down from the tree. Scratched up but undeterred, he made his way back to the club. He spotted the SPs at the door so he devised an alternate strategy of getting in.

  The bar had a large plate-glass window that looked out onto an expansive lawn. Buzz wanted into the bar and the only thing between him and another drink was that window. He jumped through it.

  The crash got everyone’s attention. From the pile of broken glass and upturned tables and chairs, rose Buzz. Cut and bleeding from a hundred different places, he calmly dusted himself off, walked up to the bar and ordered himself a triple scotch. Buzz spent that night at the base hospital getting stitched up.

  That was the last time I saw Buzz until many years later when I was flying for Eastern Airlines. It was the summer of 1986 and I was laying over in Miami. I was relaxing at the hotel bar and looked up to see Buzz sitting across from me. We spent the next couple of hours catching up.

  Buzz had left Pope and gone to Vietnam to fly the AC-130 gunship, a truly fearsome flying death machine. The weaponry is mounted to fire from the left side of the airplane. The gunship crew would pick their target and do a standard turn around the target to the left, and it would rain down the lead. It was armed with two 20-millimeter M 61 Vulcan cannons, two Bofors 40-millimeter auto-cannons and one 105-millimeter cannon.

  After returning from Vietnam, Buzz left the Air Force and got a job with the CIA. When I met him in Miami he was flying missions for Southern Air Transport, a CIA run air cargo outfit.

  About three months after our chance meeting the Sandinistas in Nicaragua shot down a C-123 aircraft flown by Buzz. He was trying to deliver supplies to the Contras. Both pilots and a radio operator were killed in the crash. The only survivor was the loadmaster, Eugene Hasenfus. Hasenfus had disobeyed orders and wore a parachute on the mission. When Sandinista missiles struck the aircraft, Hasenfus jumped out and lived to tell about it.

  Things quieted down in Mildenhall after Buzz went on his rampage. During my downtime I kept busy by reading books and articles to pass the time. One book that caught my interest was, “Operation Overflight: A Memoir of the U-2 Incident.” Francis Gary Powers wrote it.

  The U-2 is a high altitude, single-pilot reconnaissance aircraft that operates above 70,000 feet. It played a vital role in the cold war. Every pilot dreams about flying his or her ultimate aircraft. For me, the U-2 was that aircraft. It was exotic, mysterious, and very difficult to fly. It operated well above the range of both commercial and military aircraft. The U-2 program w
as extremely difficult to get into, but the rewards of flying this bird made all the work worthwhile. The U-2 pilot performed an important national defense mission and was rewarded with a view of the earth that few people ever had. I admired the mission, the aircraft and people that flew it. Powers’ book started me thinking that I could become a U-2 pilot. I didn’t have the requirements needed to get into the program but began to plan my future around my holy grail of joining the elite U-2 program.

  Our rote car, the leaky Jaguar, always needed some attention. Driving back to the base one night from Surrey, we hit a pothole that disabled the headlights (good old Lucas wiring). We continued down the road waiting for them to come back on but then we hit a large tree branch in the road, which we couldn’t see without the lights. The jolt of the impact forced my foot down and through the floorboard. Because we had such nice floor mats, we hadn’t noticed that the bottom of the car was rusting away. My right foot was now dangling between the car and the roadway. The driver and the other three passengers thought I had twisted my ankle, not put it through the floor, so on they went. Twisting and turning, I pulled my leg up but it remained jammed in the hole. The interior lighting was also out, so I grabbed my flashlight and lit up the problem. One giant yank and twist and my foot was free, but without my shoe.

  Waving my shoeless foot around finally convinced the driver to stop. Everyone piled out, flashlights in hand, scouring the roadway for my shoe. We found it not too far back in the middle of the road. We continued on our way.

  The next day we consulted with our maintenance guru, Sgt. McDermott. He was able to scrounge some sheet metal. We cut the pieces to fit over the floorboards and his buddy at the hangar welded them in place. The Jag would live on. We had to keep the car in running condition so we could pass it on to the next rotation group. If we didn’t, we would lose our investment.

  Chapter 9

  As we geared up for our next trip, our Aircraft Commander, Herb, had to return to Pope to be with his wife after she underwent an emergency appendectomy. His replacement was Mike Langley. Mike was a sharp pilot and an easygoing guy. We got along well.

  The next mission was to the island of Crete in the Mediterranean. The US Navy has a base on the island at Souda Bay, on the north side. The plan was to fly down there non-stop, deliver our cargo, and spend the night. Just as we began our descent, the number four-engine oil pressure started dropping out of the safe range. We throttled back on Number 4 but kept it running. The landing was uneventful.

  Maintenance determined that one of the oil pressure transmitters had gone bad. They needed a day to have it repaired. It meant we got to spend an extra night on the island. It was a great place to be stuck.

  There were several excellent restaurants within a short drive from the base. The restaurants specialized in fresh lamb dishes and what is now known as the “Mediterranean Diet.” Both nights we feasted on the wonderful food and the delicious Greek wine.

  Crete was the best place to buy a genuine Flokati rug. This is a handmade rug made from shag wool. The rug’s backing is also wool and the shag emerging from the backing can be up to six inches long. After the rug is woven, it’s placed in a cold river to fluff the shag. I bought one and still have it today.

  With our airplane fixed and shopping complete, it was time to head back to Mildenhall. Just before departure, we received a message asking us to stop in Athens to pick up an Army General and his aide. We made the quick stop in Athens, boarded our passengers, and were off to England.

