Amazingly enough, I still have the list:

SSgt Barry’s* Enlisted Performance Report Stuff (for his part-time Air Force job)

Additional Duties:

Electronic Warfare consolidated toolkit etcher, painter, and mangler. Equipment and Spares scapegoat. Self-appointed (and unopposed) precision measurement equipment monitor. Flight Deployment Mongol.

Performance Highlights:

Directed dayshift operations, keeping the morale at a steady 5%.

Lead technician in upgrading the ALM-233C to ALM-233D, which involved the tricky and complicated installation of new speakers and a sticker.

Utilizing on-hand parts, designed and fabricated a way to beat the beejeezus of out Tool Kit #5, thus reducing the number of man-hours required to ignore this tool box during daily inspections.

Helped with the design and fabrication of the new deployment status board, which is now taking up space in the shop chief’s office. This virtually eliminates the possibility of not being able to bamboozle the Chief when he calls asking why our crap isn’t being processed for deployment.

Single-handedly performed a time-compliance technical order on the cooling tower that incorporates fans that sound better than the older ones. Coordinated with a pneudraulics guru on how to drag this maintenance out for as long as possible.

Determined that the corrosion shop was refinishing the forward transmit radomes with green jello, causing the neoprene to peel prematurely. Developed an in-shop preparation procedure to use red jello to “elevate” the problem.

Troubleshot a voltage-controlled oscillator tuning malfunction to a shorted control line. Problem had totally eluded the previous shift’s sleeping and hungover airmen.

Troubleshot a reoccurring “no time in” malfunction to a “beenie wienie” shorting across a 5-volt wire to ground. Removed the offending sausage, brought the pod back to fully mission-capable status with one bite.

Showed concern for the local economy and environment: volunteered off-duty time to assist with the Misawa Fishing Port Topless Tennis Tournament and the Miss Vidal Beach Beauty Pageant.

Was never on the Weight Management Program, but continues to hobble along the “I’ll Get A Haircut When My Hair Tickles My Earlobes” Program.

Did not receive a medal for just showing up to work, but did get a fish dinner from his wife for just leaving the house, which he threw out because he hates fish and got a burger but didn’t offer to get SSgt Howell anything, so he sucks and shouldn’t be promoted.

* not his real name, duh

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Post from: Brain Needed Space

You May Not Get This

I loved driving Rosanne.

Need someone to go the Saudi commissary to buy Coke? I’ll do it; gimme the keys to Rosanne.

Need someone to drive into downtown Taif to pickup pizza? I’ll do it; gimme the keys to Rosanne.

Need someone to pick up stuff from the General Dynamics compound? I’ll do it; gimme the keys to Rosanne.

We’re going to lunch? I’ll drive! Gimme the keys to Rosanne.

I’m not a fan of trucks; I like sports cars. But there was something oddly satisfying in seeing a jet black Mercedes S500 haul @ss out of the way when Rosanne came up behind him at a Saudi stop light. I liked this big, dumb truck, and I considered it “Mine” for the time I was deployed.

And one day, a passel of us avionics troops decided to bust a move to get some shawarmas in Taif. (If you ever find yourself in a Jewish or Middle Eastern population center, seek one of these guys out, and get the lamb!) We needed two vehicles with all the people we had. Gimme the keys to Rosanne, right?

Wrong.

Some ASARS (Advanced Synthetic Aperture Radar Systems) puke decided that he wanted to drive Rosanne. He had never driven in Saudi and wanted to experience the thrill; who am I to stop him. Color me dejected, but OK.

Off we went, the regular old car in front with me shotgun, and Rosanne miserably lumbering along behind us, obviously missing me at her wheel. We drove, we turned, we cruised…

And then Rosanne went in a different direction. Where the {expletive deleted} did Rosanne and that fool go?

We got to the shawarma stand and it was delicious if not completely bereft of food-safety procedures – my straw had no paper covering, for starters. We finished our meal and Rosanne never showed up. So we packed ourselves back into the car and headed back to our compound… where the detachment commander was waiting for us.

Now in our small deployment, the detachment commander was a Lieutenant Colonel whose primary job was that of a U-2 pilot, but he was the senior officer so he was The Boss. He wanted to fly, not deal with disciplinary actions, so he was in a big tizzy when we pulled up. His oompa-loompa sergeant waved us down, made us pull over, extricate the vehicle, stand at attention, and the interrogation began.

“Do you know where the other people are? I’ll tell you where. They’re in prison.”

“Prison sir?”

“PRISON! And do you want to know how they got there?”

“Well sir…”

“I’LL TELL YOU HOW! Some {triple explicative deleted} airman was driving that truck and rammed a religious police vehicle!”

“He rammed…”

“A Religious. Police. Vehicle. Right up it’s @ss!”

“How the…”

“I’LL TELL YOU HOW! My airman is saying that the idle was set WAY too high and when he left a stop sign and tried to make a turn, the vehicle leaped ahead and he couldn’t turn it without the truck turning over!”

“Sir, Rosanne is a bit fast off the line, but it’s a very heavy truck and there’s no way…”

“WHO THE {extremely crude adjective and explicative deleted} IS ROSANNE?!”

“The truck, sir. It’s named Rosanne.”

“Rosanne?”

“Yes sir.”

“Like the comedienne?”

“Yes sir! Exactly, sir!”

“That’s actually kind of funny…”

“I think so too sir! In fact…”

“BUT NOT FUNNY ENOUGH TO MAKE ME NOT HAVE TO GO APOLOGIZE TO HALF OF SAUDI ARABIA TO GET MY AIRMEN OUT OF SAUDI RELIGIOUS PRISON!”

“Yes sir, ” I meekly mumbled into my chest.

“Airman Howell, I’m told this is your truck?”

“Well no sir, it’s not my truck; I just like to drive it.”

“You’re always driving it.”

“I like to drive it… but I work electronic sensor systems; I’m not a vehicle maintainer!”

“Regardless, you kept that idle set too high…”

“But I’m not allowed to work on trucks, sir!”

“And it resulted in an airman smashing into a member of the Saudi religious enforcement squad…”

“I wanted to drive! I was being NICE!”

“So when we get the truck back, you will ensure it is repaired properly…”

“With what? A fiber optic test kit and a soldering iron?!”

