By: Steve Pearce
In 1971 when my pilot training was complete I was one of two members of class 71-06 at Reese AFB to be assigned as copilots to the 463rd TAW at Clark AFB. Most of our missions were out of Cam Rahn Bay AB, Viet Nam. When we were there the C-130 detachment was on a side of the base sort of by itself.
The 463rd TAW also had detachments flying out of Udorn AB, Korat AB, and Ubonn AB in Thailand. At those bases, the C-130 crews lived right among the fighter pilots in the detachments permanently assigned to these bases.
Mixing fighter pilots and transport pilots did not always work. The go-fast pilots referred to us as “trash haulers”. It was not a term of endearment. In fact it was intended to convey that we did not really belong in their esteemed company. We obligingly referred to them as “fighter pukes.”
When there is too much testosterone and too few women, fights were always a possibility. Few humans have more testosterone than pilots and fighter pilots have testosterone on steroids. On the Air Force bases the pilots, navigators and copilots routinely gathered around the bar at night. Fights were not common around the watering hole but they were not uncommon either.
On my first rotation into Thailand, Udorn AFB, my aircraft commander(A/C) was a captain, a big brash, bruising and fearless guy. I was not fearless, at 5’ll ¾ “ and 180# I was not big and was not bruising. In fact, I had never been in a fight in my life. I was never any good in football or the real contact sports, preferring the gentlemanly sport of baseball. I was not confrontational. In other words, I was polar opposites from my aircraft commader on this particular 15 day tour.
We had been flying all day, doing the hot sweaty work of trashhaulers. It was late afternoon when we checked into our “rooms”, the temporary buildings housing transient airmen. My boss told me that I would meet him in 10 minutes in the bar. He had some business to attend to then we would eat dinner together. They were orders to me so I showed up as directed.
I know he had to understand how quiet and reserved I was, we had been flying all day. I just did my work and minded my own business. To this day, I remember the moment we entered into the bar crowded with F-4 pilots and EWOS (electronic warfare officers), better known as GIB’s (guy in the back ie back seat). They were busy reliving the missions of the day.
“Hey!” shouts my A/C. There were some lazy glances our direction trying to make out who the silhouettes were standing in the late afternoon sun streaming in the door. At this point, I could feel that our entrance was not going to be my typical low key entrance.
“Hey! I am talking to you.” He shouts out again. My heart is racing at this point.
Now every eye in the place is turned our direction in curiosity. He shouts so loud this time no one can miss what he says, “ I am Captain Greg L. and this is my buddy and copilot Lt Steve Pearce. We are trash haulers and can whip any of you fighter pukes who have the balls to take us on.”
I, in my calculating way, am thinking we should maybe have gone to 2 of the smaller guys and quietly invited them to a scuffle but here he was inviting untold numbers to brawl as a response to an open insult.
The result was insults and jeers hurled from every part of the room. Greg just stood there with his arm around my shoulder(I am sure to keep me from running) staring them down. There were no takers but as we wound our way thru the tables with him in the lead I could feel the intensity. It reminded me of when Dad would tell me to get the wasps nests out of one of our barns. The fighter guys were perched like wasps at the ready, wings and stingers held erect, ready to sting. But Greg walked thru the room without incident, the catcalls dropping to a minimum as he approached and passed each table.
We made our way into the dining room and sat down. He winked and said, “I hate those arrogant fighter puke's. You just have to let ‘em know you are not afraid.” I silently nodded, wondering how close I had come to dying in my first day in Thailand, from friendly forces.
“Thanks”, he said.
“What for?”
“For standing beside me.”
I laughed out loud. He just grinned.
No one bothered us during our entire rotation. It was the last time I entered the bar filled with fighter pilots in this fashion.
Today, when I encounter the Viet Nam era fighter pilots the subject always comes up. What did you fly? When I say “C-130’s” they respond that it must have been almost like flying in the real Air Force.
When I respond it is usually something like, “Once a fighter puke, always a fighter puke.” Just a little of Capt. L.rubbed off on me.
