“7 High”
”Recollections of a Combat Defense Squadron “Ramp Rat”
Chapter 7
“Keep Flexible”
16th Air Force
1 December 1962, it was cold enough to be snowing lightly when I arrived in Zaragoza. I was happy with my decision to carry that Air Force horse blanket overcoat all the way from Spokane. It had gotten a lot of use. I had been sleeping in it.
A Spanish civilian gentleman working the ATCO counter at Torrejón AB had purchased a first class train ticket for me. At the station in Madrid, my car attendant rescued me from the platform and a chat with these two Spanish fellows with funny hats, and showed me to my compartment and how the honey bucket swung out from under the sink.
The train was the milk run, and had taken all night from Madrid to Zaragoza. We stopped and switched at every siding along the way. The steam engine pulling us had the strange high-pitched European whistle, and those big round bumpers, that I had seen in the movies. This train was foreign, but the Orient Express it was not.
It was too dark to see much out the window, and I soon gave up. I hung up my blouse, stepped back into that overcoat, wrapping it around me and spent the night being jostled about in my bunk, listening to the clickity clack, bash and bang, and those eerie steam whistles.
It had been the first of October, two months ago, when I left Bunker Hill AFB en route to Zaragoza AB. I had been living out of my AWOL bag ever since. The Cuban missile crisis had come and gone while I was on the road.
The last of my funds had been spent long before I left the States. It seemed like I had been broke and on the road for a long time. In fact everything since September seemed like a dream. Maybe I hadn’t really been married? Maybe I was going to wake up in my bunk in the barracks back home in Indiana, with Harvey pulling some terrible prank.
It was a long night, but the car attendant finally knocked on my door and announced that we were arriving in Zaragoza.
Looking around the Zaragoza railroad station platform at eight o’clock in the morning, it was cold and trying to snow. Steam was leaking from the engine and between each of the cars as I stepped down onto the platform. I was trying to get my bearings when a guy right out of McHales’s Navy, wearing a plaid suit coat over a tropical shirt with a tie pulled off to one side came right up to me.
“You must be Marston?” he asked.
Surprised that this fellow would know my name, I answered “yes”.
“I’m Airman First Lamm”, he said, “From the orderly room. Captain T sent me to pick you up. Where have you been?”
I launched into my story, but he interrupted, “You know you are AWOL?” “We have been looking for you for a month now.”
“Captain T” is going to tear you a new one”, Lamn said, “Take off your hat.” At the same time he reached down for my AWOL bag and I thought he was going to carry it, but he just turned it around, with the USAF logo facing in, and put it back in my hand.
Looking at me very seriously, he told me again to take off my hat. I knew the rules, we were outside on a train platform, I was going to argue with him. Lamn then said, in proper drill sergeant fashion, “Airman, take off your hat.” Not having a clue, I finally took off my hat and tucked it under my arm.
Looking me over again, he reached out and pulled my poorly sewn Airman Second Class stripes from the sleeves of my overcoat, and handed them to me. “You won’t be needing these after Captain T gets through with your young ass, anyway,” he said. I was totally aghast.
He led me down the platform, through the station and out to a dilapidated 1960 Ford station wagon. It was AF Blue, but the standard yellow lettering on the doors had been painted over. Looking closely, there was a faded yellow band that indicated that it had once been an SAC alert crew vehicle. Throwing my bag in the back, I climbed into the passenger seat.
As he cranked the sputtering vehicle into life, Lamn started in on me right away. “Didn’t you see those Guardia?” he said, totally frustrated with me, and indicating that I should look around the station.
From a photo by W. Eugene Smith
http://www.masters-of-photography.com/S/smith/smith_guardia_civil.html
There were two uniformed fellows wearing funny hats and carrying grease guns, watching us. They had been enjoying the show and followed us down the platform. They were just like those guys at the station in Madrid who had been so curious.
“You’re not supposed to be here in uniform.” He said, “And, over a month AWOL. You’re going to humps and stumps for sure.”
I really didn’t know what to say, and sat quietly as we started lurching through the narrow streets. Lamn really didn’t seem to expect a reply. He tuned the AM radio to a station blaring commercials in Spanish that I couldn’t understand at all. That was good because I was all ready tired of explaining.
“Humps and Stumps”. This was bad. If CDS troops got in trouble, usually first, it was the squadron goon squad, then especially if the security clearance was questioned, it was the base grounds crew, “Humps and Stumps”, and then came a 39-16 convenience of the service discharge.
