He no longer considered me a lazy, good for nothing, bum
This is an excerpt from my upcoming book, ‘The Adventures of an Air Force Medic.” Book is fiction but based on my two years as an air force medic in northern California back in the early ’80s.
Photo: Beechcraft Baron (T-42) by Daniel Popinga on Flickr.
I waited in the flight line operations area for the OK to board our aircraft. It felt good to be inside the air-conditioned building, escaping the one hundred plus degree end-of-July soaring Sacramento dry heat.
My fellow ‘aircraft wait-ers’ carried some clout, a lieutenant colonel and a major. Both dressed in ‘blues.’ We had to wear our air force blue uniform to fly ‘Space-A’ which is military jargon for ‘space available.’ The three of us waited patiently to board the aircraft heading for Westover Air Force Base near Springfield, Massachusetts.
I felt lucky, going home. I had arranged for Dad to pick me up and then spend the weekend with the family back in good old Pelham New Hampshire.
How did I score this good gig? Good question. Well, it turns out my favorite co-worker Captain Kevin tipped me off. A week earlier he called out, “Hey Mitch, you’re from back east up north somewhere right?”
I replied, “Yeah.”
“Well, there’s a plane heading for Boston next weekend, would that get you close to home? I saw it on the HOP schedule. I like to check the schedule ‘cause I’m always looking for flights. This flight would be perfect for you. Gets you in on Friday and back here on Tuesday, five days, perfect, see your folks, free ride out and back. You should check it out.”
Following Captain Kevin’s advice, I called up the flight line operations center and put my name on the list. They told me chances are good I’d get a seat. Now I had to figure out a way to get the five days off from work.
I first thought about taking military leave, but getting leave approved, especially on short notice, is near impossible. Captain Kevin came to the rescue again, “Don’t take leave. Look at the schedule; you got three of the days off anyway. Do a swap and forget taking leave. Why take leave when you don’t have to; save it for later. Just make sure your shifts are covered and then get your ass on that plane; get home and see your folks.”
Again, I took the good Captain’s advice. He gave me the encouragement and confidence to pull it off. And, that’s exactly what it felt like – I’m pulling off a stunt. If anything happened during those five days away, I wondered, ‘How am I going to explain it? Oh, I just took off across the country for the weekend. No big deal; wanted to see my folks; plane heading that way anyway, I hopped on; nothing to see here, no foul play, no big deal.’
A corny sounding defense – yes. But what if I never had to use it? What if I go and come back without incident, then ‘who cares?’ Captain Kevin is right. The odds are in my favor, who’s going to know and who’s going to care? As long as … nothing crazy happens.
I horse traded with co-workers to get my two shifts covered. They were happy to pull my shifts knowing I’d agreed to pull their ‘ugliest’ shifts; usually night shift. They had leverage, I didn’t. I’d agree to their demands.
The terms HOP and Space-A are interchangeable, both mean the same thing – catching a military plane ride. Air force planes are taking off for exotic locations all the time so eligible military folks can catch a ‘free’ flight to many destination around the globe.
But there’s a problem, this form of transport is not reliable. You can get stranded. The ‘needs’ of the air force come first therefore, if the air force ‘needs’ you to get off the plane, you get off. They’re civilized about it. They don’t make you jump from thirty-thousand feet. They’ll land the plane and then tell you the bad news.
I have experience receiving Space-A bad news, learning first-hand you can get bumped at any point in the journey. In 1989, while taking a HOP from Clark Air Base in the Philippines to Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii, the plane made an unscheduled stop at Anderson Air Force Base in Guam. At the terminal in Guam I heard my name called over the loudspeaker system. I made my way to the flight operations counter and a young airman delivered the bad news, “Sorry, you’ve been bumped.” Translation: ‘The air force needs you to get off the plane.’ I now had a problem called, ‘stranded on a remote island in the pacific.’ The young airman inflicted more pain when he snickered, “Enjoy your stay in Guam.”
But, way back in 1983, when I took this daring cross country HOP, I didn’t realize Space-A travel involved significant risk. And I’m not talking about aircraft maintenance; the planes are fine. Your chances of getting to your final destination hang in the balance and have nothing to do with aircraft flight-worthiness; but everything to do with your ‘priority’ and the all-encompassing ‘needs of the air force.’
