If You Fly... Don't Crash!

By Charles Bailey

If You Fly... Don't Crash! is a rollicking "war story" covering 22 years of a heavy jet driver in peacetime and wartime. Along the way, the pilot author handles a variety of aircraft in action around the world. He functions well as an aircraft commander in charge of strong-willed professionals facing emergencies with life and death consequences. He begins his Air Force career as an Officer Training School (OTS) "90-day Wonder," then earns his wings (just barely!) after a year-long tour at Undergraduate Pilot Training (UPT). His first assignment places him at a northern air force base flying airborne gas stations refueling bombers armed with nuclear weapons destined for the Soviet Union. The author survives a variety of close calls, even as his air-sense matures in short order. His flying puts him over Laos, Cambodia, Thailand and South Vietnam in unarmed tankers during the Vietnam War. As a senior tanker instructor pilot at a west coast air base, his student pilots challenge him with a never-ending variety of "Oh Shit" situations, all of which prepare him for his next assignment as a Follow-on Test & Evaluation (FOT&E) pilot flying new Air Force jumbo jets derived from commercial airliners. His missions ranged from over the Polar Ice Cap to frigid the air over Antarctica and much of the airspace in-between. Along the way our hero meets a slew of famous personalities from the world of military aviation and civilian life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Bailey
• Release date: Oct 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301010141

Charles Bailey

Charles E. “Chuck” Bailey is a retired Air Force command pilot with tours of duty including the Vietnam War, Desert Shield, Desert Storm, and the Cold War. He is a recipient of the Bronze Star Medal, plus the Air Medal. He holds a BA degree in Communications from the California State University at Fullerton, an MS in Systems Management from USC, and an MA in Education from Chapman University, California. The author is married, with one son. He has survived the debilitating symptoms of Parkinson’s since 1996; he plans on regaining his flying status as soon as possible.

Book preview

IF YOU FLY... DON’T CRASH!

(Confessions of a White-knuckle Pilot)

Charles E. Bailey

Smashwords Edition

If You Fly... Don't Crash!

Digital ISBN: 978-1301010141

Copyright © 2012 Charles E. Bailey

Cover Design by Laura Shinn

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DEDICATION

For Andi and Jay... you are the Wind Beneath My Wings.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

JET

PREFACE

CHAPTER 1: 90-DAY WONDER

CHAPTER 2: 70-06

CHAPTER 3: CASTLE THE FIRST TIME

CHAPTER 4: NORTH TO ANYWHERE-BUT-LORING

CHAPTER 5: CASTLE ME AGAIN

CHAPTER 6: KBAD

CHAPTER 7: ACSC 1982-83

CHAPTER 8: OFF FOR OFFUTT

CHAPTER 9: SHADY J

CHAPTER 10: RETIREMENT

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

GLOSSARY

JET

By

Charles E. Bailey

(8th grade, circa 1960)

A mighty streak

Roars through the air;

It soars unharmed

Where birds don’t dare,

And races faster

Than man can hear,

Faster than its roar

Can touch his ear.

A silver blur

Against the sky,

Its tail a flame

That cannot die.

A might unleashed

This silver shark,

It dwells in the sky

Light and dark.

PREFACE

There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots, but there are no old bold pilots.

— W.W. Windstaff

By the time Charles Augustus Lindbergh reached his mid-twenties, the boyish looking aviator—Lucky Lindy—was known worldwide for a daring 1927 solo flight across the Atlantic Ocean. By the time I had reached the same age, I was an unknown young aviator. What follows are some of the white-knuckle incidents that I survived as an Air Force pilot in action around the world.

Charles A. Lindberg with the Spirit of St. Louis

My journey began with childhood naps in suburban Southern California, in the early 1950s. The lulling cadence of propeller-driven airplanes droning to and fro in the afternoon sky flavored my sleep with their airy omnipresence.

In elementary school, an artistic teacher tasked my class with creating little cut-and-paste dioramas depicting what we wanted to be when we grew up. My creation—complete with fluffy white cotton ball clouds—depicted a be-goggled pilot posing by his sleek aircraft.

I received hands-on experience with aircraft aerodynamics when my father brought home a little balsa wood glider kit, patterned after the Air Force’s Lockheed F-80 Shooting Star. During a series of crashes, I learned that what goes up must come down. By coincidence, decades later I met a commander of the first P-80 (F-80) all-jet flying squadron, the late General Bruce K. Holloway

Seasoned by an aroma of glued balsa wood and lots of gliding experience, I eventually moved on to rubber band powered models. It was not long before I understood that even toy flying could be hazardous to a pilot. Strictly in the interest of advancing airplane ground handling knowledge, I perched my pet hamster, Herbie, atop the wings of a propeller-driven balsa model, knotted rubber bands tightly wound. Poor Herbie. When I released the plastic prop, my hapless little aviator promptly slid rearward as high-speed taxiing commenced; his dangling, oversized rodent’s testicles immediately became entangled with the rapidly unwinding rubbers. I grabbed the propeller and quickly unhooked the offending bands, freeing a very unhappy Herbie.