Looking out, as we wound our way through the narrow streets and thick traffic through Zaragoza toward the base I was in no hurry. The feeble heater in the two year old ford wagon succeeded only in fogging the windows, while the wipers smeared the mix of rain and snow back and forth across the dirty windshield. It was amazing to me that this vehicle could have been this beat up in just two years.
One of the newest TV shows when I left the States was “McHales Navy”. This whole situation had a vague “McHales Air Force” feel to it. I hadn’t met the big boss yet. While I was hoping for something like Ernest Borgnine, it didn’t sound like Captain T was going to be as jolly.
I hadn’t thought about it yet, but it would be three years before I would watch a television show again.
The streets were mostly cobblestone and the station wagon rattled and bounced like it was going to come apart at any time. There were pedestrians, bicycles, trolley cars and donkey carts. There were swarms of motor scooters and motorcycles, many with passengers’ sidesaddle on the back. This was all mixed with huge Pegaso trucks belching clouds of nasty diesel exhaust.
I was watching the signs, after getting through Zaragoza, we were on a divided highway, Highway A-2, headed back towards Madrid. We were soon stopped by a herd of sheep, tended by a couple of lethargic herders, using the highway bridge to move the sheep across a stream. Lamn paused, and when it was obvious the herders weren’t going to do anything, he eased the station wagon slowly into the herd until we were swimming in sheep. We pushed along dead slow until reaching the other side of the herd.
“You never want to kill any livestock over here,” Lamm hollered above the radio, “They make you pay for all the generations of offspring the damn thing could ever have.”
We clattered along for a few miles before reaching the turnoff for the base. At the entrance to the access road was a gas station restaurant motel combination called “El Cisne”, the swan. Here, we made a right turn off the highway.
Approaching the main gate at Zaragoza Air Base, Lamm flashed the headlights, and barely slowed the battered station wagon. The white hat AP on duty, waved from his chair inside the shack. I got that McHale’s Navy feeling again. This place couldn’t be all bad.
A few blocks later, we pulled up in front of the 3974th Combat Defense Squadron barracks. Lamn nosed the smoking station wagon into one of the VIP spots out front, turned off the key and waited for the engine to stop clacking and knocking.
The snow was sticking and had covered the lawn and parking area with a white blanket, making it difficult to see the difference. Getting my bag from the station wagon, we followed footprints leading into the orderly room on the lower floor of the barracks.
The room had that odor of wet fur and inclement weather gear I had learned to associate with wet troops coming in from the flight line. The midnight shift was still straggling back to the barracks from the mess hall.
We had just come through the door when there was a roar from the inner office. “Lamn, did you get him?” Seeing me, Captain T yelled, “You, you get your ass in here!”
I got my ass in there, and tried to report, but he shouted me down. “Sit your ass down, Airman, and explain to me why I shouldn’t jail you.”
After I told the story of applying for an emergency extension of leave and being sent to Charleston, he wasn’t buying it. I showed him my scrap of telegram, but he thought it was a fake.
Looking at it now, I can see that it does look a little questionable. The “17” is a little crowded. But, I knew it was good, and suggested that we might call the Red Cross for verification.
He finally caved in and decided to not to jail me. Not right then, anyway. Capt. T had been sitting at his desk in his shirt sleeves. When he stood up I could see his blouse, thrown over the back of the chair. A very impressive display of fruit salad.
Captain T had a very bombastic and effective management style. Even now, I remember word for word some of the speeches he made at Commanders Call. I soon learned that he considered us to be a bunch of boy scouts.
Banging of the fist on whatever was at hand was common emphasis. The troops referred to him as “Boom Boom”, in admiration of this technique. His fist would hit the table, “It’s Just That Goddamn Simple!” Boom, boom, boom; at close range, in a small room, it was very impressive to a young troop. He certainly had my attention.
“Boom Boom” had a bunch of problems with me. Even if I hadn’t been AWOL, I didn’t have a sponsor, wasn’t supposed to be married, had already managed to violate the no uniforms off base rule. The fact that I knew nothing of this and was a total dumbass completed his impression of me; probably in need of a baby sitter.
Then I informed him that my wife was with child and would be arriving soon, that had him riled even more. That I would need to buy a car had him fuming. He could tell right off that I was going to be a problem.
When the yelling and pounding stopped, he informed me that; first of all, I was going to need to submit written requests for everything. Second, he didn’t want to see me in his office again, boom, boom, boom, period. “Did I understand?” Yes Sir, I did.
