A YOUNG PILOT'S ODYSSEY
by
Lester G. Frazier

We all think we are unique and I'm no different. Throughout my life, I've had odd things happen to me and this rather rambling story is a review of five situations that I, but maybe not you, think were quite unusual. * * * * * In 1959, my duty assignment was Seymour Johnson AFB (SJAFB), Goldsboro, North Carolina, the only Air Force base named after a naval aviator. We were flying the F-100C, a single engine, single-seat jet fighter. My flight commander, Turk Turley, had checked me out in the airplane and I was probably the most inexperienced fighter pilot on the base, as well as the youngest at age 23. During 1959, there was a recurring need to deliver F-100's to overseas bases. In order to qualify as a delivery pilot, one had to complete five successful refueling hookups with the KB-50 tanker. Turk was determined to get me tanker qualified as the delivery flights were considered a boondoggle as well as a method of rapidly building flying time. The KB-50 was a modified B-29 from World War II and mounted two small jet engines under the wings in addition to the four Pratt & Whitney R-4630 radial engines (the largest piston driven aviation engine ever built) mounted in the wings. Refueling was accomplished using the probe and drogue method where the tanker would reel out up to three hoses (one from a pod under each wing and one from the tail) with a wire wicker basket, called the drogue, attached to the end of the hose. Maximum refueling speed of the old bird with two burning and four turning was 230 knots, fifty knots above the F-100C's final approach speed at minimum fuel. Our model of the F-100C used a short, straight refueling receptacle, a tube under the right wing about ten feet outboard of the fuselage and oriented in the direction of flight. The F-100C's wing was mounted low, so the tube, called the probe, was lower than the pilot's feet and impossible to see unless one turned his head and looked over and down at the probe. On my first refueling flight, Turk briefed me to stabilize with the tanker's drogue in front of the F-100's nose and lined up, as best as possible, with the probe. Once stabilized, the key to a successful hook up was to apply sufficient power to drive straight forward with a three to five knot overtake until the probe latched into the drogue. Turk explained that the drogue would gyrate as it passed the F-100's nose but should settle down as the probe was approached. He warned me not to look at the probe as the KB-50 was only a few feet away and one's attention had to be directed forward to prevent a mid-air collision. A successful contact would reel in the drogue's hose that had white bands painted on it every ten feet. The hose had to be pushed forward forty feet before fuel would flow. If the drogue missed the probe, it could bounce off of the wing or fuselage and the noise could be heard in the cockpit. If the pilot was too high and the drogue passed underneath the F-100, the pilot eventually became aware of the miss when he realized he was very close to the tanker and the hose wasn't reeling in. "The most important consideration," concluded Turk, "is to keep your control inputs precise and relaxed. All you're doing is flying formation with a different type of airplane, so don't let it intimidate you." Completely disregarding Turk's instructions, I approached refueling with the "get a bigger hammer" technique. I jammed the throttle from idle to full military, seesawed the rudders and swept the cockpit clean with the stick. I had the drogue draped over the horizontal stabilizer, smashing against the canopy and trying to get down the intake (the drogue was too large to be swallowed). After thirty minutes of this jiggery-pokery, Turk sent me back to base. Arriving back at SJAFB, I expected to be greeted with derision, but instead, the general comments to me were "it's a bitch, huh?" Follow-on missions were flown like Turk told me the first time and I soon had my five required hookups and associated fuel transfer and qualified to deliver aircraft to foreign countries. Our commander, Lt. Col. Paul P. Hoza, asked for volunteers to deliver an F-100 to Okinawa and when I held my hand up, he said, "Sorry Frazier, you have to have five hook ups." Turk stood up and told him that I was qualified and Colonel Hoza allowed me to deliver the aircraft to our base at Kadena, Okinawa. A month later, volunteers were needed to deliver three F-100Fs to Germany. John Glossbrenner, George Garey and I got the nod. Before leaving for Langley AFB, Virginia to pick up our airplanes, I made the usual courtesy announcement that I would shop for squadron members while in Germany. Since most of the pilots were delivering aircraft, there were no requests, except from the squadron flight