“Airman Howell, are you yelling at me?”

“Oh no. No no sir,” and I figuratively showed my soft, furry underbelly, as a proper airman should.

“I didn’t think so. I’m a pilot and I think my hearing goes out on me every now and then and I think I hear people over whom I have total control of their lives speaking out of turn and in a volume not normally associated with their position.”

“Yes sir. No sir.”

“When we get the truck back in a few weeks, you are responsible for getting it repaired. You do not have to do the work yourself, but it will be your responsibility to ensure the repairs are completed.”

“Yes sir, when do we get the truck back?”

“A few weeks; it was involved in an accident and the Saudi government is probably going to want to… uh… Airman Howell?”

“Yes sir?”

“Was it my hearing again or did you just express greater concern over a truck than a member of the US Air Force who, at this very moment, is sitting in a Saudi jail?”

“Umm… well I do like that truck, sir.”

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Post from: Brain Needed Space

He Got Out That Same Night

I never got an incentive-flight on a U-2 trainer, but I’ve ridden the wing while it taxied on Taif AB in Saudi Arabia, sat under the tip of the tail while the engine was running, and watched a girl chunk a ground cable into the fuel-dump socket, which almost set the entire flightline on fire.

This movie was filmed at Beale AFB, California. I worked in those hangers, and on the non-trainer aircraft — the single-seater — seen in the movie, itself.

It’s a lovely plane.

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Post from: Brain Needed Space

My Old Lady

3708th Basic Military Training Squadron, Flight 262, Dorm A7, Lackland AFB, San Antonio, Texas. March 30, 1991.

Four o’clock in the morning. Maybe. Didn’t have a watch. It was f-ing early, that much I know.

They woke us all up at 3am yesterday in NYC, hustled us to the airport, flew us to San Antonio, ran us all over the place until we finally were allowed to go to bed at 4am. Forty-nine guys asleep and me lying there awake. On the first night of basic training, the guy next to me wouldn’t stop snoring.

Not just your ordinary snoring, of course, but the deep, wet, sloppy, “you think he’s done but then he’s not” elephant-snoring, the kind that ruins marriages. The kind that reduces concrete dormitories to rubble. The kind that keep me awake.

The beds were aligned side-by-side, but alternating head/feet directions so nobody breathed on each other at night or could look each other in the eye. So when I reached over to wake him up, I tapped his calf with the tip of my index finger.

He didn’t stop snoring. Heck, he didn’t even move. If anything the snoring grew worse. I pushed his leg. No effect. I shoved. Nada. I ever so slightly closed my fist and tapped him with that.

Zero.

I sat up and hit his leg. With authority. How could he sleep through that? He must be dead, but he’s still snoring, so he’s obviously not. And I punched his calf again. And again.

He. Is. Still. Asleep.

Now I was really torqued. From my fist, I extended the knuckle from my middle finger while keeping the fingers coiled, reared back like Tom Seaver, and blasted him in the calf with that. Twice. Three times! Stop snoring, you tree-climbing bed-wetter!

He was still asleep.

Whatever sense of rational thought I had left got up and hotfooted it back to the airport. Grabbing his ankle with my left hand, I drove my knuckle-fist deep and hard into his flesh, hoping to reach his bone and leave an imprint upon it. Although I didn’t make a sound, in my head I was screaming like a blood-thirsty warrior demanding my enemy submit to my will!

And he didn’t even flinch. But he did let out one h#ll of a good “snark-snore”.

OK, I surrender. He’s going to snore all night, I’ll just have to live with it. I laid back down and stared into nothingness as the snores shook the ceiling tiles. Eventually, thankfully, and fitfully, sleep finally took me.

GET UP!! Five in the morning and the guy bashing a trash can woke us up to blazing lights and screaming instructors wearing big black hats. Their invasion reminded us all that the previous day was no dream, we really were in basic training. We all jumped out of bed and stood quivering with our backs to the wall lockers and let them scream at us, as it seemed that’s the only thing that really made them happy.

Except our bed-side neighbor wasn’t with us against the lockers. He was on the floor, actually, screaming and clutching his leg. Nobody had heard him over the trash-can percussion and insult-chorus. What the heck was wrong with him? The instructors ran over to him and spat-screamed at him, demanding to know why he wasn’t making them happy and standing against the lockers.

They lifted him up and his calf was purple. He had tried to jump out of bed, but his leg gave out from under him due to the blindingly intense pain that was shooting up it. Wow, look at that mess. What the heck happened to his leg? Bedbugs? Scorpions?

…

Um. Oh. Yeah.

They made him shake it off and stand on one foot against the locker, then spat-screamed at him once more because they had stopped and needed to get their vocal-engines primed. And they all took off down the line, skipping me entirely. My face was quite dry.

On the one hand, I felt really bad. I’d never injured a defenseless person before. Honestly, in my sleepless delirium, I had no clue I was injuring him at all. Resorting to fisticuffs is just not how I roll.

But if I have to be completely honest, I must admit that I had to work really, really hard not to grin. I knew the instructors would’ve used it as an excuse to spittle-scream in my face. Which they never did the entire time I was there.

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Post from: Brain Needed Space

The Snoring Was Really Unbearable

Back at Beale AFB again, going to the dental clinic for the first time. Gotta keep the teeth in good shape, yes?

The little technician said, “Ooo, you have a few impacted molars. I have to get the doctor.”

Off she trotted, returning with the doctor.

“Yup, Airman Howell, you need surgery to get those removed. I’m not doing those, though. Those look mean. Gonna send you to Travis AFB and have a specialist work on you.” And he kicked me out of the clinic.

A few days later, I drove to Travis for our operation. I sat in the chair and a Lieutenant Colonel strolled in.

“Hello Airman Howell, I’m Dr. X, chief of dental surgery. I saw your case and grabbed it for myself. Let’s have some fun.”

They rolled up my sleeve for an IV and I waited for the shots in my jaw to prevent the pain of the extractions.

And woke up 12 hours later. Holy crap, they totally knocked me out. Wasn’t expecting that. Where am I?

Turns out I was in a recovery room with three other guys. My clothes were still on, but there was sling around my head holding ice against my jaw. My face was the size of a Buick. Apparently Doctor X had inserted a pumpkin into my skull.