Captain T then told Lamm to assign me to a room in the section of the barracks reserved for the goon squad, rather than a flight bay. This was the first step on the road to “Humps and Stumps”. If my story and that telegram didn’t turn out to be legit I’d be making that move out of the squadron.
Processing on base took a few days. I was still totally broke, the Air Force wasn’t going to cough up any pay. As far as Base Personnel was concerned, I was overpaid all ready. Visits to the Red Cross and Air Force Aid proved futile. I didn’t know anybody in the squadron I could hit up for dough.
So, I found myself back in Capt T’s office, borrowing funds to send a telegram to my folks for dough. He looked at me with great disgust glaring from his red face. I thought he was going to explode, but he fished out twenty, “I KNOW you will pay me back, Marston.” Quaking in my boots, I assured him that was the case, and his office was my first stop when I became solvent.
Processing onto the base included supply, and the issue of cold weather gear. I had been hoping that wouldn’t be necessary in sunny Spain. My “hold baggage”, aka my duffle bag had been waiting for me for weeks. When I picked it up they said they had been about to send it back as unclaimed.
At Pass & Registration, I was issued Spanish ID card, declaring that I was a member of Los Fuerces de los Estados Unidos en España. A Spanish driver’s license, consisting of a folded piece of paper, with the photo stapled on, completed the local documentation.
I was also issued a brand new AP shield for my very own. No more sharing like at Bunker Hill. It was a newer model, too that didn’t have the porcelain insert.
And, of course, a new SAC Form 138, which allowed entry to designated restricted areas, which meant I was ready to go to work. Which was kind of good news. If anything had gone wrong with the security paperwork that was another one of those things that would get a feller sent to “Humps and Stumps”, if anything had been fouled up there.
This example is a PACAF security badge.
While I am looking for a SACF 138, this is similar.
I soon found myself with my parka hood pulled up, carbine on my shoulder, humping a dark, cold, and windy, concertina wire. This perimeter was on one side and the rear around a row of loaded, cocked B-47’s with JATO racks parked wing tip to wing tip on the ramp.
Reflex Alert Area, Photo courtesy 3973CDS.com
There was no barrier in front of the alert aircraft and they faced outward toward the taxiway.
It didn’t take long at all to discover that the “Hawk” was there before me, even in sunny Spain. He was known as “Cierzo”, and had that same familiar chill. But, there was an exotic hint of Spanish tobacco smoke mingled with the exhaust fumes from ground power units and jet engines.
At Zaragoza, the Spaniards called the “Hawk” “Cierzo”
Google translation of Spanish Wikipedia entry.
ZAB is now the Zaragoza Airport.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zaragoza_Airport
There was no fancy Christmas tree alert area at ZAB. There weren’t even any flight line gates. A section of ramp was dedicated to “Reflex” alert B-47s, wingtip to wingtip, facing outward to the taxiway. There were even two ancient KC-97s in the alert area. The two KC-97 Tankers on alert were from Plattsburgh AFB. I considered them to be as old as steam engines, they were noisy, shrieking, leaking old birds.
There was concertina wire on three sides. Sometimes there was a rope barrier in front of the aircraft, but it wasn’t in place when I arrived. When Major Meade, the 3974th Base Deputy Commander for Law Enforcement (BDCL), was assigned to the SAC ORI Inspection team, ZAB didn’t use the rope very often.
When the klaxon sounded for an alert, if the rope perimeter was up, it had to be hurriedly taken down by the area supervisor and front perimeter guard. Stanchions were taken down and either tossed into the area supervisors truck, or dragged back to the the area where aircraft wheel chocks and other gear would end up.
The worst post in the alert area was the perimeter in back. It was right across the street from CSC, and there was absolutely nothing to do. Even when the klaxon went off, this sentry just stood there, “chillin’”. These posts where nothing was required were reserved for screw-ups and rookies. I was both.
Zaragoza AB had no assigned aircraft. B-47 Reflex aircraft were flown in, uploaded with nuclear weapons, and spent three weeks on Alert, then downloaded and flown back to their stateside bases.
While the flight crews flew over, spent a week on alert, then got a week off, another week on alert, then flew home. The CDF guards that came with the aircraft were there for 90 days. They were from various stateside bases; Lincoln, Mountain Home, Pease, Shilling, Little Rock, Plattsburgh, and others.
Because there were always TDY ramp rats from the bases supplying the aircraft, assigned to our Flights, and these folks all had different patches, I was able to wear my 305th CDS patches from Bunker Hill for quite a while before getting properly caught.