I overheard the lieutenant colonel and the major talking about our upcoming flight. “They got an airshow at Westover. They’re flying this T-42 for a static display. Got planes coming in from all over, big airshow; draws thousands. Glad we got a plane going, save me paying to go home.
“Yeah, good duty for the pilots; fly the bird there, sit around for the weekend, then fly back. They hang out with the plane during the show, not doing any flying, just a static display; easy weekend for them. I remember those gigs. They justify it by calling it a training mission. They’ll have a newbie flying the plane. Give the new pilot some flying hours. I hope we get a good one, some of these newbies can be rough on the edges, but generally they’re good.”
The airman behind the flight operations desk gave the OK signal, so the lieutenant colonel and major headed out the door to board the plane. The lowly airman – me – followed close behind.
The T-42 is a small aircraft. We squeezed in to our seats and the co-pilot looked back and gave us the flight briefing, short and to the point, “Buckle-up fellas, we’re taking off.”
The aircraft twin engines, one on each wing, roared as the propellers buzz-sawed through the dry hot northern California summertime air. We gracefully rolled parallel to the security fence making our way to the main runway. As we did, the major in the seat opposite me, called out, “Look! The BUFF! Oh, my God, what happened?”
I snapped my neck right to his side of the plane and peered through the small window. I didn’t see anything strange. I got up out of my seat to get a closer look and then the ‘strange’ became apparent.
The major continued his commentary, “The wing’s off! Can you believe that, the wing’s lying on the tarmac? Almost looks like they took it off for repairs, like they meant to do it, never seen that before. It’s scary. Can you imagine being in flight and having the wing fall off?”
The pilot entered the conversation, “Yeah that’s the B-52 they were talking about today in the de-brief. The maintenance guys came in this morning and one of them ran back into the building saying ‘The wing fell off, the wing fell off.’ It’s embarrassing. They’re trying to keep it low key, don’t want to make a spectacle of it.
“But, damn, those BUFFs are old, takes a lot to keep ‘em flying. They’re showing their age. They don’t want it getting out if they can help it. Don’t want the newspapers finding out.”
The lieutenant colonels took his turn, “Doesn’t surprise me. The fifty-two is a work horse, you can’t keep beating it, got to maintain ‘em, and that ain’t cheap. Cost money to keep them things flying. And, if you ain’t got the money they fall apart. That’s what you’re seeing out there, the plane fell apart.”
“Yeah, that’s what they said at the debrief,” the pilot explained, “The weight of the wing was too much and the spar just gave way. But, they say it’s weaker in that direction than when under load and flying. That’s what they say; don’t know if it’s true. I wouldn’t want to fly a plane like that; the wing collapses onto the ground just sitting on the flight line, not even flying. No sir.”
Our T-42 aircraft continued out onto the main runway, turned to get aligned; then the pilot ‘punched it’ forcing my head back against the seat. We sped up to takeoff speed and I thought, ‘Hope the wings on this plane are OK …’
I remember landing at Westover Air Force Base, but not sure about stops along the way. We must have stopped to refuel because the T-42 six seater Beechcraft can only go about one thousand miles on a tank of fuel. So, to make the 2,600 mile flight, we must have stopped to refuel, but I can’t remember any stops.
I walked down the stairs leading from the aircraft to the runway. I held the rail as I looked out to take in the view. The flight line appeared to go on forever. As I scanned the scene, I noticed, far off behind a yellow temporary fence, a man standing beside a white Toyota pickup smoking a cigarette. I quickly pieced it together, ‘Dad smokes, Dad drives a white Toyota pickup, Dad stands like that guy … It’s DAD!”
I reached the bottom of the stairs and began a quick trot towards the far away man standing next the white Toyota pickup – Dad.
Dad called out first, “Hi-ya Seanie! Nice looking plane you got there!”
“Dad, how’d you get out here on the flight line, how’d you manage that? You some kind of VIP or sumpin?”
“First, I ain’t on the flightline, this is the parking lot, see the yellow barriers,” Dad explained, “Next, I told them I’m picking up my son who’s in the air force coming in from Mather, they said, ‘come on in.’ What’s the big deal? You said pick me up, I’m here, doing my job.”