surgeon, who asked me to pick up a bottle of Gold Wasser "... if it isn't too much trouble." He explained that Gold Wasser was a clear liqueur, that when shaken, tiny golden flakes would drift and sparkle like Christmas snowflake globes. With John leading, we launched out of Langley, with 15 second spacing, in the pre-dawn blackness of a cold, miserable and snow swept November morning. We joined on top, refueled over Bermuda and landed at Lajes Field, in the Azores, about six hours later. The next day, our weather forecasters told us that Germany, in it's entirety, was socked in and that we would have to land at Chateauroux AB, France and wait there for the weather to lift above delivery minimums. The flight to Chateauroux was uneventful and no refueling was involved. The weather in Germany continued to be uncooperative and we spent three or four days at Chateauroux. While waiting for decent weather, maintenance control called and asked me to take my airplane up "to get some time on the frame," as airplanes, setting around, tended to break. "Oh, by the way," asked maintenance, "would you mind taking a passenger?" The F-100F was the tandem, two-seated model and I told maintenance that it would be a pleasure to give someone a ride. My passenger met me at Base Operations and he turned out to be a flight surgeon, who introduced himself as Captain Easterbrooks. As we were walking toward the airplane, I asked him if he had ever flown in a jet. He said, "I had a ride in a T-33 once." The T-33 was a small tandem seated trainer. Oh shit, I thought, this guy might get sick on me, so I'd better explain everything and really take it easy on him. "See those things under the wings?" I asked, "they're not bombs, they're gas tanks, unbaffled 450 gallon drop tanks. When I burn the fuel out of them, I'll tip the airplane upside down if you don't think it'll make you sick. (I didn't use the term 'roll the airplane around' because I didn't know if he would understand me)." "No," said Dr. Easterbrooks, "I don't think it'll make me sick, I had a thousand hours in the P-51 in World War II." I was astonished. "You were a fighter pilot in WW II?" "Oh yes," he continued, "I finished medical school after the war and was a flight surgeon in Korea. In fact, the pilots there decided I should fly some combat missions with them in the F-86. I was actually strapped in, ready to start the engine for a check out ride when the Fifth Air Force Surgeon General decided to visit my base. When he found out where I was and what I was doing, he sent the hospital commander to my airplane who yelled up at me to get down out of the airplane. The Surgeon General was really pissed and put out an order that no flight surgeons could fly airplanes in his command." Stunned over the physician's experience level (I had 800 hours total time and no combat), I discontinued my dumb-shit brief, strapped him in the back seat, fired up the bird and took off. After punching through a low cloud deck, I turned the airplane over to the doc and he practiced confidence maneuvers then rolled and looped the bird for the next hour and one-half, expertly and aggressively. Clearly, Dr. Easterbrooks was born to the cockpit and his disappointment was evident when we had to land. Finally, the weather cleared at Ramstein enough for George and me to attempt to fly in (John Glossbrenner was taking his airplane to another base). We tooled around endlessly in the clouds above Ramstein, with me having no idea if we were even in Europe, awaiting an approach clearance. When we received it, George led us down through truly desperate weather to a formation landing (I think he wanted to keep an eye on me due to my experience level). After turning our aircraft over to the receiving unit, we caught a ride to the VOQ (visiting officers quarters). As we entered, a very attractive young lady was on duty and speaking in German to someone on the phone. She hung up and asked us, in perfect American English, if she could be of service. Since I was essentially benighted of foreign languages, I was impressed with how she had switched so quickly from German to English. "Are you American or German," I asked her. "Oh, I'm American," she smiled, "my dad is stationed here at Ramstein." Trying to prolong the encounter as she assigned us quarters, I tried my best to present an image of a lonely American, far from home, hoping she would give me an opportunity to ask her out. But I failed to recognize that she probably heard the exact same hustle several times a day. The next day, we hopped a trash hauler to Bitburg AB in the Eiffel Mountains to meet a friend of George's named Tom Sagmoen. Tom, an old friend of George's from their West Point cadet days, picked us up and drove us to Spangdahlem, another Eiffel base, and then took