It was not until high school that I actually flew with a few friends in a real airplane, a stubby old Piper Tri-Pacer out of California’s busy Fullerton Municipal Airport. Our pilot guided us along a scenic route above the Pacific Ocean’s shoreline; we had a great view of Catalina Island. And, nobody got their masculinity tangled in the plane’s propulsion system.

I left high school with the hot breath of the Vietnam War draft chasing me into college for four years of military deferment. As graduation time drew near and the war raged on, I weighed my options: conscription was inevitable and the United States Air Force (USAF) needed pilots. So, I visited the local recruiting office, took a couple of tests, and then endured a thorough flight physical (judiciously removing my astigmatism-correcting eyeglasses ahead of time). I passed.

In short order, I was a college graduate, a USAF second lieutenant, and another warm body in the Undergraduate Pilot Training (UPT) pipeline.

The next couple of decades as a military aviator introduced me to the good, the bad, and the sometimes silly aspects of piloting military airplanes. I will start with the Air Force Officer Training School (OTS) at the Medina Annex of Lackland Air Force Base (AFB), San Antonio, Texas. The date was November 7, 1968.

CHAPTER 1: 90-DAY WONDER

There are no secrets to success. It is the result of preparation, hard work, learning from failure.

— Colin Powell

Officer Training School commissioning as a second lieutenant included demonstrating a reasonable level of physical fitness involving calisthenics and running an eight-minute mile. That darned mile requirement nearly kept me from pinning on my hard won gold bars.

Throughout the decidedly unpleasant 90 days (ergo the moniker 90-Day Wonder) of training, I was under heavy peer pressure to run an eight-minute mile. Despite riding a bicycle to-and-from my California college campus for the two years preceding OTS, my running stamina was dead last poor; so poor that I had to endure the additional stigma of a remedial running class. Running start/stop wind sprints on the gymnasium’s hard wood floor did not help. I injured my right knee, which became a swollen black-and-blue lump. I could not run for several precious days and my doctor recommended I stay horizontal with my bad leg elevated. But, Officer Trainee (OT) Bailey still had to march in formation up a hill to The Bedroom (our auditorium lecture hall). One day during our trek to class, the lengthy elastic Ace bandage binding my knee came unraveled, snaking its way down and out my pant leg during mid-stride. Lucky for me, only a foot or two dangled below my pant cuff, limiting the chances of a trip-up from the OT marching directly behind me.

Although I never fully recovered, the day came for our do-or-die physical fitness evaluation. Push-ups, sit-ups, etc., were no problem. Then came THE MILE. Gradually working myself into a typical state of hyperventilation, I steadfastly leaned into the final leg of the running course. I was seeing stars as I collapsed onto what appeared to be the finish line, with scant seconds to spare.

The next day, I sat before my OTS instructor as he ticked off the proscribed items necessary for commissioning. I felt confident throughout his review, until he came to the fitness results. I never actually crossed the finish line! Observing the blood draining from my face, the captain smiled and said he passed me anyway, because of my effort. For the rest of my military service, I dedicated all running to that young OTS staff officer.

Graduation Day dawned with a bright blue Texas sky beckoning us to our massed formation spreading across the parade ground. Normally, a flight of jets thundered overhead during the ceremonies as a salute to the OT survivors. But, not for my class; flyovers had been terminated. Still, above the loudspeaker volume I heard an airplane close by. I sneaked a peek upwards and spied a lumbering, propeller-driven C-124 Globemaster II cargo hauler (Old Shaky), oblivious to our moment of glory. Close, but no cigar.

C-124 Globemaster II. Old Shaky

CHAPTER 2: 70-06

Sacrifices must be made.

--- Otto Lilienthal

In early 1969, I entered the USAF Undergraduate Pilot Training pipeline as part of Class 70-06. The 3575th Pilot Training Wing, Vance Air Force Base, played host to us in the welcoming township of Enid, Oklahoma. Although I am not sure why, we knew the municipality as Enid by the Sea. I always suspected it had something to do, perversely, with the landlocked charm of the red clay earth surroundings. And apparently God was on our side, judging by His pre-positioning a house of worship on nearly every street corner in downtown Enid.