The 3974th CDS patch was smaller than the 305th CDS patches I had sewn on all my good fatigues, it would not cover the un faded spot. Removing the old patch meant ruining the shirt. I finally bought new fatigue shirts, but never did sew on the 3974th patch.
3973CDS.com Patch
The Tough Tiger theme referred to the 16th Air Force Air Police Academy at Torrejón AB. I wasn’t anxious to attend. Normally, I would have been sent right off, but because of all the confusion surrounding my arrival they had missed me in the shuffle.
After a few days, I started to get to know the characters on the flight. There was always a lot of conversation in the posting truck, and relief vehicles. For a time, it seemed to center around the reason I spent so much time on perimeters. Theories included, I could stand behind a stanchion to stay out of the rain. Or, that they could give me a can of tomato juice, and use me for a thermometer. Or, that I needed something to hang onto, so that the Hawk couldn’t carry me away.
Up on a rise on the east end of runway 30Left, was the fighter alert hanger, shared by the F-102s of the 431st Fighter Interceptor Squadron, and the F-86s of the Spanish Air Force.
Link to airport diagram in References.
Here is a posed photo from the “Stars and Stripes”, showing the fighter alert hangars.
The perimeter post at Fighter Alert was especially desolate, usually reserved for rookies and screw ups, as the Flight Commander signed the duty roster, you could tell if you were in favor by the posts you drew. I was not.
Word may have filtered down from Capt. T, because I spent a considerable amount of time at the Fighter Alert facility at first. In this lonely place it was not unusual to only see one vehicle the entire midnight shift and that would be the flight commander, inspecting the troops.
Soon I learned to bring a thermos of coffee and sandwiches. Many nights, I smuggled a copy of the Stars and Stripes in my lunch. Having mastered the Air Policeman’s Creed, I memorized a poem from the newspaper to spring on the Flight Commander when he came around inspecting posts.
“I’m not the one who runs this train, the whistle I cannot blow. I’m not the one that says just where this train is supposed to go. I’m not the one that blows the horn, or even rings the bell. But, just let this train jump off the track, and see who catches hell.”
In the 431st Fighter Alert area I spent a lot of time carefully inspecting the nose art on the F-102s. This was a real treat, as nose art was forbidden in SAC. Each of these 102’s had a red devil wearing a sombrero painted on the tail.
Photo Dick Barendregt
These particular deuces had been training in Libya and had some great cartoons drawn with magic marker. It would be great to have some photos, but you can take my word for it, that it was much better than counting rivets.
You always meet good people on these posts reserved for screwups. Up at the 431st area, I met Art, another ramp rat that had fallen out of grace. Also an A2C, with a wife, he was trying to scrape up enough to fly her over, to live on the economy, more or less in defiance of Captain T and the rules. We found that we had a lot in common. We were both right on the verge of being sent to humps and stumps.
So, imagine humping a row of alert, cocked deuces on this little rise above the reflex alert area. It is about 5 am and as quiet as it ever gets on the ramp, a hint of false dawn beginning in the ease. Suddenly, the sky is full of low flying aircraft with afterburners blazing. These guys were low, rivet counting low, and they scared the hell out of this kid. I’m sure I could have done some serious damage with my little carbine.
The klaxon went off and the Alert Fighters were launched, four F-102s, and four F-86s. One of the 86’s hit a fire extinguisher, and another clipped the edge of the hangar, but they both took off anyway. It was way too late to intercept the aircraft that had just scared the hell out of us.
(Stars&Stripes photo)
Later, we were told that we had been jumped by the U.S. Navy. At Commanders Call, we heard that fighters from Zaragoza AB had had similar success in surprising Navy Vessels in the Mediterranean. This still didn’t exactly inspire confidence.
While humping these exciting new posts, I was more worried about all my new responsibilities. I needed to get downtown Zaragoza and start looking for an apartment. Before I could do that I would need to have a suit or at minimum a sport coat and slacks with a tie to get off base.
As soon as a cash infusion was received from home, after repaying Capt. T, and thanking him, I went to the AFEX, which is what they called the Base Exchange in this strange land, and purchased semi-appropriate clothing for a trip to town. The snow was deep enough that it came over the tops of my low quarter shoes.
Zaragoza BX December 1962, (Goose Kovach Photo)
By the time three-day break arrived; I had an ill-fitting sport coat and slacks with my low quarters and blue Air Force shirt. I purchased some pesetas, 60 pesetas for 1 dollar, and I was ready for my first trip to town.
This 100 peseta note was in wide circulation and quite handsome. They were as common as dollar bills in my wallet.