  Before our arrival, the weather had deteriorated at Mildenhall. The English weather is challenging; especially when the fog rolls in. This fog bank covered the entire southern half of the country. This happened to be where all of the bases were. We checked the Mildenhall weather just prior to leaving Athens and even though there were low ceilings and visibility, it was good enough to try an approach and landing there. The problem was that it was trending worse and it was widespread. We loaded as much fuel as possible and listed our alternate airport as Ramstein Air Base, Germany. When the weather drops below certain ceiling and visibility minimums an alternate airport must be listed in the flight plan. This was the closest base with decent weather so we would head there if we couldn’t land at our destination.

  When we arrived at Mildenhall the weather was just at minimums: 200’ ceiling and a half mile visibility. Most of today’s airliners are computer controlled and flown mostly on autopilot. The normal takeoff and landing are done manually but when the weather is bad, the autopilot can take the aircraft right down to touchdown. After touchdown and rollout, the pilot disconnects the autopilot and taxis clear of the runway. Using the autopilot enables today’s crews to land in much worse weather than the C-130 in 1972 ever could.

  The C-130 instrument approaches and landings were hand-flown by either the Aircraft Commander or the co-pilot. Both were fully qualified to take the aircraft down to minimums.

  Floating through this solid weather at night was an eerie sensation. Managing the exterior lighting was critical in accomplishing a successful bad weather approach and landing. Turning the lights on prior to that was blinding in the dense fog. We decided to keep the landing lights off until the runway came into view. There are also rotating beacons that increase the visibility of the plane in flight and warn ground personnel when engines are operating. Sometimes the red beacon lights bounce off the clouds and can cause vertigo. We hadn’t felt any effects from the rotating beacon yet so we left it on.

  Mike began the first approach. We stayed on course and glide path. We were in the weather at 1000 feet, at 500 feet and finally at 200 feet, still in the weather, no runway in view. We executed a missed approach.

  Mike set up for the next approach and it was now my turn to fly. While turning for the next approach, Mike started complaining of vertigo. I continued to fly as he sat back and closed his eyes. I started feeling a bit wobbly myself so I opted to turn off the beacon. My approach looked like an instant replay of his. It was on course and glide path all the way down but the weather never broke. We did another missed approach.

  There was enough fuel to do three or four approaches and still make it to Ramstein. As we climbed out and set up for the next one my vertigo increased. Mike now felt better and I transferred control back to him.

  Mike started in on the approach. The air traffic controller reported the visibility had increased slightly so our hopes were high for this one. All remained the same right down to minimums but just as we started going around again, a portion of the runway became visible. We were in no position to land so we continued with the missed approach.

  Vertigo is insidious and after flying approaches in the weather it can come on quickly. The climbs, descents, turns, accelerations and decelerations, can significantly affect the inner ear. Mike’s vertigo came back quickly. Vertigo affects the inner ear, which affects balance. Mike had the false sensation that the aircraft was turning left but we were actually flying straight and level. Many inexperienced pilots try to correct the false sensation of turning by rolling in the opposite direction. The pilot has to disregard his perception and believe the instruments. Many a pilot has spiraled himself into a smoking hole following this false perception and not following his instruments.

  Since my vertigo had stopped Mike turned the controls back to me. We decided to try one more approach before diverting to Ramstein. Just as we reached minimums, the lead-in lights and the first few runway lights came into view. I followed the glideslope down and landed about 1500 feet down the runway.

  The fog at the end of the runway was much worse than at the approach end. When we cleared the runway, the tower called and asked our position. We gave him the taxiway identifier and requested a follow-me truck to lead us to our ramp. The soup was so thick we couldn’t see the edges of the taxiway, which was 150 feet wide. The follow-me truck found us in the fog and led us back to our ramp. The General was very glad to be back on the ground. He thanked us profusely for delivering him safely, walked off the a
irplane to his waiting staff car, and we never saw him again.

  We met up at the O club later that night and discussed the flight over a few cold ones. We learned that our airplane was the only one to make it into Mildenhall that night. With the way the fog was moving, if we had arrived just five minutes later we wouldn’t have seen anything on that fourth approach.

  We had the next few days off and Mike and I decided to take the train to London for some sightseeing. Mike had been there several times but this visit would be my first. We managed to see most of the popular sights including St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Tower of London, the crown jewels, Big Ben and Parliament. My personal favorite was 221B Baker Street, the residence of Sherlock Holmes. As a boy I had read everything by Holmes’ creator, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. There is no real 221B Baker Street but it’s marked nonetheless, as Sherlock Holmes address. Just standing in front his fictional address was thrilling to me and I could imagine his adventures. It made the whole trip worthwhile.

  We wanted to wrap up our day by visiting a traditional English pub. Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street looked perfect. It enticed us by its claim to be the oldest pub in London. The pub may have been old but the beer was certainly fresh and it was a pleasant way to finish off a day of strenuous sightseeing.

  There were too many things we hadn’t done in London but our flight schedule demanded our return to base. London wasn’t going anywhere, but we were. We put more sightseeing there on our “to do” list.

  Chapter 10

  Next up for us was a joint training exercise at the naval air station in Naples, Italy. These joint training exercises are regularly scheduled events. They focus on integrating the actions of different branches of the military. US Air Force units, for example, work well together but coordination with the Navy or the Army was required because each service had its own particular way of doing things. The joint exercises stressed communication and cooperation.