Pumpkin. Food. My god I was hungry. Before the surgery, I had been told not to eat for 12 hours prior. It had basically been a day since I’d eaten and the hunger pangs were tremendous and non-stop.

Food. Must have food. So I hit the little red button on the box next to the bed and the stewardess came in.

“Cab I’b hab subbtin ta eah?” I muttered through the pumpkin and ice bag.

“No, Airman Howell. You just had your molars removed; you can’t have any food yet.” And off she skipped.

D@mn. Dejected and hungry, I just slumped in the bed, totally stunned. No food? This was not acceptable, but what to do…

I did have my checkbook. I had a bed-side phone. Somebody must deliver to the hospital, no?

Hmm… dial 9 for an outside line… 800-555-1212 for toll-free information.

“Hello? Yes, I’d like the number for Dominos Pizza please. Yes, you certainly many connect me, thank you.”

“Hello Dominos Pizza, what’s the number to a Dominos franchise near Travis AFB? Why thank you. Yes, you may connect me, thank you.”

“Hello Dominos? Yes, I’d like to place a delivery order to Travis AFB. One large cheese pizza. Pepperoni. Yep, that’s it. I’ll be using a check today. OK, Travis AFB, the hospital… looking out the window, I think I’m on the 3rd floor. My phone says my room is 312. Forty five minutes is great, wonderful. Thank you!”

BUWAHAHAH!! Food incoming!

Now as I said, there were three other patients in the room. Two of them were out cold, but the person directly across from me was not only awake, but had a gaggle of doctors surrounding his bed. Apparently his jaw had been reconstructed with bone from his leg and was a mini-celebrity in the hospital. And this phalanx of doctors and nurses was still interviewing the guy when a very loud knock disturbed the peace of the room.

“Pizza for Howell?!”

And I pulled back my curtain a little, sat up a bit, poked my still ice-bagged noggin out and said, “MEPPH!”

Delivery guy didn’t break a stride, just delivered the pie, took my check, high-fived me, and took off for parts unknown.

Nothing has ever smelled as good as that pizza. Cruel, evil, short stewardess be d@mned, I was gonna eat!

As I performed some very intricate prayers of thanks to the Dominos God, the gaggle of doctors across from me was staring. Then they started talking amongst themselves, and finally a nurse took of like a shot out the room.

Irrelevant! Who cares! Gonna eat! And I opened the box and there it was. Beautiful. DaVinci never did better work. Gimme gimme gimme! I reached for it… and grabbed nothing but air.

It was gone!

The stewardess stood there, having swiped my pizza. Seriously, she grabbed it, held it over her head, and taunted me!

“Thanks for the dinner, we’re gonna enjoy it,” she announced, and flounced out of my life, my treasure in tow.

I was bewildered. I had no food, then I got food, then I had no food again. How did this happen? Yes, I’d been sedated, but I didn’t just imagine the pizza, it was here just a minute ago…

And a doctor came in. He had a bowl of something that he placed in front of me.

“Airman Howell, you can’t have pizza. Seriously, you just had your molars removed; you’ve got great big holes in your jaw. If you’re so hungry that you got pizza delivered to the surgical recovery room, you can have this, but no more pizza. No Chinese, no anything, OK?”

Chicken soup. I had pizza, and now I have chicken soup. Well, it’s not like I can fight the guy for the pizza, I was outnumbered. And sedated. And hungry. And had a 20lb bag of ice strapped to my cranium.

Fine. Whatever.

The broth was good. The chicken itself… it was the worst chicken of any kind I’d ever had. Ever. Tough doesn’t begin to describe it. Stringy, hard, basically garbage. But at this point, who cares, it’s food. I ate it all, picking pieces of the trash-chicken out of my teeth and swallowing them all.

The doctor came back, saw my empty bowl and asked, “How was it?”

“Well,” I mumbled, “I really appreciate the food, but the chicken was god-awful. Seriously, man, just the worst thing ever. I don’t want to complain, but nobody would ever eat that chicken unless they were tranquilized out of their mind.”

He looked at me, puzzled and quiet. Then he said, “Open your mouth.”

He took out a flashlight, held open my swollen jaw, and examined thoroughly. He pulled away, satisfied with his exploration, and sat on the bed beside me.

“Airman Howell, you know you have great big holes in your jaw, right? Where your teeth used to live, and now don’t, there are holes. Well these holes like to bleed. They bleed a lot. So the surgeon put stuff in there to keep the bleeding down.

“There was no chicken in your soup, it was just broth. You just ate one of your bloody, molar-hole gauze pads.”

And he got up and walked out of the room, while the guy with the reconstructed jaw laughed so hard, he actually hurt himself.

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Post from: Brain Needed Space

Once Again, No Eating Before Reading

It isn’t my goal to just string Airman Howell stories here, but things on the home front have been exceptionally busy. This story was originally posted in March, 2008. Hopefully I’ll have something fresh soon.

“GET ON THE BUS!”

And we did, all 50 or so of us who had a week left at basic training. We all calmly but quickly filled the bus, the door shut, the airbrakes hissed, and we took off for the stadium.

For some reason, we were being taken to see a World Leage of American Football (WLAF) (think cheap USFL) football game and pfft who were we to argue. Looking spiffy in our trim blue uniforms, six flights of trainees, some 300 people, were bussed to the San Antonio stadium to watch a not-quite professional football game and look good doing so.

We arrived, marched off the bus, into the stands, and filled up a section right on the 50-yard line. I was in the second group of trainees, around the fourth row back. In front of us… were girls.

Lots of girls. A flight of female Air Force trainees was in the front rows, then my flight behind them, then four more flights of guys behind us. Fifty trim, polished, knee-length skirt, uniform-wearing girls. We had been isolated from women for five weeks, this was cool!

No socializing was permitted; we were to remain calm and professional, for we were all representing the US Air Force. So sayeth our instructors, so let it be done!

Professional. I can pull that off, totally. I can do that… wow, golly they smelled nice.

The game began, the WLAF cheerleaders were on the other side of the stadium. We were enjoying the sun, the breeze, the football, and some time to not be stressed to the max.

OK, I need a flashback here. Hold on.