Boarding the Spanish bus for the ride to the Plaza de San Francisco, the stench of the Spanish cigarettes of the civilian employees was vile. Mixed with the diesel exhaust of the bus it was choking cloud of fumes. I was very happy to get off the bus and catch a taxi.
Tramvia and taxi, Plaza de San Francisco, westbound.
The taxis in Zaragoza were all black with a yellow stripe, mostly newer and older models of the SEAT, Spain’s version of the FIAT. The driver was very helpful and I showed him the address of the housing office, Coso 15, he grinned, Calle Coso was renowned as the red light district. He slapped down the flag on the meter and cranked the Fiat to life.
We blasted around the cobblestones of the Plaza and headed east around several grand intersections. We flew threw these traffic circles without slowing. Then we were rolling down the broad boulevard of the Independencia.
Independencia, looking east.
Zaragoza was a modern European city from this perspective. At the east end of the Independencia was Calle Coso. At number 15 was the housing office. The cab driver put me out right in front. I gave him a 5 peseta tip, un duro. It was hardly more than a nickel, but it sure did make that cab driver happy. Americans were known to be big tippers. I learned later that two pesetas would have been more than enough. At home tips like this would have been an insult.
Finding the housing office, they gave me a map and the addresses of several apartments to look at, and I spent the day wandering around the city looking at places that were mostly too expensive for an Airman Second Class.
I discovered many differences from the USA. Here, street signs were a white porcelain plaque with blue writing attached to buildings. Apartments didn’t have numbers, rather were identified by floor, then position. Primero centro, for example, would be first floor center.
Central heat was not a common feature in Spanish apartments. Spanish apartments didn’t have closets. They didn’t even have door knobs, they had door levers.
My high school Spanish was not much use. The only phrase I had really perfected after one semester was, “Yo estoy muy loco in la cabeza por la cerveza.” I had a very educational day.
Afterward, I had arranged to meet some of the guys from my flight at a place called the “Pigalle”, a couple blocks south of the west end of the Independencia.
At this place I made numerous mistakes. Not the least of which was ordering “Cuba Libre”, because it was the only cocktail in my Spanish vocabulary. A Cuba Libre contained rum and Coca Cola and ice. The significance of that ice didn’t register at the time.
Tomorrow, I would reflect back on that briefing in Madrid when we got off the plane. We were warned not to drink the water or dairy products. I didn’t remember any mention of ice, but maybe they assumed we weren’t absolutely stupid..
The fellows introduced me to the local customs and bars. We went on a walking tour, stopping at several bars in a maze of narrow streets called the “Tubos”.
Calle de las Armas
This older section of town was a huge change from the Independencia. In order for two large vehicles, like Volkswagens, to pass, each would have to put two wheels onto the sidewalk and watch for folks stepping out of doorways.
Taverns and cafes in this section of town were incredibly inexpensive, with tapas and beers available for just a few pesetas. The “Patatas Bravas”, potatoes with cheese sauce, were wonderful, and certainly forerunner of the nacho. Drinking was usually done standing up at the bar, a few places had tables.
The restrooms in these places were disgusting. To a rookie not familiar with the bombsight toilet it was shocking that the facility consisted of two footprints and a hole in the floor. The stench was terrible.
There was much discussion at the bar about how it was necessary to do a bank shot in order hold down the splash effect. Also, the two types of paper sometimes provided, either waxed, or sand. The proper method proposed by the guys was to use the waxed and wait until it dried and then sand the remainder off.
It was almost possible to hold your breath long enough to take a quick whiz.
Next morning, I was studying about those Cuba Libres last night, and ice being frozen water, and being violently ill simultaneously. In the latrine, the barracks maids were talking about me like I wasn’t there. All ready, I was picking up some Spanish.
Zaragoza was the only base I was ever stationed on that had an Airman’s Club. A Quonset hut, it wasn’t much to look at, but drinks were very cheap. I was so poor that I couldn’t afford to get drunk on nickel nights. New to me, they had slot machines. I was fascinated by a nickel “Buckaroo” machine with four reels that had a huge payout, $250. That would have solved my money woes right there, but it didn’t happen.
These days would be the only occasions I would have to enjoy the delights of the Air Force Mess Hall while I was in Spain. Steak was very popular, and we understood that it had something to do with the bull fights. Never before had I seen a mess hall with waitresses. This sounds a lot classier than it really was. These senoritas used wholesale bulk quantities of perfume in a vain attempt to conceal the fact that local hygiene customs were different than we were accustomed.