George to Weisbaden to collect a Volkswagon he had bought sometime earlier. Tom loaned us the VW and we drove to Trier to sightsee with the promise of leaving the Volks in the railroad station parking lot. While in Trier, George and I wanted to visit the oldest structure in Germany, the Roman or Black Gate. At a Trier gas station, George approached a well-dressed German to ask directions to the gate. "Do you speak English?" Asked George. "Nein, sprechen sie Deutsch?" Replied the German. "No," answered George, "habla usted Espanol?" "No," said the German, "parlez vous Francais?" Having gone through four languages without finding a common one, the two linguists had a laugh and commenced to shout at one another, falling back on the vague knowledge that if one shouts, the other person will understand what is being communicated. Amidst the yelling and gesturing, the German mentioned the words Schwarzer Tor which George knew meant Black Gate. George said, "ja, ja, Schwarzer Tor!!" With that, the German took George by the arm, walked about ten feet and pointed up the street. Clearly visible was the attraction we were seeking. There was a liquor store across the street from the Roman Gate and I decided to see if they had any Gold Wasser for sale. Right in the center of the display window was a liter bottle displaying the word Gold Wasser. We entered the store and the owner, who spoke English, retrieved the bottle from the window. Inside the bottle was a porcelain ballerina that could be wound up with a key on the bottom of the bottle. Once wound, the ballerina, who had her arms outstretched, would slowly spin around to classic music provided by a music box also attached (and hidden) to the bottle's bottom. The spinning caused the golden flakes to rise and fall through the clear liqueur. It was one of the most delightful and innovative art forms I had ever witnessed. The cost was equivalent to $6.00 American, so I purchased it for our flight surgeon. George and I caught the Paris train and were able to obtain seats on The Blue Plate Special, an Air Force C-121 Constellation specifically set up to haul Congressmen and their wives on shopping junkets to Europe. There were a few of them on board, with the champagne flowing freely, partying loudly and arrogantly in the front seats of the airplane. Perhaps it was on that very flight that taught me to loathe the loud mouth, boozy, condescending, blood sucking pricks we elect to public office--in order to spend taxpayer money in foreign countries for self-indulgent Christmas shopping. * * * * * When we arrived back at SJAFB, I took the bottle of Gold Wasser to our squadron flight surgeon. He was absolutely dazzled at the beautiful construction of the liqueur bottle and said he would never open it, only display it. When he asked how much he owed me, I could not accept any money for an item that gave him so much pleasure. I left his office with him trying to press money into my hand. That Friday, several of us gathered at the bar for Beer Call. While on the trip, I had left my brand new 1958 Corvette with Turk and when he returned the keys, he told me that sometimes the left front brake would grab and that I had better have it checked. I had driven the car a few times since returning and it seemed okay. Late in the evening, we decided to continue our partying in the BOQ and although I was in no condition to walk, never mind driving, I jumped into the Corvette and accelerated, at maximum transverse "G's" toward the BOQ, about a half a block away. Overshooting the first BOQ entrance, I slammed on the brakes to turn in at the second. The left front brake grabbed and threw me towards a fire hydrant, in the grass, between the lot and the street. I spun the wheel left and entered a four-wheel drift that ended when I slammed broadside into Nick Ranone's 1957 Ford Fairlane. The impact threw Nick's car across an empty parking space and into the right side of some non-rated officer's Chevolet. It also threw me across the cockpit and smashed my forehead on the right hand windowsill. Turk and another friend, Garry Willard, dragged me out of my dying sports car, and since I was bleeding, Turk took me to the Emergency Room (ER) while Garry said he would stand by to deal with the Air Police (AP) (the accident scene was close enough to the main gate that it could be easily heard). When Turk got me to the ER, the corpsman on duty went to wake up the MOD (Medical Officer of the Day). The MOD turned out to be our squadron flight surgeon, the proud new owner of a bottle of Gold Wasser. He cleaned me up and said that he'd have to take some stitches in a couple of places. "Will I be scarred for life, doc?" I asked. "Don't worry about it," he said while probing the cuts on my forehead, "haven't you heard a few