The first real day of basic training, we were all standing against our lockers, quivering at the arrival of our Military Training Instructor. And she burst into the dorm and blew our minds. Tall, muscular, black, and Loud! Holy cow, she could Project and strike fear into any man’s heart, making them sweat all the way into their black cotton socks. Her foul-mouthed invectives thundered around the dorm like a barrel of superballs fired from a shotgun. Personally, I tried to turn invisible or become a chameleon, but something she said warped my brain.

“Do any of your dumb blankety-blanks know how to type!?”

Utter silence.

“I SAID, DO ANY OF YOU BLEEPY BLEEPY BLANKETY-BLANKS KNOW HOW TO TYPE!!!”

And my world exploded and the chemicals in my body altered their molecular structure. I lost my humanity as I shrieked into the storm,

“SIR! I CAN TYPE SIR!”

I called her Sir? I didn’t. There’s no way I called her Sir. My brain returned to this dimension and quit the job.

“Dude,” my brain said, “You totally called her Sir. Goodbye. Call me back in six weeks.” /doorslam

And the goddess of war thundered, “GET YOUR BLEEP-BLEEP BLEEPING BLEEP IN HERE!!”

I warped to her office, expecting to be eviscerated.

“Thank goodness,” she said, “You really can type? Would you be a dear and use this list of names to type out a copy of this form for everybody? Thank you so much, it’s hard to find someone who can type.” And she smiled, left the office, and started verbally abusing everybody in the dorm, one at a time, while I sat at the Selectric and typed out inventory forms.

“WHY THE BLEEP WOULD YOU BRING CONDOMS TO BASIC TRAINING!!!”

Type, type, type.

“THOSE ARE THE DIRTIEST UNDERPANTS IN THE HISTORY OF THE PLANET!! ARE YOU A GORILLA?!! CAN YOU WIPE YOUR BLEEP AT ALL!!”

Type, type, type.

At some point, I was told that the goal of basic training is to graduate and have the instructor not know your face when they call your name to receive your diploma. That kind of happened to me, as I was never known as Airman Howell in basic training.

I was the House Mouse.

“MOUSE!! GET THE BLEEP IN HERE!”

“Ma’am?”

“Be a sweetie and please take these reports to the NCOIC downstairs?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you. And don’t let them give you any crap.”

“MOUSE!! WHERE THE BLEEP ARE YOU!!”

“Right here, ma’am.”

“Mouse, my husband is going to drive by and pickup my shopping list. Would you please take it to him in the parking lot?”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

Typing, organizing, filing, quick trips to the commissary to get supplies, and one time a birthday card for the instructor’s mother. I saw that she had needed the card, was at the commissary anyway, bought it and left it for her. She was thrilled.

So I was known as “Mouse” for six weeks, that’s critical. Now we can go back to the football game.

Four rows of girls, 50 sparkling examples of what physical fitness can do for a person, spread out before us as we watched the game. Halftime arrived and the cheerleaders changed sides and stood in front of our section. A TV crew came with them and started taking video of the cheerleaders and the girls in the front rows. The halftime show started and dance music filled the stadium. The cheerleaders jumped the railing and tried to encourage the female airman to join them. And when the video crew started taping them all, the female airmen couldn’t help themselves and burst into dance with the cheerleaders! What a show!

Then one of the cheerleaders tried to get the front rows of guys to dance too. No f-ing way, lady. We were all told to be professional and represent the Air Force like good little trainees, we’re not going to get in the middle of 50 gyrating female airmen and 12 semi-professional cheerleaders… Right?

Note: Five weeks of basic training is not enough time to prepare a man to resist the lure of dancing with 62 hot and toned women.

I jumped up, bounded down two rows of bleachers, and broke it down as best I could, anticipating the place was going to be a mob of 250 crazy guys frolicking among the girls! Must stake claim to some prime real estate!

But none of them moved, not a single guy got out of his seat. It was just me, a flight of 50 female trainees, and a cadre of WLAF cheerleaders. No lie.

One of the members of my flight yelled out, “Go Mouse!” It was repeated and turned into a chorus picked up by the rest of my flight, and eventually the entire gaggle of airman.

“GO MOUSE-Y! GO MOUSE-Y! GO GO, GO MOUSE-Y!”

And the stadium rocked as much as a WLAF game could rock. The music blared, the girls danced, and I was smack in the center, my hat jauntily askew and everything was right with the world.

Did I mention the film crew? I must have. At that time, though, I had certainly forgotten about them.

But the next day I was rudely reminded of that filming crew when I was summoned to the commander’s office. (I spent a lot of time at the commander’s office, now that I think about it.)

“Sir, Airman Howell reports as ordered,” and I offered my salute.

The man didn’t say a word. He held up a VCR tape, popped it into a player, turned on the TV, and I got to watch the local news channel and their on-the-scene reporter describe how a group of basic training airmen from Lackland Air Force Base had a great time at the WLAF game, but one airman seemed to have the best time of all.

And there I was, dancing like a goofball with all the female trainees and the cheerleaders, proudly representing the US Air Force with dignity, as we had all been reminded was our Duty.

Did I mention that I missed graduating from basic training with honors? Heck, my training instructor didn’t even recognize my name at graduation, either.

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Post from: Brain Needed Space

House Mouse

Originally published on 25 January 2008, this is one of my best stories in terms of composition. The ending is probably the best I’ve ever written; this story’s snappiness is what I strive for every time.

I worked Defensive Electronic Countermeasures (DECM) and Electronic Sensor Systems (ESS) on U-2s at several installations around the world, but for three years I resided at Beale AFB, California. A special feature of the aircraft hangers at Beale is that they open to the west. What that means is that in the summer, in the afternoon and evening, the sun would turn those metal contraptions into giant Easy Bake ovens. The heat in there would skyrocket way over 110 degrees because of the complete and total lack of airflow. That giant metal box with the sun pouring heat into the entrance was basically a torture device straight out of The Bridge Over the River Kwai.

One summer’s afternoon, I’d been working on the flightline on a U-2 for a while and thought I had determined the problem with a system, but it was time for the shift change. So at 1530, I was passing on the information I had gathered about the problem to the oncoming crew. The person who would be in charge of the next crew was a notorious goofball, Airman B. Physically harmless but capable of extreme and aggravated incompetence, it was standard procedure to write down instructions so he couldn’t claim ignorance of what was expected of him.

