Heck, I reckon you wouldn’t even be human beings if ya didn’t have some pretty strong feelings about nuclear combat. But I want ya to remember one thing, tha folks back home is a countin’ on ya, and by golly

The 380^th Field Maintenance Squadron

Next stop was our squadron headquarters building. R.B. turned me over to Sergeant Major Torres and left. Like R.B., Torres was a short, thin, wiry little guy. As we talked, one cheek would spasmodically contract. I later learned that he was one of the few survivors of the infamous Battan Death March. Torres took my orders and turned me over to an airman who processed them.

A few minutes later the airman led me into the office of Major Howard Carver, the squadron’s security officer. He was in his mid forties and seemed rather easy-going. The airman handed him a thick sealed folder with my name on it. Carver asked me to sit down, opened it and began thumbing through the contents. Although he was somewhat laid back and relaxed, his eyes reflected intensity of thought. Occasionally, an eyebrow would arch, which indicated to me that he stumbled across something of special interest or that he had been surprised by some unnamed discovery. He took his sweet time and the more he took, the more apprehensive I became. I kept asking myself, “My God, what’s in that folder?” Finally, he finished, picked up the stack of papers, held them between his palms and bumped them against his desk top a few times to get them lined up. He stuffed them back in the folder. He laid it on his desk, pushed back his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He didn’t say a word. He just looked at me. Although I maintained my outward composure, I was damned nervous.

Finally he said, “that’s quite a resume.” I sharply answered in my best Fork Union voice, “Yes Sir.” He tapped on the folder. “I’ve seen very few security checks as detailed as this one, and they were for officers in highly sensitive positions.” I responded with another sharp, “Yes Sir.” Carver then asked, “What the hell are you doing here?” Before I could answer, he ordered me to “knock off that military school bullshit and give me a straight answer.” This was a moment of truth. I cautiously asked if I could speak freely, off-the-record, and man-to-man. He urged me to do so and I replied, “I’m tired of always being evaluated by my relationship to others. Everyone has always trying to force me into things that I didn’t want to do.” I paused, then added, “My enlistment was impulsive, but I don’t regret it. I’m an airman, nothing more and nothing less. Noone knows my background and I’m enjoying just being ‘one of the guys.’ I would appreciate it if you kept the contents of that file to yourself.” He considered my answer, then began nodding his head, up and down in agreement. He appreciated my honesty and apparently understood my situation. He picked up the folder, stuffed it in his desk, and said, “Your secrets are safe with me.” After a short pause, he added, “Good luck to you.”

He approved my Top Secret security clearance. As Major Carver filled out some papers, it occurred to me that the delay in receiving my orders at Chanute was almost surely the result of the prolonged security investigation; it had probably been prompted by Uncle Joel’s high political profile. Carver finished his work and escorted me to the orderly room and introduced me to Andy, then asked him to escort me through the rest of my processing and help me get settled. I was impressed by the fact that Major Carver asked, he did not order. That was not just a courtesy extended to me, it was just the way he was. We later became close friends.

Andy drove me over to the Old Base, where I was photographed. I then received my security clearance identification badge, which had to be worn at all times. We then went to the barracks. My new room was about fourteen by sixteen feet, much larger than that at Fork Union. Each room had a sink and every two rooms shared a private toilet and shower. Two guys were assigned to a room. The accom­modations were quite spacious, but what was most surprising was the décor. SAC policy was that airmen could do whatever they wanted to their rooms so long as they were kept clean and safe. Later, as I visited other rooms, I was shocked by the non-uniformity. It was so unmilitary. Some guys didn’t believe in wasting money on décor, so they took advantage of standard Air Force issue. They painted their room in a choice of a half-dozen Air Force provided paints, and took advantage of free bed spreads and curtains. Others guys looked upon their rooms as their homes and put effort and their own money into decorating. They went to local paint stores and selected their own colors. They purchased their own spreads and curtains and many put down carpet and even bought easy chairs. SAC granted its airmen a tremendous amount of freedom. One guy painted his entire room black and stuck glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.

Later in the winter, I painted the walls beige with sandal wood trim and doors. Mom gave me a large rug that been in my baby brother and sister’s room. It was pink, so I had it dyed dark brown. I had three Playboy Playmates framed and they went on the wall. Hot plates were not permitted, so I built an easy chair; the seat could be easily removed to provide a hiding place for one. The back snapped off to provide a hidden cache for my groceries.