scars add character to a man's face? Besides, surely you know we sew up officers with closer stitches than enlisted people." He winked at the corpsman. The corpsman set up the suturing kit and with Turk looking on from an examining stool, the flight surgeon commenced to sew me up. There was a commotion at the door and two air policemen burst into the room. "GETTHEFUCKOUTTAHERE!" Roared the flight surgeon, turning to face the team. "Sorry doctor, but we gotta talk to the lieutenant on the table," said one of the AP's. Both had stopped when the doctor screamed at them. "Do you people have a hearing problem? I'm treating a patient here and you're interfering. Now, one more time, GET OUT!" The doc bent over me again. The AP's retreated back to the door and one said, "Sir, we have reason to believe that your patient was involved in a vehicle accident and may have been drinking. We want to smell his breath." "Now, if my patient had been drinking, I could smell him, don't you think? Now, for the last time, get the hell out of here before I have you both up on charges." The AP's left and Turk, who knew I had carried an open can of beer to my car commented, "I bet Garry tossed your beer can away (which he had) before the AP's got there. "Yeah," replied the doc, "but it probably spilled and they smelled it in the car (they had)." After finishing up, the corpsman checked to make sure the AP's had left, which they had, and Turk took me back to the BOQ. Garry, Turk and I pushed my car around so it didn't look so much like an accident scene and then Turk and I went to Nick Ranone's room, knocked on the door, and when he answered, told him what had happened. Nick shrugged and passed it off as "accidents will happen." The non-rated officer wasn't so gallant. When he started to yell and scream, Turk threatened to hit him and he immediately quieted down. I had told both Nick and the screamer that I would make it right with them. The following morning, Saturday, I was told to report to the Director of Operations (DO), Colonel Bill Bethea, the Bald Eagle and self-professed world's greatest fighter pilot. Colonel Bethea was a huge, powerful man who stood about five feet, five inches tall. Most of his body was chest and arms. It was rumored that the (former) wing commander's wife, Mrs. Timothy F. O'Keefe, once told him that he might be getting a teeny bit fat. This rumored conversation allegedly took place in the Officers Club and Colonel Bethea's reaction was to leap onto the bar, back flip back down to the floor and drop down and do ten one-armed pushups and suggest, "lady, when you can do that, you can call me fat." Colonel Bethea was married to Wendy Gillette, a nurse who was on my ward when I had been a corpsman five years previously at Sheppard AFB, Texas. Maybe because of Wendy or for some other unknown reason, Colonel Bethea always treated me kindly. "FRAZIER, YOU DUMB SONOFABITCH, what the hell happened last night?" He screamed at me as he trembled with rage; obviously never having heard of sensitivity facilitation. "Well sir," I cowered, "I guess I got wrong way in the BOQ parking lot." "You sure as shit did, you fucking idiot. Colonel Williams (Colonel William I. Williams, the Vice Wing Commander), passed the parking lot this morning, saw the wrecks, called the AP's for a briefing and is going to have your commission. I've got to get you off this base." He sat down behind his desk while I stood at a rigid and headachy attention. "Sir," I inappropriately offered, "I'm gonna stay right here and take my medicine." "Jeezus, listen to me, you stupid piece of shit, he-is-going to-kick-you-out-of-the-Air Force. Are you with me so far?" Colonel Bethea had jumped to his feet and was punctuating his words by poking me in the chest. "Yes sir, I understand I will be leaving Seymour." "That's more like it Frazier," said Colonel Bethea, sitting down again. "I've been on the phone and got you an assignment to Misawa AB, Japan. Am I correct in assuming that you are a volunteer?" "Yes sir, I am." Misawa AB was a far away, almost mystical base, talked about only in whispers as it was considered the end of the world. * * * * * Learning that I would be leaving his base, Colonel Williams never initiated any action against me. My fiberglass Corvette was rebuilt and I drove it to Texas for my parents to sell. When I returned, my squadron threw me a good-bye party at which I told everyone that our squadron was the best fighter squadron that I had ever served in. Turk reminded me that it was actually the only fighter squadron in which I had ever served (we had had another, earlier F-86H squadron designation when I first arrived on base and later went through a paper work change, keeping the same personnel). The night before my departure, we had an impromptu party