All the milk on base was created by a mechanical cow, maybe hidden in the bowels of the commissary somewhere. This stuff wasn’t as bad as some powdered milk, but would not be confused with that which actually came out of a cow.
14 December 1962, it wasn’t long before I found a car. One of the Munitions Maintenance Squadron NCOs was returning to the states and had arranged to have an expensive European vehicle shipped back, and exchanged at the port of entry for a new American vehicle. He could only own one vehicle in Spain and thus needed to get rid of his 1960 Volkswagen. He had been living on base, and the car was like new.
Captain T had another explosion, but couldn’t figure out any way to flat out refuse to let me have a car, which would have been the case if I had been a single airman like I was supposed to be. But, I was married and facing the commute. I had taken the Spanish driving classes and passed the tests, and he relented and after a severe warning about what he was going to do to me if I got into trouble, boom, boom, boom, he finally signed the necessary paperwork.
17 December 1962, for $900, with $100 down I was the proud owner of a mustard colored classic thirty-six horsepower Volkswagen. It had tiny tail lights that were hidden behind the bumper guards. The heater/defroster was mostly imagination. The only gauge in the cockpit was the speedometer. Not even a fuel gauge.
The fuel tank, located under the front hood, would be nearly filled with vente litros. When you filled the tank, you moved a little lever hidden under the dash. Then, you drove until you ran out of gas, then again moving that little lever would give another cuatro litros or so to find some more gas.
You can see the problems with this method. If you forget to reset the lever when fueling, the next time you ran out of gas, it would be for real. It would be even more frustrating later, when there was more than one driver to forget to mention that the lever had been pushed down.
Volkswagens were the favorite personal vehicle of Los Fuerces de los Estados Unidos en España. The parking lots at the BX and NCO Club were a sea of these various colored machines from Wolfsburg. If you forgot where you parked when you went into the movie, it was a long walk, looking at license plates to find your own.
Besides the base sticker on the windshield, you could identify Americans by the license number. A Madrid license number, with the third digit always a zero.
Our license fees were paid for by the Air Force because they were so high we would not have been able to afford. The government didn’t issue plates, just the number. Each car owner had a plate made and permanently affixed to the vehicle, along with the country designator, “E” for España. There was no annual registration tab or fee.
Even after taking the Spanish driving class, actually getting out on the streets was an eye opener. Customs were dangerously different.
Spanish drivers had no idea about the bird, for example, a tradition known anywhere in the USA.. A favorite gesture of Zaragoza drivers was to point to the eye, to indicating you should look where you were going.
Left turns from the right hand lane were legal, and common. Headlights and horns were not permitted in the city. Huge traffic circles were controlled by one officer standing in an elevated box.
Plaza de Paraiso
In this photo, the policeman is out of his box assisting a citizen. He is the figure in white, just to the left of center fountain. The Seat 600 was a very popular “coche”.
All tranvía had the right of way, period. It wasn’t long before I found myself stopped near the tracks, trying to make a left turn. The tranvia driver smashed in my fender just for sport, even though he had to stop at the same traffic signal.
Wet snow on the cobblestones was worse than driving on ice.
There were few ambulances and the first on the scene of an accident with injuries were required to transport victims to the nearest medical facility. In this case you were allowed to use lights and horn. White handkerchiefs were waved out the window to indicate an emergency.
Similarly, law enforcement, especially the Guardia Civil, had few vehicles and could commandeer a civilian vehicle to get where they needed to go.
Trucks had a green light on the left rear. If the driver wanted to let you know that he was aware of your presence behind him, he could turn on the green light. The green light did not mean that it was safe to pass.
If you should receive a traffic ticket it was encouraged to pay the policeman on the spot. If you should accidentally kill an animal, a sheep for instance, they were on the roads a lot, you not only had to pay for the sheep, but all the offspring that sheep would ever have had.
There was only one brand of gasoline, owned and operated by the Spanish Government, CAMPSA. Campsa (Compañía Arrendataria del Monopolio del Petróleo, Sociedad Anónima) was the state-owned petroleum products company of Spain created during the 1920s. It was dissolved in 1992 due to the demands of the European Union. Its assets were distributed to the largest private petroleum companies in the Spanish market at the time, principally Repsol, Cepsa, and BP. The rights to the Campsa brand were given to Repsol.
Gas was sold by the liter and was expensive without the coupons we were allowed to purchase through the BX.
18 December 1962, I received a telegram through the Red Cross that the Tiger would be arriving in Madrid on Air France Flight 515 on 22 Dec 62.
So, I was back in Captain T’s office requesting leave and permission to drive to Madrid to pick her up. At first, he refused, wanting to have her take the train, anything. But, there was no way to get in touch with her to change the plans.
