C-C-Cold War Syndrome Or, Remember, It's Break Ground and Fly into the Wind

By G.H. Spaulding

Reading this book is like eating cashews,
proclaimed one reviewer. Once you start, you cant stop.

A must read for students of political-military
history, C-C-Cold War Syndrome is a
collection of 43 non-fiction short stories from award-winning author G.H.
Spaulding. They weave a fascinating account of the human and humorous side of
the Cold War. While not a single shot is fired between the covers of this book,
there is just enough tragic irony interspersed among the laughs to keep things
in perspective as the United States and Soviet Union engage in historys epic superpower
confrontation.

An
entertaining global journey that includes forays into naval aviation when
things dont always go according to Hoyle and unforgettable glimpses behind
the scenes at the White House, at the Pentagon and at the historic
American-Soviet arms talks in Geneva. Meet some of the Cold War victors...Booker,
Moon, Foggy Bob, Blotto, Snake, Beaver, Jay Beasley, Fawn Hall, The Purple
People Eater, Dracula and Flash Gordon. And some of the losers...head Soviet
Nikita Khrushchev and KGB agent Sergei Kryuchkov. Then experience the demise of
the Soviet Union through the eyes of senior Soviet army colonel Anatoli Yurchenko.

Two
of the stories in this collection...Dilbert Dunker and KGB...are national award
winners.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 1, 2002
• ISBN: 9780759614970

G.H. Spaulding

The author, as U.S. Naval Attaché to Egypt, and his wife Karen carry out their representational duties at a formal Scottish celebration in Cairo. The couple now lives in Colorado.  G.H. Spaulding retired from the Navy in 1993 with the rank of captain following a 26-year career as a pilot, defense intelligence officer and U.S. diplomat. He has since authored this book, a series of feature articles and two action-thriller novels, DECREE and TAKEOUT. He is also a proud member of The Order of Daedalians, a national fraternity of active duty and retired military pilots.

Book preview

Copyright © 2001 by G.H. Spaulding

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, restored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted by means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written consent

from the author.

ISBN: 0-75961-498-9

ISBN: 978-0- 7596-1497-0 (ebook)

IstBooks-rev. 4/25/01

Contents

FOREWORD

THE RUSSIANS ARE COMING, ETC!

DILBERT DUNKER

BLACK BOX

BLOOPERS

TAILHOOKER

ENEMIES

MOON

STORM

NORTH STAR

ZERO-g

WADDLETHROMP

SNAKES

THE BEAST

SURVIVING PAGO PAGO

BATTLE-OF-MIDWAY GOONEYS

SEMIFINAL COUNTDOWN

GOLDWATER AND THE HORNET

DON’T NEED NO STINKIN’ BADGES

BEFORE RED OCTOBER

LOCH NESS REVISITED

SUB ON THE ROCKS

MISTER BEASLEY

TRIPLE STICKS

WINGS

OBJETS D’ART

FAWN HALL

TIT FOR TAT

THE AMBASSADOR’S WIFE

KGB

GOLDFISH

TEN-FOOT MIDGETS

COFFEE AT THE WHITE HOUSE

PURPLE PEOPLE EATER

INAUGURAL BALL

MAGNIFICENT ABDUCTION

MERRY MINUET

TOSS UP

LETTER FROM HITLER

ALL SHOOK UP

GOLF WITH DRACULA

ROMEO AND CLEOPATRA

FINAL LANDING

ANATOLI

DECREE (Excerpt)

PHOTOS AND ILLUSTRATIONS

Subject

Nikita Khrushchev

Dilbert Dunker in Action

T-28 Trojan

T-28 at the Boat

P-3 Orion

Western Pacific/Okinawa

Foggy Bob

Where the Hell is Pago Pago?

Gooney Birds

F-18 Hornet

P-3C Orion

Loch Ness Monster

ABC’s John McWethy

Jay Beasly

T-28B (Buno 137749) in 1970 and 1983

Navy Pilot Wings

Objets d’art

Ms. Fawn Hall

Official Insignia of the KGB

Admiral William J. Crowe, Jr

C-2A Greyhound

Dick Cheney with Hitler

Hilter’s Letter

Holding on After the Quake

Golf at the Pyramids/Dracula

Soviet Romeo-class attack submarine

Author Beside Cobra 66

The Yurchenkos

FOREWORD

War is hell. Everyone knows that. But where did the Cold War fit in? Was it heaven? Was it purgatory? Or, was it hell f-f-frozen over?