in the BOQ. Frank Mosler, an acquaintance and pilot from another squadron, showed me a letter that he had received that day. It was from a girl who wanted Frank to visit her in San Francisco. She explained that she was an airline stewardess now and was looking forward to a visit from Frank. But Frank said to me, "I don't have any idea who this is. If I have ever met her, I've forgotten about it." I noticed the letter was signed Judy Higgins. Before reporting to Misawa, I had to attend Survival School at Stead AFB, Nevada, an assignment I did not look forward to because it was winter and the snow would be deep. My DC-3 from Raleigh, North Carolina took me to Chicago where I overnighted. From there, a DC-4 would deposit me at Reno, home of Stead AFB. En route to Reno, the airplane made a passenger stop at Denver and several pretty young ladies boarded our flight. One of them sat next to me so I asked who were all the girls. "We just completed stewardess school in Cheyenne, Wyoming and are on our way to our assignments. What do you do?" "I'm a fighter pilot out of Seymour Johnson AFB in North Carolina and on my way to Japan." I tried to put as much arrogance and humility into my statement as the situation would allow. A beautiful young girl in the seat ahead of me, who had evidently been listening, turned around and asked, "Do you know Frank Mosler?" "You're Judy Higgins," I said. Shocked, she asked how I could possibly know her name. "Just night-before-last Frank told me that he had heard from you and is looking forward to getting out to San Francisco to see you." As soon as we landed in Reno, I wrote a post card to Frank and told him to get reacquainted with Judy Higgins ASAP. * * * * * After survival school, I visited friends in Boise, Idaho, staying in the Boise Hotel. After a day or so, I decided to have breakfast in the Western Cafe over on Main Street. Walking down Main at about 0900, a drunk staggered out of a pawnshop doorway and asked me for fifty cents. Usually, if solicited by a tramp or a beggar, I ignored them or snapped, "Get the fuck away from me." But for some reason, I was feeling expansive, so I handed him a fifty-cent piece. Because of my largess, the drunk decided to keep me company as we walked toward the Western Cafe. "What do you do?" Slurred the drunk. "I'm in the Air Force," I replied, not trying to encourage conversation. "Oh, my son's in the Air Force; married a fine doctor's daughter." This stopped me, as back in those days, Boise wasn't very big. "What's his name?" I asked. "Paul Simmons (not his real name)" answered the drunk. Paul Simmons, Paul Simmons. I was sure I knew the name. When I turned to ask the drunk another question, he had disappeared. Literally vanished from his position beside me. Ahead, across the intersection, I could see a uniformed policeman and assumed the drunk saw him too and beat an alcoholic retreat. * * * * * A week later, I landed at Yokota AB, Japan, near Tokyo. When signing into the BOQ to await transportation to Misawa, I noticed an old friend from SJAFB, Clarence LeRoy Brenner, had also signed in. Clarence had been reassigned a few months earlier. BOQ rooms for Lieutenants had two beds, so I asked the deskman to put me in the room with Clarence. The long flight on a C-54 from McChord AFB, Washington to Yokota had been extremely tiring, so I lugged my bags to the room and fell into an exhausted sleep. A key in the door woke me up and I peeked out at Clarence from beneath my pillow. He could see someone in bed, so he was on tiptoe, trying to make as little noise as possible. So I started to yell at him to get out as I was trying to sleep. He didn't recognize my voice, muffled by the pillow, and was doing his best to be as quiet as possible. Finally, amid my haranguing, he tiptoed over to my closet and started to open the door. I sat up in bed and said, "Clarence, what the hell are you doing in my closet?" Without missing a beat, he said, "I just wanted to see what rank you were before I beat the shit out of you." We sat around talking, and Clarence, who was stationed on Okinawa, suggested we go into Tokyo and sample the nightlife. He came to Yokota frequently and knew all the good nightclubs. That evening we hopped a subway into the bowels of the world's largest city and visited several nightspots. All had young ladies, employees of the various clubs, anxious to show how much they loved me for the price of a drink and a gratuity. At about 0200 hours, we were seated at a tiny table in an after hours joint drinking Sapporo beer. A Caucasian guy, tall and blonde headed, walked past our table. Glancing up at him, I knew that we had met before. He too recognized me and said, "Hey, don't I know you?" "Yeah, I think so, where've you been stationed?" I asked. We went through