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We did get a pay raise coming to flight school as we were promoted from E-1 or E-2 privates to E-5 sergeants. Our pay went from ninety-eight dollars to two hundred and twenty-five dollars a month. Almost all the extra pay went to two things—haircuts and laundry bills. We were expected to have high and tight haircuts, which meant a haircut each weekend. We were also expected to break starch every day. Our fatigues were so heavily starched that it took some effort to get your foot down the pant leg and your arm down the sleeve. A few cadets attempted to wear the same uniform two days in a row. The penalty for such an action wasn’t worth the price.
“No, sir, I don’t even like Corvettes and couldn’t afford one anyway,” I responded, deviating from Dad’s advice by giving more information than necessary.
“You don’t like Corvettes! I suppose you’re a Mustang lover, aren’t you?” he fired off.
Now this was really starting to bother me. What kind of “counseling” was this anyway? “No, sir, I really am not crazy about cars, to be truthful. A car is only transportation to me, and I have never owned one.” This response seemed to calm him down.
He paused and looked down at my file. “This says your next of kin lives in Morocco. What’s with that?”
“Yes, sir. My father is a naval officer stationed there.”
“Why didn’t you join the Navy?” he asked.
“I thought about it. I had been a merchant sailor and thought about going back to sea, but when I quit college, I knew I wanted to do this,” I answered.
“Why?” he asked with a questioning expression as he leaned back in his chair.
“Sir, I believe that our fight in Vietnam is the right thing for this nation to be doing. If we do not stop the spread of communism, then it will surround our shores. I believe the people of Vietnam deserve and want the same liberties that our forefathers fought for with the help of the French in the American Revolution.”
Shaking his lowered head, he said, “Okay, keep yourself out of trouble and you’ll probably make it. Send in Brewster. You’re dismissed.”
I came to attention, rendered that proper salute and did an about-face out of the office. What the hell was this about? I never spoke to the man again. Three months later, he would be shot by the military police while attempting to rob the PX one evening. Chief Warrant Officer 2 Barbie lost the gun fight. It was suspected that he was involved in a couple of robberies in Fort Worth, one involving a shooting death. The Criminal Investigation Division questioned us about his possibly attempting to recruit someone to assist him in his criminal behavior. We always wondered what happened to his “hot” wife. There was some speculation that her expensive tastes may have contributed to his actions.
We received weekend passes but were required to wear our uniforms. The adjacent town was Mineral Wells, Texas. Oh my God, I thought when I arrived downtown. It had one stop light. Every guy was dressed like a cowboy, as were the girls—at least, we thought they were girls. It became obvious quickly that our kind, soldiers, were not really appreciated in their town. My future roommate Bill was only nineteen, so the two of us found
a small tavern that didn’t ask for ID. We took a table by ourselves and quietly drank our beer. We decided to leave after one beer. Some of the cowboys were staring at us, and we thought it best to get out before some trouble started. The other option was to go into Fort Worth, but you had to have a car and neither of us did. There was a WOC club on base, but there were no women there. We could go to the NCO club as we were all E-5s, but the real NCOs really didn’t want us hanging around. Did you ever get the feeling you aren’t loved?
About this time, we lost the first member of our class.
“Someone get Hanna and have him report to me,” bellowed CW2 Barbie. Dave came downstairs and headed for the TAC’s office. A few minutes later, Dave came out and said nothing to anyone but went upstairs. A half hour later, he left the building in his khaki uniform with a shaving kit and a small bag. He was going home on emergency leave. He would be starting Preflight over again in a later class.
Seldom did physical training fall on the training calendar. The result was that we were all packing on the pounds we’d lost in basic training. While in preflight training, we were fitted for our officer’s uniforms. Warrant officer cadets were required to purchase one set of the Class A green uniform, which consisted of a coat and pants with a black stripe up the pant legs and around the jacket cuffs. Also, one set of the dress blues uniform, a dark blue coat and light blue pants with gold stripes instead of black, worn for formal occasions. The tailor would measure us and then add half an inch or an inch to each waist and chest measurement. He told us he anticipated we would be packing on a few pounds. He was right. Officers weren’t issued uniforms but had to buy them and were given a one-time payment of two hundred and fifty dollars for that purpose, regardless of how long they remained on active duty. Enlisted soldiers were issued their uniforms and got a monthly uniform allowance to maintain them. The one question we had was, if flight school was another seven months and the chance of dropping out was about fifty-fifty, why were we buying our uniforms now? Never got an answer to that one, but I suspected someone was making money under the table.
