Run-in with the FBI
The penalties for drinking underage in Florida are nothing compared to the penalties for showing a forged ID. Macca is heading back to Australia after deciding for various reasons not to continue training. The two of us are having a Chinese meal as a farewell and a waitress offers us beers without checking our IDs as Macca was obviously well over 21.
A burly guy sweating in a three-piece suit comes over:
“I think you guys are too young to be drinking, show me your IDs!”
“Who the hell are you?”
“FBI”.
Oh oh, those guys are serious. Get out the real ID.
Looks at Macca’s. He’s good. Looks at mine. “OK you’re under arrest for underage drinking. Come with me”.
“First show me your ID”. Watching all those cop shows was really useful.
And there it was: Federal Beverage Inspector. FBI. Son of a ….
All kinds of didgeridoo wallaby stew was rolled out on the drive to the police station, all to no avail. I was handed over to the sergeant and allowed a phone call. Thankfully JC was home and came and took over. I didn’t go in front of a judge but frantic calls to the Australian Consulate worked and I walked free. Free for a bollocking and threats that Keith would have been proud of.
The T-28 Trojan
We’ve moved again, this time to Whiting Field into another wooden BOQ commonly known as Splinterville. We’re still in West Florida but are now North of Pensacola up by the Alabama border. The cycle of ground school and flight training starts again and we’re all keen to get going.
The first takeoff in the T-28 is with the instructor in the back following through on the controls and with the canopy open so we can appreciate 1,500 horsepower in full voice. Jesus it’s loud. What an aeroplane. If only I could counter the torque and keep it lined up down the runway. Here I am with 35 hours sitting in something that’s used by the South Vietnamese Air Force for ground attack.
I seem to be blessed with instructors who are decent human beings compared to some of the stories I’m hearing from mates. The particularly bad ones are the retreads: guys who have graduated with good grades and have been ploughed back into the Training Command as instructors with no fleet time. Poor bastards really seem to have something to prove.
There appears to be a sweet-spot profile for calm instructors. Pilots who have done their first three-year squadron assignment with a couple of cruises, have a young family and are pleased to get a little stability in their life while still flying are generally sure enough of themselves professionally that they don’t see students as a challenge. Lieutenant Commanders who have completed their squadron Department Head assignment but won’t ever get command are also generally relaxed enough to enjoy what they’re doing by passing on their expertise to the younger generation while waiting to retire.
Worst of the lot? The hot-dogs who’ve had at least one Viet Nam tour and want to get back to killing, or at least harassing, the Commies and adding to their medal tally. They’ve got no time for this rubbish and its almost beneath them to even try. Marines in this category are particularly insufferable. It’s best to move to the other end of the bar if these guys are in the mess, they can take offence at anything.
And in fact, one of them did.
Blue’s Marine Run-in
Blue was quite a bit older than the rest of us having been a sailor before he transferred over. Although at 22 or 23, he was about the same age as the USN Ensign trainees who had all graduated college before joining up. Blue had been on the Navy water polo team, had a broken nose and the archetypical temper of a redhead, particularly after a couple of beers, and could be a scary sight in full aggro mode.
He loved flying, and talking flying, and was overheard in the Officer’s Club bar by a Marine Captain (Navy Lieutenant equivalent, Sam and JC’s rank) calling his instructor by his first name. His instructor had no problem with it.
The Marine took great umbrage at this and told Blue he should cease and desist. Or else. Blue’s initial two-word response was not taken well so it was then clarified and expanded at full volume. The Marine put him on report for insubordination, which was quite a serious charge and would have seen him thrown off the course and probably out of the navy.
Commander Toz Dadswell is a giant in the history of the Fleet Air Arm and was key to our personal journeys. He was the architect behind selling and implementing the USN training, was on all our selection boards, and was posted to Washington as Naval Attaché in time for our arrival in Florida. Dadswell flew down from DC to adjudicate and Blue was told he had two choices: offer a heartfelt apology to the Marine or pack his bags. Blue in the cold light of day wisely chose the former.
After accepting Blue’s apology the Marine Captain then received a withering blast from Toz that started “Don’t you EVER…” and finished with “…now get the hell out of here!”
Justice was served.
Disclaimer: I was never privy to this issue first-hand, but as quoted by the newspaper editor in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance: “when the truth becomes legend, print the legend”. From then Toz was a legend to all of us
The T-28 Trojan. Same paint job as the Teenie Weenies, but look at that engine! Also of note is the hood in the rear cockpit, folded in this picture, but when deployed it cuts out all external reference for the guy in the back practicing his instrument flying.
OK it’s a daggy picture and the helmet I borrowed is about 3 sizes too small but it’s my only photo with a T28.