the different bases we had been stationed at and couldn't come up with a common one. Finally, he stuck out his hand and said "I'm Paul Simmons and you?" "Uh, I'm Les Frazier from Boise. You're from Boise, right?" I didn't think it appropriate to mention that I had given his father a fifty-cent piece a few days previously. EPILOG Later that morning, I collected my gear, rode over to Tachikawa AB for a C-124 ride to Misawa. The C-124 Globemaster, better known as Ol' Shaky, was a huge four engined, prop driven transport with tiny wings. Like a bumblebee, it did not look capable of flight. I had never been on a C-124 before and my trepidation increased when the pilot released brakes for takeoff and the Chaplain, seated next to me, crossed himself. We rolled and rolled and rolled. I knew the runway was only 5,000 feet long and wondered if we would ever make it off. As I was wondering if we were going to taxi to Misawa, the pilot chopped the power and stood on the brakes. The brakes set up a terrific groaning and screaming in the most ungodly manner. The brake racket continued for about as long as full power had lasted. There were no windows where I was seated, so I couldn't tell if death was imminent. Evidently it wasn't because the pilot turned off the runway, taxied back to the take off end of the runway and tried it again. This time the bird flew. Later, I visited the cockpit and asked the pilot what had happened. He dismissed my question with "I didn't make my line speed (the airplane was accelerating too slowly. Burning off fuel allowed the airplane to accelerate properly on the second attempt)." At Misawa, I was assigned a private room that connected through the bathroom to Bob Barrett's room, a fellow squadron pilot. One evening, shortly after my arrival, I was lying on my bed reading. The bathroom doors were open and I could hear Bob talking to another one of our pilots. Bob mentioned that his family was at Ramstein AB. I had heard that Bob had a good looking sister, so I got up, went into his room and asked, "Bob, does your sister work in the VOQ?" "Yep," answered Bob as he pulled out his wallet and showed me a photograph of the girl I wanted to date when passing through several weeks previously. * * * * * Because I had been a corpsman, whenever I entered an Air Force hospital, I always checked the personnel board to see if I knew anyone, usually the board is located near the main entrance. I did this in 1970 at the gigantic USAF hospital at Clark AB in the Philippines. The hospital commander was listed as Colonel (Dr.) Easterbrooks. I went to the commander's office and asked the secretary if I could see the commander. "And your name and nature of your business?" She asked. "My name's Frazier and you can tell him I want to talk about flying." She disappeared into his office and almost immediately returned. "Go right in sir." I don't think Dr. Easterbrooks recognized me although he said he did, but he certainly remembered the flight at Chateauroux. In fact, he went through every maneuver again as I sat there sipping coffee. The two photographs below depict refueling from the KB-50 tanker. The first photograph shows an F-100D from the 531st TFS, Misawa AB, Japan hooked up to the tail drogue of the KB-50 using a long straight probe. The other airplane is an RF-101 from the 45th TRS, Misawa AB, Japan approaching the tanker's right wing drogue with the refueling probe extended from its stowed position. The white bands circling the refueling hoses are clearly visible. Hose tension was important in refueling; if the tension was too tight, the hose would whip rather than reel in and could tear the probe from the F-100. The F-100's flight controls were powered by hydraulics and both flight system control lines ran just aft of the probe attachment point. If the probe was ripped off, it could (and did) puncture the hydraulic lines. The pilot had about ten minutes to find a runway before running out of flight control pressure. Refueling was usually accomplished at about 20,000 feet. The second photograph, F-100D's from the 531st, shows the two airplanes, using the new bent probe, hooked up to the two wing drogues. The tail hose can be seen as a dark line extending from the tail pipe of the closer F-100. The relative angles of attack between the two F-100s and the KB-50 indicate that the F-100's are extremely slow (nose high) while the KB-50 is nose low (for this airplane, extremely fast: 230 knots). The round device just forward of the fuselage star on the KB-50 is a blister, a Plexiglas window where KB-50 crewmen sat and observed the refueling. Note there is little difference in size between the two F-100s, indicating they are very close to each other. The F-100's carry 450 refuelable drop tanks under their wings.

Les@LesFrazier.com