Chapter 3
Primary Flight Training
Once we completed Preflight, we entered primary flight training. At any one time in 1968, there were ten flight companies in session. All those companies were located on that portion of the base known as the Hill, where all the Korean War barracks were located, as well as three new additional barracks. These were concrete block buildings. Each class started with about three hundred and fifty cadets. Half of the day would be spent in the classroom, learning a variety of subjects, to include Federal Aviation Administration flight regulations, navigation, and aircraft operating systems. The other half of the day would be spent on the flight line and flying. There were three types of helicopters at Fort Wolters at that time: the Hughes TH-55; the Bell OH-13, which was the aircraft shown in the TV series M*A*S*H*; and the Hiller OH-23. Whichever aircraft you started with was the aircraft you would be flying your entire time at primary flight school. I drew the TH-55 and came to love that aircraft as it had plenty of power on warm Texas days.
On our first day of flying, my platoon was directed to a classroom, as was each of the other platoons in the company. Seldom would we come together as a company again. Our instructors, some military and some civilian, were already in the classroom. We were told to take a seat anywhere at a table where an instructor was already seated. Each table had two seats for students. Standing, the instructor introduced himself.
“Gentlemen, I’m Mr. West,” he said, extending his hand to each of us. “I will be your instructor for the next four months. The first thing we’re doin’ is makin’ a solemn pledge to each other. ‘I won’t get you killed if you don’t get me killed.’ Do we have a deal?” he asked in his Texas drawl. He was wearing cowboy boots, so he must be a civilian.
Looking at each other, Bob Atwell and I said, “Deal!” Truth be told, we hadn’t even thought about it. Bob was from Cleveland and had been in basic training with me. Likable but cocky, he was a ladies’ man, quick-witted and good looking, with dark wavy hair and blue eyes, a regular chick magnet.
“Good.” Mr. West indicated for us to sit down. “Let me get some information and we’ll get out to the flight line. Who wants to fly first?” he asked. This was different. We were being asked instead of told. I told Bob to take it.
“Now that that’s settled, Cadet Cory, you will ride the bus to the stage field and we’ll meet you there. Each of you will fly for an hour and a half and then switch. If you fly out, then you ride the bus back. Each day you switch on who flies first. Any questions?” We both indicated that we had no questions, and he completed the paperwork.
“Okay, let’s go preflight. When that’s done, Cory, you come back here and an instructor will gather everyone up for the bus ride. Leave your helmet here. Let’s go.” And out to the flight line we walked.
As we walked out to our assigned aircraft for the day, Mr. West went into a dissertation on the nomenclature of the TH-55 helicopter. “The TH-55 is an off-the-shelf civilian aircraft known as the Hughes 300. It’s a gas-fueled, piston-engine-driven aircraft with a transmission and clutch. Once you start the engine and reach operating rpm, you begin to engage the clutch, which tightens eight fan belts that turn the transmission and thus the rotor head and tail rotor. In your classroom work, you will learn all about the workings of the aircraft. Learn it well.”
When we arrived at the aircraft, Mr. West reached in and pulled out a small laminated book, handing it to me.
“Cory, you read off the checklist for the preflight. As he reads it off, Atwell, we’ll check the aircraft. You must pay attention to the details. A broken safety wire, a misaligned slippage mark, a missing nut or bolt or a loose Jesus nut can get you killed. Pay attention to the details.”
The Jesus nut was a large nut that sat on the very top of the rotor and held the rotor head to the rotor mast that came out of the transmission. It was called the Jesus nut because if it came off, you’d be meeting Jesus very shortly.