I deposited my gear, took off my Class A uniform and slipped into fatigues. Andy and I stopped by the mess hall for a late lunch. It was spacious, well-lit modern building. Meals were served cafeteria style. The food was excellent and you could eat all you wanted. Guys would often go back for dessert three and four times. Andy told me the wing operated twenty-four hours a day so the chow hall never closed. There was no set time for meals. We could come in at any time and get whatever we wanted: breakfast, lunch or dinner. Few restaurants offer such service. Great barracks. Gracious living. Wonderful food. Fantastic resort area. What more could I want? This was very good living, especially for an enlisted man. Very few colleges had such nice facilities and as I got to know my fellow airmen, I learned that some came from ghettos, poor dirt farms and economically depressed industrial areas. Few of them lived this well in civilian life. Maybe Adcock wasn’t such a bullshit artist after all.

The shop consisted of a small trailer, probably twenty-eight feet long and quite old. R.B. had constructed a wooden cage at one end that served as the office. Down both sides, the welding shop had constructed metal frames. Our heavy metal tool boxes slid under them and a thin cushion was on top, permitting them to be used as benches. A large storage cabinet was built into the opposite end of the trailer. A television set sat on it. I soon learned that it was our primary link to the outside world. Next to the trailer, the guys had built a shed of scrap lumber scrounged from various sources. It housed parts and hardware. In the grand scheme of things, this little maintenance shop was obviously a very little back-water operation, but it was R.B.’s domain and he was it’s king. He was ambitious and gung-ho. He had painted both structures white, borrowed stencils from the paint shop and painted star-studded blue strips diagonally across them. He had transformed an old trailer and a wood shed into aero-space vehicles with a mission.

I was stationed at Plattsburgh for almost two-and-a-half years. During that time, people would come and go, so I’m unsure if all were there when I first arrived. I eventually became close friends with Sergeants Johnny Walker and Jimmy Bowdoin. I remember sergeants Tosco, Roux, and Boen. The airmen included Don Craig, Matt Welsh, Bill Penny, Hopsadavis, Griffin, Peters, Senebaum, Bob Webster, Fischer and an airman first who had washed out of navigator school. Don and I became room mates. Sergeant Driscoll and an airman serviced the fuel system of the tankers, but we rarely saw them as the tankers required comparatively little maintenance. There were others, but I’ve forgotten their names. In a recent conversation with R.B., he recalled sergeants Suttle and Nickerson, but I don’t remember them.

I didn’t get much sleep that night. Everyone in my generation was intimately familiar with the threat of nuclear war, but it was an abstract. Images of the alert area flashed through my mind, the giant planes heavily laden with nuclear bombs and poised for instant attack. The threat was now very real. I thought about what R.B. had told me about our base having enough nuclear weapons to destroy the entire state of New York twice over and tried to mentally reconcile this enormous potential for destruction with SAC’s motto, “Peace is our Profession.”

The next day I was up early. Don and I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, then went into work. R.B. told me to go over to the supply center and get my tools. He called for a truck and in moments I was on my way. It went quickly and I was soon back in the shop. The big, heavy tool box was to accommodate the large assortment of tools that we were issued, but many of them were specialized and rarely used. We were also issued a small brown tool bag, about 6 by 6 by 12 inches. We used it carry our everyday tools, safety wire and an assortment of nuts and bolts. It was all we ever took to an aircraft.

On returning to the shop, I went to R.B. and complained, “Sergeant Johnson, the airman at the supply center gave me the wrong kind of tools. I protested, but they insisted on giving me these.” He looked at them and asked, “What’s wrong with them.” Surprised at his ignorance, I replied, “They’re made of steel. At Tech School I was taught that we could not use steel tools as they could cause a spark that could ignite the jet fuel fumes. We were told to only use brass tools.” R.B. considered this and replied, “That’s what we’ve got and that’s what you’ll use.” The other airmen snickered as if I was some kind of idiot.

A few minutes later a plane was towed in for repair and R.B. ordered me to help Bill Penny prep it for work. I looked at him and asked, “We’re supposed to be wearing cotton fatigues with no metal on them.” Indicating my standard issue fatigue uniform, I added, “This doesn’t qualify.” He became impatient, looked me in the eye and said, “Don’t question my orders, just do it.” I’d been put in my place. It’s hard to break reflex habits, so I snapped out a sharp military school, “Yes Sir.” He rolled his eyes back in his head and the other guys broke out laughing. I was obviously very much out of synch with the rest of the crew.