I laughed. It felt great to cut-up with Dad. He’s a cut-up when he wants to be. Our relationship had changed, for the better. He no longer resented me. He no longer considered me a lazy, good for nothing, bum.
The drive from Springfield seemed short and next thing I’m walking into the basement door of our log cabin home in the backwoods of southern New Hampshire, when I hear Mom’s voice call out, “Welcome home Sean, what are you doing this weekend?”
I walked up the stairs and gave Mom a big hug and said, “Don’t I get a hello first? What am I doing this weekend? I’m home, I’m visiting you and Dad, what do you mean what am I doing?”
“I know that Seanie, but do you have plans to visit friends or any events you booked in?”
“No, nothing. Was I supposed to? I came all the way from California to see you and Dad, that’s it. They had a flight going so I figured; why not go home for the weekend?”
“Well, here’s why I’m asking, your father and I are going to Florida tomorrow, then we’re back on Sunday; going down to look at some land. Don’t worry; we’re not buying any land. But, they’re flying us down and back and putting us up in a hotel for a hundred bucks. That’s a cheap weekend vacation to Florida. And if you buy land – which we’re not – they’ll put the hundred bucks towards the land purchase.
“You want to come with us? Only cost you a hundred bucks can’t beat that. Trip to Florida for a hundred bucks and they pay the plane ticket, hotel and – oh yeah – meals too. And, they drive us around too. Take us to the airport, to the hotel; our chauffer while in Florida. It’s a big developer from New Hampshire and he’s bought tracks of land in Florida, building a huge estate. They’re drumming up business, so they’re offering this sweet deal. You should come; all I got to do is tell them to add you. Only a hundred bucks, I’ll lend you the money for Christ sake.”
I got sold early on in the story, “Yeah, I’ll go. Hundred bucks, trip to Florida, I’m in.”
So, I spent that late July 1983 Saturday and Sunday in Florida. I wondered, ‘Hmmm, if anything happens to me in Florida, how do I explain this to my boss back in California? Oh, I left for New Hampshire for the weekend; then a good deal came up so I went to Florida.’
My itinerary looked strange; like a fugitive running from the law; like a military guy going AWOL (absent without leave). It didn’t present good optics. But I went anyway; too good a deal to pass up, go to Florida cheap and hang out with Mom and Dad at the same time.
We flew back into Boston Logan Airport on Sunday evening and our ‘hosts’ gave us a van ride home. In Boston, the van started off full of passengers, but as we dropped people off, Mom, Dad and I were the only passengers left for the last twenty minutes or so across the state line into New Hampshire.
When we walked into the house Mom summed up the weekend, “Well, so much for not buying any land.”
Mom and Dad bought an acre of sand … I mean land and I bought one too. My block sat adjacent to their block. We had visions of one day being neighbors in Florida.
Why did we buy land? Turns out they wined and dined us a little too well. Our salesman overachieved and by the end of the weekend he had me sold; I’d buy whatever he’s selling. Turns out he had one acre blocks of land for sale and therefore I bought one. Mom lent me the twelve hundred down payment and I signed up to pay two hundred a month for ten years.
Tuesday morning Dad gave me a ride to Westover Air Force Base and I ‘hopped’ on the T-42 for the plane ride back to California. When we landed at Mather, I climbed off the aircraft, walked down the flight line past the B-52 with the missing wing, entered the flight operations building, exited out the front door and then walked back to my home at the hospital barracks. I opened the door to my room and Leandro greeted me, “How was your trip?”
I replied, “Great, but now that I’m back, it feels like I never left.”
I reported for duty at the SCU the next day with no incident. I felt good. It felt like I got away with something; like I dodged a bullet; like Jesse James robbing the train and the cops can’t catch him. I’d been away from my duty station for five days – spent time in New Hampshire and Florida – the other side of the United States and to top it off – didn’t take any military leave. I breathed a sigh of relief and thought, ‘That was exciting. Not sure I’ll try that again but boy what an adventure.’
My co-conspirator Captain Kevin – the guy that gave me the courage to pull it off – greeted me on my return to work, “Hey Mitch, did you say hi to your Mom and Dad for me?”
I laughed, he laughed; we got back to work.
