United States Air Force Academy Class of ‘74: Our Academy Experience, Our Adventures, Our Lives

By Bill Van Horn

Imagine flying into Iran to rescue the American embassy employees being held hostage. What would it be like to be a pilot of a military refueling aircraft, loaded with jet fuel and passengers, accelerating to takeoff speed, then having to do a high-speed abort because of an aircraft malfunction. Put yourself in an aircraft that crashes onto a remote airstrip during a blizzard. How would you react to being a young man who has it all, being a military pilot and newly married, but you learn that you have leukemia. You are then told about a new medical procedure called a bone marrow transplant but, half the people who have tried that have died. What would it be like to be a member of the United States military, training to defend your nation against the Soviet Empire during the Cold War, when your government tells you that you are going on a mission to establish Christian organizations in the Soviet military. These are all real-world stories from graduates of the Class of 74 of the United States Air Force Academy. Read, laugh, cry, learn and be inspired.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496934154

Bill Van Horn

Bill Van Horn graduated from the United States Air Force Academy in 1974. He became a navigator in the United States Air Force, and flew for thousands of hours in the B-52 nuclear bomber, the RC-135S Cobra Ball spy plan, and the C-130 Lockheed Hercules. He has flown missions close to North Korea and the Soviet Empire. He has combat flight time from Desert Storm, the Bosnia dust-up, and Operation Global Shield (Iraq II). Bill received the highest Air Force Award for peacetime heroism for rescuing fellow flyers from their aircraft after it crashed and burned. Bill is now a family law lawyer. He and his wife Penni live in the foothills of the Colorado mountains, and have five children scattered across five states.

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AuthorHouse™ LLC

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© 2014 Bill Van Horn. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/13/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3416-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3415-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014914525

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Contents

Introduction

Gone But Not Forgotten

An Alcoholic Classmate Anonymous

The Tea Set

Bruce Alley

People are People

Reflections From 40 Years On

Tom Baldy

Outreach Trip to Southern California

Bob Bayne

Relationships

How To Survive SERE

Rich Bowman

Laundry Duty Made Memorable

Rick Boyd

Killing the Ceremonial Uniforms

Hell week

Joe Brezovic

UPT at Moody AFB, Valdosta, Georgia

Recollections from SERE

Tony Brozena

Flying – Military and Civilian

Dale Burchby

The Anatomy Test

Donald Clement

What Replaces Communism?

Howard Deunk

The Next Generation

Jim Donaldson

KC-135 Close Call

Dave Duncan

Leukemia and God

Harry Durgin

Parkas, Under Cover

Rick Fedors

A Special Bond

Jim Fiorenzi

44 Years

Frank Forsyth

Home is Where the Air Force Sends You

It Builds Character

Space A

John Garland

Left Brain Dominates

Space Available Flying

Deane Harimoto

On the Fields of Friendly Strife

A Wind in the House of Islam

Mark Harlan

Framing a Former Congressman

Check Point Charlie

Tom Heffernan (and Bill Van Horn)

Spirit Banners and the Best Laid Plans…

Scott Hoke

Our C-141 at Desert Storm

September 11th at the Pentagon

Remembering Jim Paquette

Tom Holkeboer

A Chance to Give

A Thousand Decisions for a Thousand Days

by Joanne Huddleson, wife of (the late) Scott Huddleson

They Just Might be Heroes!

Mark Hyatt

Developing Citizens of Character

Cadet HWCNBNBWFBR

Phil Irish

God is Faithful

Gregory Kurtz

General Robin Olds

By Mrs. Katherine (Katie) LaSaxon for my husband, Dr. Victor M. LaSaxon, Col, USAF (Ret)

Low Level Navigation

Jack Leonard

A Doolie Moment

TJ McManamy

Ethics and Honor: 40 Years Later

Becoming a Cadet

Jim Meeker

Basic Cadet Training

Air Force Wrestling

Major Dugan, from AOC to Chief of Staff

Mud, Blood, and Beer

Boom and (Almost) Bust

Bob Morrow

The Adventure Continues

Dave Newell

The Wanderings of a Young Man from Moiese, Montana

Warren Priddy

ARIA World Tour 1986

Keith Quinn

Academy Reunions

Mark Rader

A Friendly Greeting

Gary Read

A Vietnam Visit

Boys Nation

Mike Robards

Spirit Mission to Handcuffs

Andy Scroggs

Out of Uniform

Frank Shanley

A Brutal Drive

From Air Force Crewdog to Navy Chaplain

Jack Smith

Career Decision Time

Riley Stevens

Latrine Etiquette

Al Stockstad

Iranian Hostage Rescue Mission

Michael Sumida

Forty Years and Counting

Ralph Tate

OPSEC

Bill Van Horn

CRASH!

