Dan Hampton - Viper Pilot

The type of attack is painstakingly detailed. This is, after all, what it’s all about. Weapons with their plethora of settings and variations are discussed. As always, contingencies and how to deal with them at 500 knots, when people are shooting at you, are a major point of discussion. Everything bad that could happen can’t be addressed, of course, but the main idea is to have plans that will adapt and work when the shit hits the fan. For instance, suppose a SAM targets you during your attack, or a MiG appears. How is it dealt with? And how do you then re-attack the target? What if the weather over the target area is too bad for your primary chosen attack? Again, lots of variables.

WHILE THE COLD WAR WAS ENDING, WE ONLY DEPLOYED from our home bases for training. These were never very long, and usually to nice places. In Europe, we had Sardinia for air-to-air training, and England or Spain were our primary deployments for air-to-ground training. Requirements—called “currencies”—are endless in the flying world. You had to drop so many bombs, shoot missiles, land so many times at night, etc.… so many per month, every month, or you became non-current. We had to drop a required amount of bombs, within various accuracy parameters, to maintain our Mission Qualified status. When the weather in Germany was bad (about six months out of the year), then we went elsewhere.

A fighter pilot’s first trip to Spain’s Zaragoza Air Base was a chance to participate in a small squadron deployment, which was good practice, and also to go fly in the sun for thirty days with your buddies. Much better than winter in Germany. Zaragoza—or Zab, as we called it—began several thousand years ago as a Roman settlement for army veterans. Goths, Arabs, the Inquisition, and Napoleon had all harassed this place long before we got there. It’s a beautiful city, where bright flowers soften the beige medieval fortifications and Moorish architecture still reigns supreme.

We would usually fly at least once a day; a beautiful, low level along the Spanish coast or through the mountains to the Bardenas bombing range. Wingmen became better wingmen, flight leaders better leaders, and upgrade training was conducted for those who deserved it. Evenings were spent at the Officer’s Club, drinking the local sweet sangria, singing songs, and cooking out on huge open grills. The smells of honeysuckle, charcoal smoke, and fresh fruit are forever etched in my memory. Spain.

It was superb …

Every few nights, when the flying schedule permitted, we’d take little taxicabs downtown to eat or see the sights. One of the initiation rights for an unworldly American pilot on his first trip to Zab was the fabled Green Bean Tour. It worked like this. The new guy was assigned an “instructor” to take him through the narrow, dark streets behind the big cathedral in downtown Zaragoza. These little streets were called the Tubes and were lined with carts, street vendors, and hole-in-the-wall snack shops. I use the word snack only because you could physically eat the stuff.

Actually, that was the game. The new guy had to eat whatever the instructor told him to eat. Between courses, he also had to drink the local red wine, called Tinto, from a leather bouda bag. The rest of the squadron came along to assist in this.

The idea was to survive this haute cuisine gauntlet, and the Tinto, without puking. To my knowledge, no one ever did. At the end of the Tubes was a small stone plaza, where the squadron commander and the higher-ranking officers waited. Having seen this just a few times over the years, they usually opted for a quiet drink together while we promoted goodwill for America among the locals. Well, not really, but they did love our money.

I did fine for most of it. I mean, to the point where I thought I was going to make it to the end. I’d used the Tinto to wash down and disinfect the candied snake, locust poppers, and half a dozen other Spanish treats that had been shoved in my face. But near the end my guide refilled the bouda bag and handed me something on a stick.

“You gotta try this.”

There was some snickering from the crowd.

“Whaddacallit?” I burped back.

“Kinda like a Spanish… corndog. Yeah… a corndog.”

More snickers.

Well, it was dark and I’d figured out pretty quick not to look closely at the things I was eating. Besides, this was the last stop and I thought I’d made it. Feeling cocky, I swallowed some Tinto to numb my one remaining taste bud, closed my eyes, and took a bite of something crunchy.

I remember briefly feeling quite proud. Whatever I was eating wasn’t too bad and then I’d be finished. The two other lieutenants were already on their hands and knees, getting a better view of the thousand-year-old gutter. Everyone else was chuckling, since they’d been in the same situation at some point in their careers.

“Howizzit?” someone asked.

I nodded, now an expert on all Spanish snack food, and replied with total confidence, “Good. How ’bout another?”

More chortling.

Just then I felt something wedged between my teeth and stopped chewing long enough to pull it out. I burped again and then made the mistake of holding it up against the faint light.

For a long, nasty moment I stared at the thing as my Tinto-soaked brain processed.

“Whatchagot?” someone asked innocently.

It was a foot.

Actually, it was a curved bird’s claw, complete with little talons. So the alley spun and the stars blurred. I felt the awful burning rush of all that Tinto, and the candied hummingbird I’d just eaten, come shooting up through my nose, mouth, and out of my ears. I joined the other lieutenants on the ground and everyone roared with satisfaction.

No one beats the Tubes.

Now, this particular ritual ends in a ceremony simply known as the “Naming.” This is where fighter pilots get awarded those cool-sounding nicknames, or call signs, you hear about in the movies. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be “Maverick” or “Iceman” or “Thor.” Right?

Right.

The reality is a bit different. There are some manly, warlike call signs, of course. I’ve known Slash, Magic, Crusher, Bruiser, and Storm’n. Even Ghost, Spook, and Zing aren’t too bad. Usually call signs are given for something noteworthy, and not necessarily good, that a pilot has done. Or maybe the guy is just an asshole—“JRay,” “Barney,” and “Moses” are prime examples of that.

“Slider” is usually given for landing gear-up; “Scratch,” you guessed it, for scratching the belly of the aircraft on a low level or dinging the speed brakes on the runway; “Boomer” for inadvertently breaking the sound barrier and every window within a five-mile radius. The possibilities are endless.

“Toto”—for accidentally shutting the engine down (throttle on, throttle off—get it?). I even knew a “Bubbles,” who’d ejected over the Atlantic Ocean. Anything, including personal traits or physical appearance, is fair game. So we have “Opies” and “Wookies” and even a “DDong” (short for “Donkey Dong”). I’m sure his mother would be proud.

There are a few rules with this. First, and most important, if you’ve carried a call sign into combat, then you can never be renamed—it’s yours for life. Second, if you’ve managed to keep the same call sign while flying in three different theaters (like Europe, the Far East, etc.) then it’s yours to keep. Third, and most common, if you really hate a call sign then it’s probably also yours for life.

I was named Two Dogs in loose reference to an old joke about how American Indians name their children. (“Why do you ask, Two Dogs Fucking in the Night?”) You see, I suntan to a deep reddish brown and my nose is beaked, so it kind of made sense in the Tinto haze on that sultry Spanish night in the gutter. Hey, there are definitely worse things to be called. Like Homer, Kraken, or Moto (“Master of the Obvious”). Anyway, it stuck. Honestly, at that stage of the night, I wouldn’t have cared if they’d named me Cindy, as long as it got me back to the Officer’s Quarters and my toilet any sooner.