Then he wanted to send a driver, but couldn’t think of any way to justify that. Finally, he had to give in and sign my leave. Even though my leave balance was in the red, he authorized six days.
While I was sitting in the Orderly Room, I learned that Captain T was making Lamn move back into the barracks and that his apartment was available. In fact, he offered to take me downtown to see the apartment and have me checked out by his landlady.
She was a great lady, and was happy to be getting a family instead of single airmen renters. I took over Lamn’s agreement and had a three bedroom, semi furnished, apartment for 1600 pesetas per month. I also purchased two kerosene blue flame Aladdin heaters and a large transformer to convert the “industrial” voltage to 120.
22 December 1962, with Captain T holding his breath, I set out for Madrid. It was Highway A-2, the same highway that went past the main gate to Zaragoza. So, instead of turning left towards town, I turned right towards Madrid. See how simple? Captain T just had no faith in young airmen, that was his problem.
By now, I had some driving experience, having driven most of the way across the USA. I loved driving in Chicago. My childhood experiences included plenty of time on secondary and logging roads in the Pacific Northwest.
But I had never seen anything like the switchback hairpin turns on Spanish Highway A-2, it was amazing. On a logging road, you pretty much had the switch back turns to yourself. Here, they were shared by huge Pegaso trucks, that didn’t think anything of using both lanes. The turns were so sharp that it felt like the Volkswagen was on a turntable. The scenery in front was going sideways and sideways and sideways.
By the time that we left Spain, this road would be like an old friend, but that first time, learning how that VW handled, it was a blast. I enjoyed every minute of it, until on the outskirts of Madrid, the clutch cable snapped.
The first time I had to stop at a traffic light I was screwed. After some experimentation, I discovered that it was possible to start the VW in gear. In fact, starting off in second wasn’t too bad, and up shifting was even possible. What a car! Somehow I found the VW dealer and began the first of many experiences with that rare bird, the Spanish Mechanic.
22 December 1962 at the Barajas Airport, in Madrid, I met Air France Flight 515. The Tiger wasn’t on it. First the clutch cable and now this, before I knew about Karma, but surely not a good day and I was totally frustrated. My lack of Spanish was making this much tougher than it should have been.
At the Air France office I finally found someone who spoke English, and she promised to call Paris and try to find out what had happened to the Tiger. For a few pesetas I bought a strange sandwich and a strange beer, and then spent the night in the cold airport, alternating between pestering the Air France people and trying to nap without my trusty AF overcoat.
In the morning, I finally found out that Linda had missed her connecting flight in Paris and would be arriving on the next flight from Paris. She arrived, tired, sick and glad to be on the ground. After getting her bags through customs, who didn’t even open them, just made a chalk mark. We found the VW and drove to Torrejón AB and checked into the guest house.
The next day we drove to Zaragoza and I showed the Tiger around ZAB, and then downtown to our apartment. It wasn’t much. The Tiger and I began setting up housekeeping, the first time for both of us. We moved into Juan Pablo Bonet 25, Primero Centro.
The VW in our regular spot at Juan Pablo Bonet 25
We were the only foreigners in the building and spoke little Spanish. Our landlady lived next door. She and the portero helped us out a lot. We were the only ones in the building with a car, so our normal parking spot was right in front of the door.
The apartment was furnished, but lightly. There was not a closet in the entire place, as was standard with Spanish apartments. It’s a good thing it was cold that winter because we couldn’t afford a refrigerator and kept our groceries on the window ledge. The kitchen came with a huge old electric hotplate, the ominous looking water heater hanging on the wall, a small table two chairs, small alcove for storage.
The apartment had a long hallway with the main door directly across the outer hall from the antique open-air elevator that we never used.
We hadn’t lived here very long before we discovered that bumping our apartment door with the hip, it would pop open, no key was required, and we never used the key after that. There was an occasion when lovers in the hallway leaned against our door and found themselves inside our apartment, sprawled on the hallway floor.
We felt safe enough in Zaragoza, and all of Spain, that we felt no need to lock up. I didn’t think a thing about it at the time. That was the way I had been raised, when I was a kid there was no need to carry a key, the house was never locked.
In the living room we had a couch and chair, floor lamp, and small desk/liquor cabinet.
In the bedroom, the bed was a wooden frame with ropes stretched across the frame. The mattress was a large bag stuffed with scraps of fabric and what not, I didn’t want to know. For a closet, there was a large amarro.