Two Court-Martials

Widowed

Instructor Evaluation

Steve Wallingford

Future Consequences

Diplomatic Crossfire

How to Quit Smoking

George Wells

Academy Adventures

Ed Whalen

Introduction

The ’70s were a turbulent time for our nation—and for us. We were fuzzy faced kids just out of high school, but we were training for war. We were in the midst of the Cold War with the Soviet empire, and in a shooting war in Vietnam. Experimental aircraft were becoming operational. Our culture was in upheaval. And we were new cadets at the United States Air Force Academy.

While at The Blue Zoo, the 26th Amendment to the Constitution was amended to allow us to vote at 18, Skylab was launched, President Nixon was about to resign, Hank Aaron of the Atlanta Braves broke Babe Ruth’s home run record, and Apollo 16th landed on the moon, as commemorated on our class rings as the 16th graduating class from the Air Force Academy.

Our classmates have had amazing experiences. Many of our stories are told here. You will love these stories! What a wild ride it has been!

You can also read all of these stories on our website, conveniently named USAFA74.com. The website also has stories that we received after this book went to publication. If you have a story you would like to share with our classmates on the website, please send your story to us. Many of us have stories that need to be shared, but have not yet been written. Don’t let your stories die with you—share them with us!

Our stories are funny, outrageous, heart-warming, scary, and all of these at once. But at the end of the day, it seems that the best stories about our lives are those that have us in relationship to our classmates, our friends, our family, and our God. I believe that we are here to serve others. The United States Air Force Academy taught us well how to do this. We helped each other through the obstacle course, the assault course, and the confidence course. We battled each other with pugil sticks, in boxing and wrestling and unarmed combat, then helped each other to our feet after we had bloodied each other and ourselves. After the Academy, we stood up for each other in our weddings, and were there for each other at the births of our children. We have stood strong with each other as death has claimed wives, children, and even our classmates. We have well served our country and our families. Let us continue to stand strong together.

’74 Forevermore!

The Class of 1974 – the 16th graduating class of the

United States Air Force Academy

Gone But Not Forgotten

Richard Alcorn

James Bagnall

Richard Barclay

Terry Berdine

George Brown

Merritt Brown

Michael Brozovich

David Burdick

Richard Conrardy

Donald Cook

Benjamin Cotharin

Kevin Court

Robert Cripe

Robert Cutler

Calvin Derck

Gordon Duey

Gregory Durio

Donald Eastmead, MD

Richard Estes

James Farus

James Fulton

Anthony Gudeczauskas, Jr.

Edward Hackney

James Hazen

Stephen Herry

Stephen Holland

Robert Hood

Scott Huddleson

James Iacobucci

Jimmy Ilseng

John Jackson

Charles Jones

Delton Jones

Rodney Journey

James Keaton

Walter Kinard

Richard Kirkpatrick

Wade Knight

Thomas Kolessar

Emory Lockette, Jr.

Jack Long

Lawrence Lowery

Robert Lutz

Patrick Lynch

John Miller

Martin Miller

J Moats

James Paquette

John Pennock

Patrick Pondrom

David Range

Ronald Rentschler

Stephen Ritz

Thomas Schmitt

Charles Stewart

Dennis Stockert

Randy VanScoyk

Ronald Watson

Richard Wohlman

image001.jpg

The Superintendent

and the

Class of Nineteen hundred and seventy-four

of the

United States Air Force Academy

announce the Graduation Exercises

Wednesday, June the fifth

United States Air Force Academy

Colorado

An Alcoholic Classmate

Anonymous

I’m xxx, and I’m an alcoholic. Seeing those words in print is strange for me to read, and I have uttered them thousands of times since I sought help for something I could not understand or control in the spring of 2006. So, if it is strange for you to read, I totally get it. The motivation for this essay stems from two basic experiences I have had. The first occurred on that icy morning of our 35th Reunion. It was 15 degrees with freezing fog, and I ventured out to a small gathering of fellow alcoholics at a location three miles below the South Gate on Academy Boulevard. They had been meeting there every Saturday for twenty-five years, yet I was the first person associated with the Air Force Academy anyone had ever met. The second factor was that, among grads, I have seen careers in aviation destroyed, and deaths occur, in cases where the person simply could never accept their inability to drink like those around them. In writing this, I wanted to extend a helping hand to anyone who might need it.