In my shift-notes, I wrote about the problem on the aircraft, what I had troubleshot, what my thoughts on progression were, and a safety note about the heat that was going to be coming from the setting sun and to make sure he had water for him and his crew. “Do Not Get Dehydrated! This is critical!”

He asked me what his people could drink. What a goober, sheesh. Just drink from the Igloo cooler on the truck.

“I don’t have a cup.”

Use the cups in the box behind the drivers seat!

“Um, the box is empty.”

THEN GET ON THE COMPUTER AND ORDER SOME, NOW NOW NOW!! GET THE SYSTEM FIXED, GET THIS AIRCRAFT FULLY-MISSION-CAPABLE, GET IT DONE SAFELY AND DO IT F-ING NOW!!”

And I left. Golf was on the agenda, perhaps a quick 9 holes, maybe a full 18. Back home, changed, grabbed the clubs, hopped in the superhero-green Honda del Sol, and boogied over to the golf course, desperate to get in a foursome somehow.

Bingo! A trio of older guys had a tee-time but their fourth had just radioed, saying he couldn’t make it as there was a huge emergency at his work. Am I available? You bet! I got picked up and away we went.

After the front 9 holes were behind us, we all went to the clubhouse for a drink. It was really hot and we were sweating buckets. As we stood at the bar, an announcement was made on the PA.

“Colonel X, please pick up the phone; you have an emergency call.”

Imagine my surprise when one of my golf partners said, “Excuse me,” and went to the phone.

He picked up the receiver, said “This is Colonel X,” and didn’t say another word. That is, until a stream of Yes Sirs started pouring forth from his lips. The final Yes Sir ended as the phone was slammed into the cradle. He came back to the bar.

“Well Dennis, you’re gonna get a call in a second.”

“Why?” said one of my other golf partners.

“General Z is on a rampage. The Supply Commander just went ballistic because one of my maintainers ordered a criminally stupid part for a nuclear aircraft.”

To myself, I thought, one of his maintainers? He’s a full colonel? Oh my god, he’s the Maintenance Group Commander! I’m playing golf with the Maintenance Group Commander… and I think I’m down three dollars to him.

A quick aside on U-2s and nukes. U-2s don’t have em, don’t carry em, and have nothing to do with nuclear power or detonations thereof, whatsoever. I promise.

A quick aside on the The Air Force supply system. Air Force Supply delivers parts on a priority schedule, and each priority has a code. When you order a part, you put the order priority code into the computer so Supply knows just how fast to get you that part.

You need office paper, that’s low priority. A part for a truck would be higher priority. A part for an aircraft is higher still. A part for an aircraft on a war-time footing is almost as high as it gets. The only things higher are parts for Air Force One and an aircraft on a war-time footing with nuclear payloads. An order made for this scenario was called 1AA-priority – it might be called something else now – and causes a massive hullabaloo, with possible repercussions across the world if a part is critically needed and not immediately available.

And it really upsets some folks if you order parts for a nuclear aircraft when there are no nuclear aircraft on the installation.

Back to our story, where the PA made another announcement.

“Colonel Y, please pick up the phone; you have an emergency call.”

Sure enough, Dennis walked over to the phone. Jeebus, what is this, a colonel-reunion?

The third member of our golf group approached Colonel X and asked, “What’s going on?”

“Apparently, an ESS airman ordered Styrofoam cups for his guys, but ordered them as if they were a part for an aircraft carrying a nuclear payload.”

“He did what?”

“He said the outgoing shift chief told him to do it. I’m gonna kill someone; I really hate being chewed out by the General and the Supply Commander at the same time. Especially before I finish a round.”

“Oh, is that why he couldn’t make today’s golf, he had to go talk to General Z?”

“Yes. The general was quite surprised to get a call and learn that a pallet of 8 oz Styrofoam cups were ready to be airlifted from Texas to repair a broken, nuclear U-2, but there was a question of just how many cups a nuclear U-2 carried and where exactly they were installed, cause that’s ‘a whole lotta f-ing cups.’ The general said he thought it was a joke until a two-star explained that he wanted answers or General Z would soon be running the ROTC detachment at the Arctic Circle School for Advanced Polar Bear Studies.”

Back on the phone… “Colonel Y speaking… No sir… No Sir! Absolutely not sir.” And Colonel Y hurriedly put down the phone. He came back to the group, and said,

“The general asked me, ‘As you are the Operations Group Commander, I am relying on your expert opinion. None of your aircraft are nuclear, are they? There are no cups installed as equipment on your aircraft, are there?’ And then he slammed the phone down. I don’t know who “Airman B’s” preceding shift supervisor is, but he’s about to get a phone call from General Z and that poor airman isn’t going to know what hit him.”

And the evil, dirty PA came to life one last time.

“Airman Howell, please pick up the phone; you have an emergency call.”

And the three Colonels: the Operations Group Commander, the Maintenance Group Commander, and as I would learn later, the Medical Group Commander, watched me put down my drink and, with rubbery resolve, slink to the bar phone. I stood at attention because I had no idea what else to do.

“This is Airman Howell.”

“Airman Howell, this is General Z. How are you?”

“I was enjoying around of golf with a few of your commanders, but I don’t think I’m going to complete my round, sir.”

“Are you losing?”

“I think I owe Colonel X three dollars.”

“Damn good man but can’t hit a wood to save his life. Let me be quick; you’re on speakerphone here. Did you order or request or threaten anybody to order Styrofoam cups to be installed on a nuclear U-2, priority 1AA?”

“No sir.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes sir.”

“Airman Howell, Airman B seems to think you did.”

“Sir, I told Airman B to make sure his guys were kept hydrated while they worked on the flightline in the evening. I told him to order some cups from supply if he was out, but I didn’t tell him to pretend that cups are an integral component of a U-2, and I certainly didn’t tell him to have them expedited nuclear-priority.”

“I didn’t think so. Thank you airman.”

“Yes sir, thank you sir.” And I gently hung up the phone.

My drink’s location happened to coincide with the gaggle of colonels still at the bar, so that was where my feet took me. The Maintenance Group Commander looked at me, befuddled, and asked, “Well, what did he say?”

