My Life in England and Supporting
NATO
Once again
in today’s world we are focusing on Europe and the trauma we face with
differing political ideologies that exist in an ever-changing world. As a young man back in 1956,
I was first introduced to NATO as an Air Force pilot while deployed to the UK
in support of our commitment to NATO and European defense against the forces of
the Soviet Union during what was known as the Cold War.
It was a
confusing time, and I didn’t fully grasp the situation and the complexities
associated with maintaining world peace.
All I remember was sitting in an aircraft loaded with a nuclear device
and listing to the aircraft radio waiting for direction regarding a target and
who would the enemy be. Was it the British,
the French, or the Russian’s?
We knew
there was a squabble between the Britts and the French over control of the Suez
cannel and we had a briefing that the Russians were massing on the Turkish
border. We were briefed that we may be
going to war, and we needed to identify our next of kin and write a brief note with
our money and identification enclosed and give it to the Operations
Officer. Well, that seemed to clear up
after about 24 hours and the worlds negotiators resolved the issue without our
war. After that I went back to being
part of the Strategic defense force fighting the Cold War.
After a few
more years in SAC, I was assigned to a Medium Tactical Bomb Wing in the
UK. In 1960, my wife and I moved to
England to be a part of the 47th Bomb Wing located at RAF Sculthorpe
near Newbery England. We were there as
part of the 3rd Air Force and the U.S. commitment to NATO’s obligation
to defend Europe and the UK against hostile Eastern European countries involved
in the Cold War. There were F-84’s in
France and Germany, F-100’s in the UK and our B-66B bombers in the UK. All were part of the NATO Force that
represented the United States first strike capability dedicated to NATO. And the Cold War went on.
We
took our commitment seriously and honed our response capability
frequently. While we lived on the Base,
we were required to be an active part of a response capability 24 hours a
day. We took the charge seriously and
lived with it to the extent that an alarm horn was installed in the hallway
just outside of every crewmember’s home.
Should a strike response be required, the horn was activated, and we
responded by rushing to the squadron ready to go to war. This was a family affair and we developed our
family process should the need arise.
As I
remember it this was tested frequently and almost always it was in the middle
of the night when we were sound asleep.
In my family, I had my long johns at the bottom of the bed with my socks
and boots nearby. My flying suit was
hung on the wardrobe door and my jacket and helmet were at the bottom of the
stairs. While I donned the underwear,
boots and flying suit my wife ran to the bottom of the stairs, grabbed the
jacket with one arm and the helmet bag ready for me and my arm insertion. She would have the front door open to
facilitate a rapid exit. I’m sure it
looked and was like a rerun of a Dagwood and Blondie cartoon. But it worked and I would be getting a target
briefing with my crew in less than 15 minutes.
We picked up
our parachutes and rode the crew bus to the aircraft where a bomb crew was
waiting for us to load a training device, preflight the aircraft and await
further instructions. With the radio on
we were given start engines times and taxi instructions. Sometimes it all stopped and we were graded
on our response but there were other times that we closed the hatches, started
the engines and taxied to the active runway.
It seems to me that this always happened in the middle of the night and
we were half asleep practicing the rote response we trained for on a daily
basis. There were times we taxied to the
runway, were cleared into position then told to return to the ramp. I remember one night the alarm sounded and my
wife and I did our thing with perfection.
She opened the front door and fog bellowed into the house like smoke
from a smoldering fire. My thoughts were
great, this won’t last long, we won’t be flying in this mess and I can go back
home and resume my nights nap.
After our
briefing, the loading exercise and our preflight were completed we ran our
checklists and started the engines. We
called for taxi instructions and were given clearance to the active
runway. When I arrived at the departure
end of the runway, I was told to take the left side of the runway after another
aircraft took the right side. I could
see one runway light ahead of me and knew that was only about 100 feet or so and
I was sure we wouldn’t fly in this fog.