The Cold War lasted nearly half a century—46 years, 3 months and 26 days, to be more precise. It began on September 2, 1945, the day the Japanese surrendered on board USS Missouri to officially end World War Two, and ended on December 26, 1991, generally acknowledged as the day on which the Soviet Union ultimately collapsed.

These dates are cited in a document called the Cold War Recognition Certificate now being issued by the U.S. Government. Congress established the CWRC in 1998.

Language included in the enabling legislation refers to the Cold War rivalry between the United States and the Soviet Union as potentially the most dangerous military confrontation in the history of mankind. Those designated to receive the certificate are military and civilian personnel of the Department of Defense, personnel in the intelligence community, members of the foreign service, and other officers and employees of the United States whose discipline and dedication were fundamental to the prevention of a superpower military conflict.

So let’s see if I’ve got this straight. About ten billion of us have been singled out and recognized for not running away from a fight that didn’t happen! Is that about it?

Oh, where have ye gone, Yossarian?

Says a lot about the Cold War, doesn’t it? It all seemed a little squishy to me, not unlike trying to nail Jello to a tree. And just to be safe, perhaps we should be calling it Cold War One so we don’t have to rename it years from now when we find ourselves bogged down in Cold War Two.

Scholars have debated for decades whether CW-I was a good thing or a bad thing. Arguably, the U.S.-Soviet nuclear standoff and the concomitant competition for global political influence had a certain stabilizing effect on the rest of the world, a good thing. But it did not prevent shooting wars like Korea and Vietnam, a bad thing. Worse, along with the China wild card, it constrained American political will to the extent that the U.S. military was never unleashed to pursue real victory in those conflicts.

Then, in the waning months of CW-I, after the end of the Soviet Union was all but certain, the Gulf War ushered in an era of less constrained shooting wars. So far, these actions might better be described as severe admonishments of little nations led by big personalities no longer held in behavioral check by the Soviet Union. Presumably, once we rid ourselves of all of the evil genies released from their bottles by the end of CW-I, all will be right with the world. Right.

Meanwhile, we seem to be faced with a variety of post-admonishment maladies, such as the Gulf War Syndrome. Can the Kosovo Bombing Syndrome be far behind?

And what about the legions of Cold Warriors who didn’t run away from the fight that didn’t happen? Now that the campaign has been defined by actual beginning and ending dates, how many of its veterans will rush forward claiming to be suffering the debilitating effects of the Cold War Syndrome? Let me be the first.

In my case, the symptoms include an overpowering urge to document some of the humorous and ironic moments, some of the behind-the-scenes goings on that helped to shape much of the Cold War, that rather amorphous military engagement that didn’t happen that we didn’t run away from.

This is a book of true short stories dealing with the human side of the Cold War. In snapshot fashion, they recount the observations and experiences of a Cold War participant—initially inspired to join the fray while in college in the 1960s by Nikita Khrushchev’s promise, We will bury you—accrued over the course of 30 years and culminating when he finally befriends his career-long Russian adversary.

Some of the stories deal with the funny side and a few with the tragic side of flying. Others provide glimpses inside the White House during preparations for a Superpower Summit and inside the Pentagon when its doors are thrown open to the Soviet General Staff. Still others reveal what really goes on at the arms talks in Geneva as American and Soviet delegations hammer out the first START treaty. The concluding story, set in Cairo, Egypt, relates the breakup of the Soviet Empire and the end of the Cold War as seen through the eyes of a senior Soviet military officer.

These are the anecdotal recollections of a career naval aviator equipped with an eye for those subtle keepers often overlooked by others and a reasonably good sense of humor who happened to be in the right place at the right time.

Now the term naval aviator seems to conjure up in the minds of some people images of a jet pilot flying combat missions off an aircraft carrier awash in a stormy sea. I didn’t do that. Never flew a jet. Never flew in combat. And seldom was I awash in a stormy sea. I did qualify aboard carriers in two different types of aircraft, but that was way back in flight training. Never was I assigned full time to an aircraft carrier or, for that matter, to any ship. Maybe that’s why I ultimately retired as a captain (0-6) and not as an admiral. Well, maybe not, come to think about it.