“Sir, he said that since you’re in my direct chain of command, it is improper of you to place any wagers with me, and as such, you cannot collect your three dollars.”

“Fuck.” Said Colonel X, as he brought his drink to his lips. ”He probably said I can’t use a driver, too, didn’t he?”

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Post from: Brain Needed Space

Beale Was my Summer of ’69

I wanted to be a pilot and conquered the application tests in college, achieving a 98 on the navigator test and a 97 on the pilot test. But my eyesight disqualified me completely; I’m legally blind without contacts or glasses. I wasn’t allowed to even join the military without a waiver from some medical committee in Texas. But I always wanted to fly.

When one is in the Air Force, one of the Big Deals is getting an incentive flight. There are lots of awards and paper certificates that commanders can give out, but the one just about everyone prays for is the chance to get to fly in something that’s not a cargo plane.

On some fighter bases, like Misawa Air Base, Japan, where I were stationed for three years, those lucky few got to churn and burn in a F-16 two-seat trainer. Unfortunately, I was never selected for one of these. But I did help the Misawa base commander load air-to-air missiles after he “died” in an attack on his command bunker. Another story, another time.

Now when I was in Special Operations, Hurlburt Field, Florida, I did get an incentive flight on an AC-130 gunship. My squadron commander, a Lieutenant Colonel former pilot who had to give up his wings due to too many ejections, visited my workcenter one day.

“Sergeant Howell, I heard that you were using the Internet for other-than-business purposes.”

“Sir, I was researching parts for a test-machine I’m building.”

“A test machine?”

“Yes sir. Our current equipment is outdated and frequently down for parts. But I think I can cobble together a similar machine from off-the-shelf components that, while it won’t have the fancy LCD-computer, will perform the job just as well but be repairable with parts we have in the shop, except for some special connectors we don’t have, which I was researching.”

“Interesting. Write up something and send it to me for review, would you?”

“Yes sir, will do. And as long as you’re here, I need your Visa card.”

“My Visa card? You want me to buy the connectors? I can get you a government card and you can do it yourself.”

“No sir, I need your personal card. This gambling-for-pornography site needs a valid credit card number.”

…

And the next thing you know, I got a flight on an AC-130 gunship. Coincidence?

About a week later, I was escorted to the AC-130H Spectre Gunship an hour before takeoff by the loadmaster to get a safety and emergency procedures briefing and a general tour of the place. We grabbed parachute harnesses and then went for parachutes.

I asked, “How do I carry it?” but he heard, “Which one should I carry?”

He slapped the one in front of me with his hand and his slap landed on the D-Ring. I only found out it was the D-Ring when I tried to carry the parachute by grabbing the D-Ring.

The parachute was very pretty and white. I know this because it exploded into a knee-high pile around me. This is the function of the D-Ring, that much I knew.

The stunned loadmaster said, “I’ve never seen anybody do that before.”

“Well, it looks as if you guys need to add a line to your checklist that says, ‘Tell the passenger to grab the parachute by the carrying handing on the side and to not touch the D-Ring, even if they don’t know what a D-Ring looks like and the loadmaster tells the passenger to carry the parachute by grabbing the D-Ring, but the entire conversation was a complete misunderstanding.’”

Hopefully that was incorporated into the next checklist change. I do know that the Life Support sergeant that was called out to replace the parachute wasn’t impressed with my explanation and I totally owed him a beer.

The motors were started and we taxied to the end of the runway, where everybody jumped overboard and took a communal leak in the grass. I partook in the ritual – one doesn’t want to buck tradition – but am quite certain I am now part of some bizarre “Airfield Weirdness as Recorded by Air Traffic Controllers” movie.

So we finally took off, circled the base for twenty minutes to align all the sensors, and then headed for Crestview to do a Dry Fire exercise. This is a pre-printed scenario, simulating talking to ground controllers to pick out targets in a hostile urban environment.

I was doing just fine until the first emergency call on the aircraft’s-comm box, “MISSILE INBOUND, BREAK LEFT!” At which point the aircraft went full-power, banked to the left at 45 degrees, and pulled almost straight up.

SouthWest 737′s don’t do this sort of thing and I was not prepared.

Well, I was prepared in the fact that I purposefully hadn’t had lunch, but my stomach didn’t care, as it was violently objecting to every pitch, yaw, and roll the pilot performed. I was very airsick for the next hour during the dry fire exercise. I tried looking out the windows to orient myself, but every time the lights of the city were suddenly directly beneath me because we were flying on a wingtip, I got the dry heaves again. Why the crew started talking about the great mushroom soup and raw oysters that were waiting for them at home, I don’t know, but that started a story from the chief loadmaster.

“One time we were ferrying a group of Army Rangers and Korean army paratroopers to a drop zone. The Koreans didn’t react well with the maneuvers we were doing and vomited their kim-chi lunches all over the flight deck. This, of course, stunk the entire aircraft to h3ll and back and the Rangers were looking extremely green. The Ranger commander looked at his guys and said, ‘If any Ranger blows chunks, he’s not leaving a single piece on this aircraft, and that includes the kim-chi!’

“So one of the Rangers starts thinking about possibly having to slurp up his and the Koreans’ smelly goo, and can’t take it and throws up. But was able to keep his mouth closed and swallow it all again. Worst bunch of pansies ever.”

Aircrew personnel are sadists. I think the Air Force tests for it.

Well the dry fire ended and we flew to the gunnery range to practice firing the big guns. As we flew over the range we saw deer and wild pigs. The Electronic Warfare Officer kept saying to one of the camera gunners, “Kill ‘em Frank.” To which the gun-targeter would say that the environmentalists, not to mention his wife, would be very upset if he expended 105mm artillery rounds on a pig. The EWO replied,

“You know that nobody will know, as they’ll be nothing left of that dead pig to be found. Kill ‘em Frank.”

The EWO asked the gunner to “Kill ‘em Frank” when he targeted the trucks on the range, Burger King, the Sports Bar, the Wing HQ building, his own home, and the Navarre Bridge.