The guy on my right was cleared to roll and shortly after, I was cleared
to go. I counted the lights as the
started passing on my left and noted that they really were passing fast and I
should soon be told to abort and return to the ramp. Well, I wasn’t and when I looked at the
airspeed indicator it read 160 and I knew I was going to fly. My first response was oh s—t! I’m going to fly tonight and off I went into
the nights swirling fog.
It was
rotate, gear up, flaps up and climb power with a radio frequency change to
Anglia Control. Then it was off to Nice, Southern France and our simulated
target before returning to fog shrouded ole England. After that departure and a call to the
squadron ops I was told that when we returned, we would get a tanker orbiting
Hopton beacon over the North Sea. I
liked aerial refueling and enjoyed the formation flying aspects and challenges
it presented. The tanker would orbit at
22 thousand feet and we could get wet (jet fuel) and dry (no fuel)
hookups. The 2 thousand pounds of fuel
we would upload would give us time to practice on the tanker, lots of fun.
After our
successful bomb run on Nice, we turned Northwest, climbed to about 43 thousand
feet and enjoyed the ride home. I was
encouraged to find out that the fog was lifting and the refueling area was reported
clear so that was going to take some more of the pressure off since the weather
worry was gone. It was a quiet ride home
since the French Air Traffic Control was almost always on strike and didn’t
communicate with us even if we tried to talk to them. It was radio silence till we approached the
UK and contacted Anglia Control for clearance into the British controlled air
space.
The North
Sea is a cold foreboding body of water that washes the shores of Northern
England and for those who live there and along the coast of Norfolk County it’s
a summer playground. The natives holiday
along the shore and enjoy the rocky beaches and all that the area has to offer. We lived in the area and enjoyed life on the
coast road in the village of West Runton and the sea washed against the cliffs
behind our cottage. At night while in
bed we could hear the waves wash the shore and every evening we were comforted
by the sound of the RAF flying a reconnaissance mission along the shore in
their famous and reliable World War 2 Lancaster. All of this is a walk through some of the
best years of our lives, but I digress and must continue with my story of some
memories from our life in England.
Where was I
in this tail of a young pilot’s adventure and reflection on life’s lessons so
often learned the hard way? There I was
on top of the world at 43 thousand feet and in command of everything around
me. I was flying a jet so high in the
sky and at a blistering speed of 480 knots, the world was at my finger
tips. I was approaching the North Sea
homing in on Hopton Beacon and looking for a KB-50 tanker somewhere ahead at 22
thousand feet. I tuned the refueling
frequency on the radio and called the tanker to arrange our rendezvous and
subsequent refueling. He as outbound
from the beacon about 20 miles east of Hopton and over water. As I continued out to sea on my Northwest heading,
I found the tanker that appeared as a speck over the water so far below. My heart was pounding with anticipation,
anxiety, and my plans for an exciting and spectacular fighter attack on the
helpless bomber below.
I headed for the Base and started my approach with a GCA,
(Ground Controlled Approach). There
wasn’t any cockpit chatter and I landed safely, deployed the Drag Chute and
rolled another 8,000 feet, turned off the runway and parked in the Drag Chute
jettison area. I set the parking brakes
and dropped the chute. The only
conversation was checklist challenge and reply.
When I was cleared to the hardstand for parking, I tried to release the
parking brakes (to release the parking brake you had to depress the rudder
pedals) but couldn’t get my legs and feet to respond. My legs were bouncing uncontrollably, and my
feet were useless. I’m not sure how long
I sat there till I stopped shaking but it seemed like forever. I had learned a valuable lesson that guided
the rest of my flying career. I was
still alive and I knew that my “fun” stupidity had endangered the lives of my
two other crew members. I’m still
apologizing for that to this day. The
lesson, THERE ARE OLD PILOTS AND BOLD PILOTS BUT THERE AREN’T ANY OLD, BOLD
PILOTS. This real life story was
from my mid-twenties and the lesson guided me for the rest of my flying
career.