In eight tours of duty involving flying, I piloted six types of aircraft, five of them Navy and the other Air Force. Operationally, I flew the four-engine P-3 Orion, a great airplane whose main purpose in life was to find, track and sink Soviet submarines.

To my knowledge, we never sank any, owing to the fact that we were engaged in a cold war with the Soviets and not in a shooting war. But we tracked a lot of them, by God. And we used them as real targets for countless simulated attacks.

I was also fortunate to have had a number of non-flying assignments that proved to be at least tolerable if not downright enjoyable. Some were in the intelligence business. Another was in the diplomatic arena in Geneva, Switzerland. Many of the anecdotes in this book detail amusing incidents—like the unexpected product endorsement by a KGB agent at a social function in Geneva—that occurred during those assignments, when the engines were shut down, so to speak. You see, when a pilot isn’t flying, it’s essential that he keep in touch with his sense of humor. It’s a rule.

I finished up as the United States Naval Attaché to Egypt, assigned to the American Embassy in Cairo. It was a memorable tour that involved both diplomacy and flying, the latter with the Air Force, however, not with the Navy. I’ve incorporated a story or two about that unique experience, which included: surviving a terrifying earthquake; receiving a letter from Hitler (in 1992!); making my emotional last flight and final landing with an Air Force copilot named Flash Gordon at my side; and being tearfully farewelled by the imposing Anatoli, my long-time Russian enemy-turned-friend.

So that explains the C-C-Cold War Syndrome part of this book’s title. But what about the second part, Remember, It’s Break Ground and Fly Into the Wind? Well, here it is.

When trading friendly barbs about flying with Air Force counterparts, I invariably ask them, What’s the difference between a Navy pilot and an Air Force pilot?

The typical response is a shrug of the shoulders. Then I explain, "A Navy pilot breaks ground and flies into the wind. And that’s the difference!"

Okay, I’m ready now to receive my certificate.

GHS

If you liked M*A*S*H*...

if you liked Seinfeld…

but you don’t care for broccoli,

you’ll love

C-C-COLD

WAR SYNDROME

or

Remember, It’s Break Ground and Fly Into the Wind

You can see a lot by observing.

—Yogi Berra

Storyteller: a person who has a good memory and hopes other people haven’t.

—Irvin S. Cobb

THE RUSSIANS ARE COMING, ETC!

It was warm, almost hot, for an early spring afternoon in southern Colorado. The leaves were thick on the trees, so callow and pliant the gentle breeze off the Arkansas weaved through them with barely a whisper. Their soothing shade invited you to lie back on the damp, cool grass, close your eyes and just lie there on the damp, cool grass.

Becky was sitting cross-legged with her back against the trunk of a sheltering maple and a textbook spread open across her lap between bare knees that peeked beguilingly from beneath the drape of her pleated wool skirt. She brushed aside a recalcitrant lock of chestnut-blonde hair that cascaded over her eyes whenever she lowered her head to read the words on the page.

I lay on my side facing her with my head, propped up on one elbow, resting in the palm of my hand. My own textbook was open to the same place. A prototypical, hormonally-charged male college student, I struggled to keep my gaze fixed on the printed page in order to avoid taking obvious advantage of the intimate view under Becky’s skirt that presented itself, ever so fleetingly, each time she adjusted her position.

What time does the train leave? asked Becky in Russian. It sounded like this: Vo skolko otpravlyetsya poezd?

V tre tridtsat, I replied; translation: At 3:30.

We were practicing a dialogue we’d be expected to recite during our impending Russian language class. We had less than 30 minutes of the lunch break left in which to perfect it before trundling off to the classroom.

"Kuda vi tak speshiteh? (Where are you going in such a hurry)?" Even when spoken by someone as fetching as Becky, thought I, there was nothing remotely romantic about the Russian language. And as far as I knew, there was nothing remotely romantic going on between the two of us. We just enjoyed practicing our dialogues together.

Ya idu na pochtu, I explained: I’m on my way to the post office.

I had no idea why Becky had signed up for Russian and never thought to ask her. But I knew why I’d taken the course. The Russians were coming! Nikita Khrushchev had made the fact known by removing his shoe and pounding it like a crazy man on a table at the United Nations. He was a barbarian who possessed the bomb, long-range missiles, Sputnik and Cuba. Although he was now gone, his successor, Leonid Brezhnev, looked even more sinister behind those bushy black eyebrows. Meanwhile, Khrushchev’s infamous threat to the United States—We will bury you!—helped to shape his legacy and lingered on as a rallying cry for the current regime.