The live fire was a lot easier to stomach for two reasons: one, we did no more emergency procedures and just flew in a steady circle at a 30 degree bank for an hour, and two, I was allowed to lie down, put a parachute under my head, and suck oxygen for a while. I did get to watch the explosions on the infrared and TV cameras, participate with the gunners to load the howitzer, and visit the cockpit. I told the pilot I would have preferred to do the live fire first as I would have been able to stand up for the whole thing. He laughed and went into an unplanned decent that had me screaming.

We returned to base without further incident. When we landed I pretended to be the Pope and kissed the tarmac after I stepped off. And I didn’t have to buy the entire crew a beer as I never let any of my DNA touch the aircraft; my plastic baggie was safely tied and going to the trash.

The moral of the story was that I learned that if my eyesight hadn’t kept me out of the pilot’s seat, I’m pretty sure my chronic airsickness would’ve done the trick too.

Which was a travesty, as I would’ve looked good in a flight suit.

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Post from: Brain Needed Space

I Can Only Fly Level and Steady

February, 1996. Maybe March. Possibly April. May?

Whatever.

It feels like it was a Friday, but if I’m wrong, that’s not the important part of the story. And it also feels like it was early in the morning, but I worked the swing-shift at the time, 4pm to midnight, so my concept of “morning” could be skewed.

Regardless.

It was early in the morning on a Friday. General Fogleman…

And it may not be Fogleman. We should look that up, but eh.

It was early in the morning on a Friday. General Fogleman, four-star general, Chief of Staff of the Air Force, arrives for work at the Pentagon. He strolls into his luxurious suite on the inner ring, picks up his freshly ironed copy of The Air Force Times newspaper, kicks back in his massive leather chair, and snaps open the paper with the authority that comes with being in charge.

He reads. He flips to another page, reads more. He stops. He sits up, puts the paper down, scrunches up his face, and thinks to himself,

“Who the f-ing hell is Airman Howell?”

December, 1995. I returned from my vacation following a three-month assignment to support to the United Nations in Bosnia to find out I was possibly authorized a new medal for my Bosnia-work. The stuff I had read said it was for personnel who supported Operation WhatsItsName in Bosnia, but didn’t say in what capacity one had to serve. I had been in England with my U-2s flying missions over Bosnia, but never crossed the English Channel, let alone set foot on the Continent. Was I authorized the new medal? Inquiring minds want to know. When one has a question about anything Human Resources-y in the Air Force, one goes to the Military Personnel Flight, or the MPF.

The MPF is where all the paperwork on your promotions and awards and retirements and assignments are done and kept. Want to see your performance appraisals, go to the MPF. Want to update your identification card, go to the MPF.

And in my case, I had a question about a medal. At the MPF, there are people specifically tasked to track awards and medals for the base. They are trained to determine if you’re been authorized, directly or indirectly, for unit and individual awards. So on a California morning, to the MPF I drove.

The MPF was open, but the entire Decorations section was closed. Kaput. Door locked, nothing at all. “Out for Training”. OK, then. What now?

Well, I had just purchased a Powerbook 5300cs with the money I had saved during my temporary duty assignment in England, even got the external modem to go with it. And I just happened to have a subscription to AOL, too! Perhaps there was some information there about my medal, or maybe someone who knew where else to look?

So into AOL I dove, the military bulletin boards in particular, and searched for medal information. Nothing. I found a personal ad for a pen pal from a “Heyred1” to whom I wrote – I love redheads – but no medal information. So I wrote up a request and dumped it in a message board.

And a couple of days later, would you believe it, a member of an MPF section at another Air Force base read my request, found the relevant documentation, and posted it. I was indeed authorized that medal, thank you very much. Awesome!

The pen pal relationship with Heyred1 grew, but that’s another story for another time.

Fast-forward a few more weeks, and I got a “You’ve Got Mail!” message when I logged onto my AOL account. It was a message from a reporter from The Air Force Times.

“I saw that you wrote a post on the military forums on AOL about a medal-question that an MPF guy from another base answered. That’s some pretty nice use of technology!” (This was 1996, folks, calm down.) “Any chance I can call you and ask you a few questions for a story I’m writing?”

And who can turn down such a request? Not I. At least not at this point in my career. So we talked about AOL and medals and how I couldn’t get the information from my MPF because they were closed, so a nice E-7 in Texas came through and helped me out. Bingo bango bungo, interview over and I forgot all about it.

The reporter wrote his story, it got printed. And it contained a sentence similar to this,

“When Airman Howell couldn’t get answers from his local MPF, he went to America Online for help.”

And that’s the sentence that made General Fogleman sit up in his chair. He grabbed the phone and snagged the three-star general in charge of military personnel issues.

“Yo! Why are my airmen having to go on AOL to get personnel-answers? Read The AF Times, then fix it!” Click.

So the three-star stares at his receiver, not very happy at having his morning coffee interrupted by a terse call from The Boss. He nabs his copy of the paper, peruses it, sees what ticked General F off, and makes a call to a two-star general, the head of all military personal centers.

“Dude. AF Times got the Boss in a snit. You need to get this fixed.” Click.

And the two-star wasn’t pleased, of course not. So he waited a few hours and called the Beale AFB commander, a nice Brigadier General, and explained that the Beale MPF was causing problems of which the Chief of Staff of the Air Force was getting wind.

“What the h3ll’s going on out there, General? One of your airmen was reported in The Air Force Times as saying your MPF wouldn’t help him get information he needed. The Chief is in a snit and raining sh!t downhill. Find out what’s going on at your MPF, tell me so I can report back, and fix it.” Click.

Airman Howell was, of course, oblivious to all the hullabaloo and was comfortably abed, the morning sun casting long shadows inside his single-occupancy dorm room. Peaceful, quiet, serene. Until the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“AIRMAN HOWELL! This is your First Sergeant! Get in your dress blues and haul @ss to your Commander’s office NOW! Why are you on the phone! Get going! NOW!” Click.

Like a Scottish terrier injected with Mountain Dew, I showered and dressed at the same time, and basically teleported to my commander’s bunker on the flightline. His secretary said, “Go on in, don’t do your reporting statement, just stand there.”

Not doing a reporting statement to a commander is completely alien to any enlisted troop, so this really made no sense. That is until I opened the door and saw my first sergeant on a couch and my commander with his head in his hands while being talked down-to on speakerphone.

