In 1966 I was commissioned a 2nd Lt. through my college ROTC program, and then went to graduate school. While there my vision changed and I could no longer pass a flight physical. By 1968, I went on active duty at Bolling Air Force Base in Washington, D.C. , I found myself in the base plans office, working in a command post, most certainly not as exciting as the future I had hoped for flying.
1968 became 1969, and then 1970. It was boring, and unless something happened, it was clear that I had no future in the air force. None, and I knew it. Yet, the idea of flying never went away. I knew I had to get into flying training if I wanted a career. I read the Air Force Times weekly, went to the personnel office, and checked about entering the navigator training school. My vision was still too bad to pass the pilot flight physical, but almost close enough for a navigator. This seemed to be a lost cause for a while, but I never gave up. I desperately wanted to fly. I learned that the vision requirements for navigator training had changed. I applied for navigator school. Once again, I took another flight physical; this time, I passed. I was finally going to fly. Before me lay a time to prove to myself and others that I could do many things I never imagined. And I honestly had no idea of what lay ahead. I knew navigators guided aircraft on missions from old war movies, but that was all I knew. I did not realize that I was on the first rung of a very tall ladder. But I knew I could do the job now that I had the opportunity.
I left D.C. in late October 1971 and began the long cross-country drive to Sacramento. I had never taken so long a drive. Looking back now, after more than 50 years, I am amazed that it went so well. I had a brand-new car – a 1971 Mustang and road maps. That is how I navigated.
My route took me from D.C. down to Texas and then across New Mexico and Arizona to California. I had planned to visit my aunt and uncle and then drive up the interstate to Sacramento. Later, I would learn that this was the Big Valley of California, and this drive would stay with me.
I remember driving up the valley that last day before I entered UNT. My Aunt and Uncle lived in near Los Angeles. As I headed north up I-5, I passed many of the bigger towns of the Valley, by Bakersfield, near Fresno, Modesto, Stockton, and finally over and up to Sacramento. I have to admit I was not impressed with what I saw. California was brown and the towns had a lived in look to them. At the time, it did not seem so consequential, but it was clearly the road to the future. And it was a foreshadowing of a nav training route Overland South that I would get to know well flying that route in the T-29 many, many times while I was training (I later flew it as an IN on the T-43 aircraft, as well).
I arrived at Mather for Undergraduate Navigator Training (UNT) in early November. I had never seen so many “brown bars.” I had not attended officer training school (OTS), and at Bolling, we had only one or two second lieutenants at any time. At Mather, there were tall ones, short ones, some with glasses and some without them. Some had been in pilot training and washed out. Still, others had no prior experience, but all wanted to fly. One thing was clear: they were everywhere.
Assigned to the 3538th Navigator Training Squadron (NTS) in casual status (C.S)., I had nothing to do. The only thing that could move this along was the regs (regulations) that governed the training. I pointed out that I would turn 27 ½ in about two weeks, the cut-off to enter training, and suddenly, they found a slot for me. Another student joined C.S., and I moved to the top of the list, which meant I would graduate in the summer of 1972. I entered the UNT program on 11 December 1971, a week short of my 27 ½ birthday. However, first I had to take one more flight physical, my third that year. I will never forget the advice one brown bar gave me as we stood in line: “Never tell the flight surgeon anything that might disqualify you.” Not necessarily lie, but don’t volunteer information. Words I remembered my entire flying career.
Mather, like other flying training bases, was bursting at the seams. The Air Force felt increasing pressure to produce aircrews for the needs of the Vietnam War. I later learned we had ten captains, five first lieutenants, and 77 second lieutenants in my class. They divided the class into four flights, and the captains, the older men of the group, became flight commanders, a mostly ceremonial post. But being a military organization, rank determined the pecking order—interestingly, some of the captain students were senior to the captain instructor navs (INs).
In 1982, I returned to Mather and was assigned to the 451st Flying Training Squadron (FTS). It was still the Mather I remembered in many ways, and there were still second lieutenants everywhere. Some of the base support folks tended to dismiss them as not important. I noticed this more the second time than when I was a captain. They treated them like they didn’t know anything, a.k.a. the brown bar treatment.
One day, now a Lt. Colonel, I found myself receiving this treatment. I had to go to the base hospital. I looked young and was wearing a flight suit. I was standing behind a high counter, waiting for the airman to get off the phone; it became apparent that it was a personal call. She was not moving quickly. It struck me: she is giving me a brown bar treatment. She apparently could not see the two silver oak leaves on my shoulders. Finally, she decided to acknowledge my presence. I had been there for nearly five minutes, and she stood up to see what I needed. I had never seen the color drain from a person’s face. She went pale and suddenly became very officious and eager to help me.
I did not chew her out; that was not my style, but I did tell her that it was her job to take good care of the men and women who served our nation. Mather existed because of the brown bars there and the mission to train them for our country. That was all it was there for. Therefore it was important to treat all the students there with respect.
An American Family 