What I thought an alcoholic was, and what I have learned over the years, are drastically different. I just thought that every now and then, things got a little out of hand. In the Irish neighborhood where I grew up, the Officers’ Club happy hours I attended with zeal, and during my airline layovers, I applied the Work hard, Play hard philosophy to the best of my ability. Trouble was, those choices often ended up badly. So, after binge drinking for over forty years, I finally raised my hand and asked my employer for help. It was not an easy decision, and there was a certain risk involved to my career, but it was one of the best things I have ever done. I have had phenomenal experiences since leaving a twenty-eight day treatment program eight years ago, and I hope to become even more involved in this field when my flying days are done. I now hold the highest designation that the FAA can issue on two different aircraft, and this is with the FAA also having on record that I am a diagnosed alcoholic who has completed their requirements for re-entry into the workplace. I write training programs and enforce flight standards for the largest airplane that my airline flies, and those promotions came from supervisors who were also aware of this part of my life.

Today I spend about ten hours a week visiting with other alcoholics. I accept that being an alcoholic is as much a part of me as being Irish, a pilot, a husband, a father, and a proud member of the Class of ’74.

At the request of family members, I have not published my name. If I may be of service, Ed Whalen. Bill Van Horn, and Mark Hyatt are always available to reach me.

The Tea Set

Bruce Alley

MAC crew members have always been known for trying to find bargains to take home while on their trips. (MAC treasure fills many an attic.) While on one of my trips to Tehran, I was tasked with finding a tea set. I finally found a shop with a nice tea set and uttered the magic words that all languages know…How much? I was given an answer and realized that I was buying a simple brass tea set, not something inlaid with gold. The next most known words I replied…Too much. MAC crew members really do stand out like sore thumbs (no blending in with the locals here) - You MAC crew, you can afford it! followed by You thief, you take my money!– All hell broke loose. He was yelling at me waving a small curved knife; I was yelling at him waving my wallet. The shop owner had to calm things down. You two, enough! He insulted me! He’s trying to take my money (i.e. rip me off) The shop owner insisted that we settle things. It became a matter of honor. He gave me the tea set as a gift, to which I gave" him money as a gift (at a little better price). After a handshake, a hug, and a promise to see each other soon, I departed with my newly gained treasure. (It is still in the family today with my grown daughter). Aahh, the fine art of negotiations.

People are People

Bruce Alley

I was assigned to the 41st Squadron, 437 Military Airlift Wing in Charleston, South Carolina from April ’76 to August ’80 flying C-141s. Our routes took us pretty much everywhere east of the Mississippi including South America with the occasional trip west (Japan). It was a pretty good deal. That being said, one of my regular routes was Tehran, Iran. Nice city, nice people, pretty interesting place. However, as we all know, things changed dramatically when the Shah left. We were tasked with immediately evacuating the Americans after the regime change. Things were going downhill fast, so there would be no staying overnight this time. We came in during the early morning hours while it was still dark doing a high altitude penetration with all of our lights out, landed, and were led to our parking space. As the sun came up, our evacuees started arriving. Outside the gates of the airport there were already large crowds as the Ayatollah was supposed to arrive that day on Air France. (We had actually walked over to witness the event.) However, unfortunately or rather fortunately, he did not come in that day.

A little while later as I was in the cockpit programming the INS, the loadmaster came running up slightly excited. He pointed towards the back of the aircraft. A light armored column had stopped and swung their guns on us. There was a gentleman on top of the unit with a mounted machine gun also pointed at us. All I could think to do was smile and wave. To my surprise, one of his hands came up and he waved back. With that, I jumped off of the ramp and started towards him. He followed me with the gun until I was close enough that it hit its locks. I climbed up with a smile and displayed interest towards his vehicle. It was almost too funny. You could see the question mark above his head. With that, he proceeded to let me see down the hatch and show me how his vehicle worked, kind of a neat moment. With sign language we indicated that we were both commanders. I wish I could have shown him the airplane, but he indicated that he had to go, so I stepped off, we saluted each other, and he proceeded on his way with the column.

We left a little while later, spiraling up, popping flares with our fancy jury rigged flare guns (made for this occasion) until we reached 10,000 feet. We then closed the hatches and proceeded on our way. As we announced that we crossed into Turkey, the back of the airplane erupted into cheering. Later, I learned that Khomeini had arrived the next day and no other aircraft were allowed in.

History shows that things quickly got worse for the Iranians with Shariah Law and executions, along with our embassy being taken. I had a sense of sadness as things unfolded. Hopefully, someday things will change for the better. Funny how when you look into somebody’s face of a different country and culture you see there is no animosity and that we are all in this together.