This was brought home a week or so later when we had an open ranks inspection. I spent the previous evening spit-shining brogans and polishing brass. I washed and heavily starched my fatigues, then ironed them to yield a razor blade crease. The next morning I carefully slipped into uniform being, extra careful not to cause a single wrinkle. I reportedly to the flight line. Everyone who could be spared from duty was more or less arranged in four lines. I say more or less because it was apparent that the concept of dressing right was unknown. The lines were as crooked as a snake’s intestines.

I looked around. Most of the guys were wearing freshly washed clothes, but to call them uniform would be an insult to reality. Everyone wore what they damn well pleased. This fashion parade featured standard baggy-ass, puke-green Air Force fatigues; custom-tailored dark brown army fatigues; and an assortment of custom made fatigue-like clothes made by oriental tailors during previous tours. A few guys were in their blue class B uniforms and one or two wearing their class A’s. There was also an assortment of flight jackets, heavy winter parkas and the custom handiwork of oriental and European tailors. Many carried patches from previous assignments. Most of the guys wore standard brogans, but army jump boots were also popular and, of course, conventional shoes. Much of the footgear was well worn, saturated with oil and stained by fuel. Shoe polish was obviously unknown. I was the only airman wearing starched clothes and spit-shined shoes. I reflected on my own appearance and realized that I had made a major tactical mistake. This wasn’t Fork Union. It wasn’t even the army. I didn’t know what it was, but I did know that I was very much out of place.

Our commanding officer quickly walked through the ranks, apparently aggravated that he and his men were required to endure this nonsense. He wasn’t the least concerned with our appearance. I think the only thing that would have drawn his attention would have been airman so drunk that he couldn’t stand up. I was told that Air Force regulations require a monthly inspection, but this was the only one that I ever saw.

The Strategic Air Command had unprecedented authority over its own affairs. This was well demonstrated by our orderly room copy of United States Air Force Regulations. This was a letter size loose-leaf book about an inch and a half thick. Virtually every page was followed by an inserted supplement that carried the SAC crest. The content modified the Air Force regulation. The SAC version of Air Force Regulations was four inches thick. Suppose that the Air Force regulation said “All fire trucks will be painted red.” The SAC supplement would say “the preceding Air Force regulation is hereby modified to read, “all fire trucks will be painted red unless SAC wants to paint them some other color. In such case, SAC can paint them any damn color it wants.” This hypothetical example may be a little exaggerated, but it makes the point. SAC made it’s own rules. I have no doubt that if there was an Air Force regulation requiring a monthly inspection, then the SAC supplement almost surely gave a commanding officer the right to disregard it if he felt it interfered with the mission.

I am a survivor and survival means adapting to your environment. In all probability I would spend the remainder of my Air Force career in SAC, so I had to adapt to its idiosyncrasies. The inspection lasted only last a few minutes. I returned with my shop mates to our little trailer and tried to spend the remainder of the day being inconspicuous. After work, Bill Penny drove me to the base exchange which offered a wide selection of non-regulation uniforms. I purchased several army style fatigues and a pair of jump boots. Returning to the barracks, I washed the uniforms several times to get rid of their sheen, wrung out the excess water and tossed them into the shower to air dry with an acceptable number of wrinkles. I ran steel wool over the new shoes to make them look a little worn. I was acutely aware that what I was doing ran contrary to everything I had been taught. I had reservations about altering my appearance as I felt it was deceptive, but as I thought about it, I concluded that it was the spit and polish image that was deceptive. Deep down inside, I was as much a slob as the rest of the guys. I stopped using words that contained more than two syllables, and learned to incorporate obscenities in my vocabulary. I began closely listening to how the other guys talked and watched how they interacted. I began to mimic them. I surprised myself by how quickly I was able to transform myself. Within a week, I was able to actually talk with my team mates in terms they understood, “Yeah … whatever … well, he’s a shit head …all right …sure…dumb fuck,” all while scratching my ass or adjusting my jockey shorts. I soon melted in and was accepted as one of the guys. Unfortunately, this would be short-lived.

I was assigned to staff sergeant Jim Bowdoin’s crew. Jim was a big hulk of a man from Dothan, Alabama. He had a huge head and an oversized nose. His cheeks were pitted with pox-type scars. Many would have called him ugly. He talked slowly with a deep southern drawl. He called himself a “country boy,” a title of distinction that he bestowed on the guys he liked. I always thought of him more as a rough and ready mountain man, who would have enjoyed wrestling bears just for the hell of it. He’d obviously had little education, but did have the wonderful ability to cut through extraneous detail (also known as “bullshit”) and zero in on the essence of any issue. In regard to his size, he maintained, “You can’t drive a railroad spike with a tack hammer.”