“Why in the h3ll are your airmen giving interviews to the press! I’m the godd@mn chief of public affairs and that’s MY job! When you allow your airmen to make idiots of the personnel people, I get yelled at! Do you think I like taking The Chief’s calls about an MPF in California at six in the morning? Where is that son of a b!tch, Major!”

“He just walked in the door, sir.”

…

Oh god. I’m the son of a b!tch. What the heck did I do…

“Airman Howell, are you there?”

“Yes sir.” I peeped.

“Did you talk with an Air Force Times reporter about a medal?”

“Yes sir.”

“Why didn’t you go to your MPF?”

“I did, sir, but they were closed.”

“But that’s not what the article in the paper says. It says, ‘couldn’t get answers from his local MPF’. Do you realize that makes it look like our MPF people are a bunch of fools?”

“But sir, that’s not what I said…”

“Of course it isn’t! And that’s why we have Public Affairs personnel, whose job it is to talk to the press and make sure the story is reported accurately. Now we’ve got the Chief of Staff of the Air Force wanting to know why his MPF people can’t do their job out there. There are a bunch of people who are getting shat on because of this!” And he listed the chain of shat, of which we have just previously written.

“Airman Howell, you are not authorized to speak to the press, do you understand that?”

“Yes sir, I’m very sorry sir.”

And the general on the phone sighed heavily. “Airman, you made a mistake. A very public mistake. A very high-profile, public mistake. Do not do so again.”

“Yes sir, no more reporters sir.”

“Well, hopefully this will get the sticky note of the Chief’s desk at least.”

“Sticky note, sir?”

“I’m sure the General has a yellow sticky note with your name on it somewhere in his office, so he doesn’t forget to make sure this little snafu is corrected.”

“Really? General, can I have the sticky note?” Seriously. I said it. To this day, I don’t know why.

“Airman, do you think you can get to the Pentagon, get the note from the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, and get back to Beale tonight?”

I knew exactly what I was going to say. I was going to say, “Sir, Airman Howell requests permission to get on a KC-135, fly to the Pentagon, meet the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, obtain the sticky note with my name on it, and fly back to Beale.” But I didn’t get the chance; my commander piped up for me.

“Not only no, but h3ll no.”

“OK. Major, good bye.” Click.

And the major looked me in my spit-n-polish official blue uniform and exploded,

“You cannot ask the Chief of Air Force Public Affairs for permission to fly across the country to pick up a sticky note with your name on it, signed by General Fogleman! What’s wrong with you! Chief, get this airman out of here!”

As I was escorted out of the commander’s office by my first sergeant, I asked him how the commander knew I was about to ask to fly across the country to get a sticky note.

He had the gall to say, “You have kind of a reputation around here.”

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Post from: Brain Needed Space

How I Met Mrs. Howell and the Yelling I Received As a Result

My section was LGMVE and I had a little corner office with test equipment, tools, and a lockable office with our security container. I had classified equipment in there that was controlled via a combination lock and the key to the office door. Now this particular office was, at one time, used as a production supervisor’s office and it had a window that overlooked the hanger floor. The glass had been removed and a piece of plywood had been installed, providing that much more security. There was one key to this office and it was handed over after every shift.

I was woken one morning, very early, and told to get to work. An unscheduled launch was just requested by NATO and the plane needed to get into the air, ASAP. I dressed and drove to the hanger to get my sensors calibrated and ready to go. But at the office, the LGMVE mid-shift supervisor was nowhere to be found. He was gone, absent, totally missing. And with him…

The Office Key.

Inside that office was the safe. Inside the safe was my crypto equipment. The crypt codes changed daily and we needed to get the codes so that my sensors would be able to talk to everybody else they needed to talk to. But I couldn’t get the codes without getting in the d@mn door, and my cohort was apparently still in London recovering from a night of excessive debauchery. I searched everywhere to find a RAF member who might know anybody who might have a duplicate key. Nothing. An hour away from launch and we still were separated from our crypto equipment when a friend of mine recommended smashing down the door. I said,

“That’s typical crew chief thinking; excessive use of force in the face of a small problem. Go get your hammers and go fix some cockpit instruments or something, for I have a much more sophisticated plan. I’m gonna smash in the window.”

The door was heavy and designed to withstand people who did not require entry attempting to force their way past it. The window and it’s 1/4″ thick plywood defense was begging to be smashed. And smash it I did. Splinters everywhere, I tossed it aside, scrambled through the opening, opened our safe, grabbed my crypto, casually opened the door, strutted out and over to the aircraft, got it preped and ready on-time for launch.

After the launch, I went back to the office, cleaned up a little, and then went back to the dorm where I made something to eat and went back to sleep.

The next day I got a call from my supervisor. Get to the Commander’s office NOW. Holy cr@p, the commander? What does a full-bird colonel want with us?

I boogied over to his building where our supervisor, his supervisor, and the maintenance officer were waiting for me. The colonel’s secretary said, “Gentlemen, wait here. The colonel wishes to see Sergeant Howell alone.”

We knocked, he said Enter, I reported with a salute, he told me to sit down.

“Sergeant Howell, it’s been reported that you destroyed a window in the hanger. Explain.” I explained.

“Sergeant Howell, your destruction was witnessed by a member of the RAF. They reported it to their supervision. They saw the safe, so they reported it to their investigative services. They called the OSI [Ed: the OSI is the Air Force's version of the FBI] and they and the RAF have descended on the place. The whole hanger has been locked off, and they’re demanding your head.”

Gulp. He held up a piece of paper.

“Sergeant Howell, do you see this? It’s a letter from the OSI. Do you see this other letter? It’s from the Secretary of State. They used the pictures from that flight over Bosnia at the United Nations to show proof of mass graves. The US government is extremely pleased with us for providing the services we did.

“So here’s my predicament, Sergeant Howell. I have two security organizations out there who want you put in jail for Breaking and Entering, and Destruction of Her Majesty’s Property. And I have the Joint Chiefs who want me to award you an Achievement Medal for getting that bird up in record time to support a mission critical to Presidential foreign policy.

“As the commander of this organization, I have full authority over my people. And I am going to exercise that right now. I think these two pieces of paper cancel each other out. No jail, no medal. You will repair that window out of your own pocket. Now get outta my office.”

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Post from: Brain Needed Space

The Smashed Window