Reflections From 40 Years On

Tom Baldy

I look down from the Chapel Wall onto the cadet area- the aluminum and glass symmetry of Vandenberg, Fairchild, and Sijan, framing-in the flat-pebbled terrazzo; the Stars and Stripes against the Colorado sky. It is all rectangles and blocks and crisp pyramids and my, how the memories come back…

Those white marble strips, filled with fresh-uniformed boys, blue, stiff, epaulet-less shirts with only a name tag and darker, still blue trousers and white gloves to set things off. Marching back, still hungry from dinner, clicking in our new shoes, Good evening, sir to upperclassmen, and, if in a crowd, feeling daring, Good eat me, sir- our puny rebellion.

Into the cool expanse of Arnold Hall we filed to fill the front of the auditorium, row-by-row hoping to sit by a buddy, stowing the goofy wheel cap in the rack beneath the seat and settling in amongst the soft murmur of 1400 class-mates’ voices. Barnum nudging me, then reaching down to peel back his sock, exposing ankle and apple pie, mangled but delicious. He bends and it is gone and so, two years later was Barnum, back to Moses Lake. But for now we take in the upperclassmen dressed in period costumes- Mitchell, Douhet, Doolittle appearing from the mist. We sit mesmerized at this theater.

I recall the cool air over my shaved head, thinking of 12 pairs of Hanes’ briefs, ripped out of the plastic, made into ruler-measured square folds, the upper most two, wrapped around cut cardboard to cap the twin columns. Early morning-the letters home, written while propped in bed, watching the dispassionate Colorado sun, peaceful before the whistles and kicked-in doors and the scrambled frenzy to put on boots and fatigues. You’re slow, smack, move it. Your class mates are dying out there. Slap, slam- the underwear upset, down the hall, hugging the wall with our rifles, chin in, blue ball cap pulled low to hide the eyes, melting into the flight of boys, double-timing, then down the road, singing, saving breath, careful steps (don’t step on your classmate) falling behind, then accordioning as lead slows, one hand against your buddy’s back, and off again, through green, sweet, manure-scented fields. How far, we need to know, how far? And like clockwork, K__, mouth working like a fish, face pale- first we carry his rifle, then him, until he cries in agony, running twenty more feet to collapse on soft grass. We leave his rifle and him behind.

Back again from the four miles down dusty roads, the smell of gypsum and taste of pain in our throats and there’s K__, back on his feet. He sees us, and his legs start moving in place, he growls and raises his rifle over his head. We hoist our rifles, stiff armed, until the group is all crooked, trembling elbows and cock-eyed M-1s.

At night we polish shoes, and write more letters (seems like hundreds of them) and by my foot, hidden, is the coke left by my empathetic element Sergeant. Ten hundred and again the door flies open, Skivvies and shower clogs, now! the upperclassman screams. Down the hall, our towel-draped forearms parallel to the ground, hands gripping the soap dish, chins tucked in, joining the others running in place, the slap-slap of our shower shoes against tile, the white-shirted cadre urging you higher with silent hands. Finally, the whistle; we stop, chests heaving. We listen to the flight commander tell us Hellbenders that we’ve had another bad day. Tomorrow will be better. I fight the laughter and I see Balale’s shoulders start in contagion.

I shower and exit. The upperclassman with the clipboard asks, in all seriousness, for the date of our last bowel movement. B__, tall, thin and goofy, tells them it’s been two weeks. I laugh again and B__ is sent back in to take care of business. He is gone, seven years later, a smoking hole in the Nevada desert.

C2C Evans, Washington, D.C., (beverage preference: juice at lunch, tea at dinner) sits on a stool and in curious tenderness, bandages our blistered feet. At the first strains of tattoo, the halls empty, we dust and straighten the room before taps when we are in bed, alone with our thoughts.

…I make my way from the Chapel Wall to stand at the base of the Bring Me Men ramp where 44 years before my brother, Paul, dropped me off that 1st day. A newly-minted yearling at West Point, he took pictures, fussing, delaying because he didn’t want to let me go, didn’t know what to say, and me sick and miserable and finally- the handshake and hug. I gave the upperclassman my bags and got to it, grateful to have it all begin. Paul watched me from the library window, suffering, I’m sure, more than I. I stand here now, tears in my eyes, remembering him- now gone, and the others- but a memory.

Outreach Trip to Southern California

Bob Bayne

During my second class spring break, a number of us ’74 guys along with some from ’73, and a few ’75 classmates (3rd classmen then), headed to southern California to help some churches and do outreach on some college campuses.

During our exploits, we stopped at a Christian camp in California to do some construction work. Don Swallow, ’74, wanted to get a picture of