It was those words—We will bury you!—that inspired me to study Russian. While everyone knew the Soviets were capable of bombing the United States into oblivion, I took Khrushchev’s threat to mean the Soviet Union would seek to bury us economically in order to prove the inevitable superiority of communism. I figured that somewhere in the throws of the competition certain to follow, perhaps when I emerged from my family bomb shelter, it might come in handy to know how to say in Russian, Bury this, you socialist pig!

"Chto eto? (What’s that)?" Becky asked, shifting slightly and innocently exposing a flash of white cotton pantie.

Borsch na stoleh, I replied eventually.

What? Becky was confused, and for good reason.

In response to her query, I had said, The borsch is on the table! Momentarily distracted, I’d read the wrong line.

"Sorry. Eto pismo (It’s a letter)," I said, back on track. "Ya vchera napisalpismo domoi (I wrote a letter home yesterday)."

"Pochta voi tam, protiv teatra (The post office is over there, opposite the theater)." Becky was good.

"Da (Yes)."

Before I could invite her to the theater, my next line, I was distracted by something else. A man in uniform was making his

way towards us at a brisk pace as if he were on an urgent mission.

I recognized the man by sight, though not by name. A Navy captain, he was the commanding officer of a recruiting unit based in Olathe, Kansas. He’d brought his A-team to the Southern Colorado State campus to induce young college men into naval aviation.

The day before, passing by a table the recruiters had set up to display their FLY NAVY materials, I’d paused for a moment to browse. I found myself mesmerized by the slick color photos of naval aircraft launching from carriers at sea. The captain noticed my interest and eventually persuaded me to take a battery of written tests—tests devised by the Navy to screen prospective pilots. With nothing else on my schedule that afternoon, I agreed, although tentatively as if he were trying to sell me a used car. Curiosity, I guess.

It wasn’t anything about his recruiting pitch that had caused me to agree to take the tests. He hadn’t made one. It was the notion of going down to the sea in ships—and then flying off those ships in airplanes—that had captured my imagination.

The captain was upon us. Sorry to interrupt, he said excitedly, tipping the gold-laden bill of his white officer’s cap in Becky’s direction. His crisp black uniform, with four gold stripes on each sleeve and a pair of gleaming gold aviator wings perched atop a cluster of colorful ribbons displayed on his chest, made the interruption seem somehow official.

He faced me and got efficiently to his business. I just wanted to let you know the results of your tests. You aced everything!

Really?

I’ve never seen test results that high. Fantastic!

Becky was perturbed. "Mi govorili po-ruskee (We were speaking Russian)," she said stiffly.

The captain gave her an uncomprehending sideways look, then went on. "You must come to Olathe, Kansas, and take a flight physical. Pass that and we’ll send you to Pensacola for flight training."

"Vi idyote v pochte? (Are you going to the post office)?" Becky again, trying to remind me that we needed to finish our dialogue. She made a point of tugging the hem of her skirt down over her knees to conceal them.

The captain was undeterred. Can you get away weekend after next? We’ll fly you to Olathe on Friday, put you up in the bachelor officers quarters, do the physical on Saturday and fly you back on Sunday. Free meals and free bar at the officers club. What do you say?

Now that captain would have made a darned good used car salesman at that. To a practically destitute college student, his offer of free food and drink for an entire weekend sounded too good to pass up.

That sounds too good to pass up, I said.

Great. I’ll contact you in a day or two with the details. With that, he smiled at Becky, turned smartly and walked away.

Watching him go, I began to experience an attack of buyer’s remorse, wondering what I’d let myself in for. Then I remembered Khrushchev’s bury you threat. Perhaps fate had come knocking, dressed in a Navy uniform, and was telling me it was time to get off my duff and do something to help put the Soviet bullies in their place. The first step, I concluded, was to learn the words, Bury this! in Russian.

"Pochta voi tam, protiv teatra (The post office is over there, opposite the theater)," Becky repeated, resuming the dialogue. Curiously, her knees had re-emerged from beneath her skirt. She wriggled herself into a more comfortable position, unintentionally