There was also an empty bedroom that would become Doug’s.
The water heater in the kitchen was manually operated. By plugging and unplugging the ageing cord to the “industrial” current. If you left it on too long Vesuvius would erupt. Steam and other bad things happened. We learned to plug it in about 20 minutes before hot water was required and unplugging it immediately afterward.
We didn’t have anything. Not one plate or pan or piece of silverware.
We listened to Spanish AM stations on the little RCA transistor. They talked awfully fast. It was even tougher to understand the music. “Vente Cinco Anos de Paz”, and “Viva Espana! Arriba Franco!” were phrases that we heard a lot, there was a big campaign on celebrating 25 years of peace since the civil war.
We hauled water from the base for drinking and cooking in 20 liter glass jugs surrounded by wicker. Ride sharing to work was common, so there might be four guys plus two twenty liter jugs behind the back seat of the VW every day. These wicker covered garrafas were commonplace and you could buy them full of wine, gin, vodka, any kind of liquor. We used them to haul water and kerosene.
Tap water in the building was brown and made you think twice before getting into the bath tub. Huge bugs, probably some nasty version of cockroach, were known to crawl up out of the drains if you didn’t keep the stopper in.
There was no central heat in the building. Heating was by Alladin Blue Flame heaters.
Each of these heaters burned almost 5 liters of petróleo (kerosene) every day. They also needed to be carefully cleaned and the wick trimmed every day to avoid the dreaded yellow flame and resultant stink. They were called BLUE Flame heaters for a reason. If the flame turned yellow, they would STINK badly.
Sometimes we cooked on top of a heater. The Tiger learned the hard way why it was necessary to puncture a can before heating this way. That Dinty Moore stew certainly made a mess in the bedroom when the can exploded. I couldn’t stand the stuff for quite a long time after that.
We had to line up to purchase petróleo at street side pumps, packing it in those glass jugs with wicker handles again. The locals didn’t like it that we had such big jugs. It was a family affair waiting in cold weather at a single pump. We let those señoras with the little bottles “play through”, sometimes they would be filling bottles as small as a liter or two.
Our apartment was in front on Juan Pablo Bonet, and we were startled many times to feel the building shaking from the Spanish army tanks with soldiers wearing German helmets rumbling down the cobblestone street.
We signed up for home delivery of the Stars and Stripes, and after all those years of delivering papers reveled in having it slipped under my door every day, but the service wasn’t terribly reliable, and there was no one to complain to. I used to end up buying another on the base quite often. In New York there was a newspaper strike going on, part of the controversy was the papers doubling their price to ten cents
The only other newspaper directed especially at US military personnel was the “Overseas Weekly”, published in Germany and published news that would never be allowed in the Stars and Stripes.
Instead of photos of Commanders handing out decorations, the “Over sexed Weekly” published news of rape, riots, beatings, thieving and drug use. It was mostly dedicated to the US Army and German bases.
Link to on line “Stars & Stripes”. Still going strong.
Link to Third Armored Division history of the “Overseas Weekly”.
http://www.3ad.com/history/at.ease/overseas.weekly.htm
The daily Stars and Stripes, plus the little RCA Transistor radio that I had purchased at a hock shop in Topeka were our only contacts with the outside world, and we couldn’t pick up anything in English on the radio, it was AM only and the AFRTS from the base was low power FM.
8 January 1963, Linda had been in town only a few days before we witnessed another traffic crash. A motorcycle with two aboard hit a truck amidships, the cycle actually continued underneath. It was a cold, rainy night. We had been out to the base for the flick and had stopped at the “Nevada”, the local hamburguesa joint, on the way home. We used to get them “para marcha”, to go.
This was the intersection of Don Fernando El Católico, and Calle de San Juan de la Cruz. The motorcycle was northbound on San Juan de la Cruz. As we were leaving the Nevada the accident happened right in front of us. Since we had a coche, we were called upon to transport one of the injured to the hospital. With one of the injured in the back seat of the VW, we made the run to the hospital, waving the white handkerchief out the window that indicated an emergency.
It was a very cold winter and the vendors that pushed their carts down the street selling pan (what we called “french” bread back home) and churros must have suffered terribly. In our apartment we could hear them calling out to advertise their wares. There were also vendors on some of the busier corners that sold roasted chestnuts from a little brazier that gave off a tiny bit of heat.
15 January 1963, Linda began having pregnancy troubles again. She was air evacuated to the Torrejon AB hospital on the daily courier flight. Once there, the problems seemed to resolve, and knowing how she felt about flying, Art and I drove down on our three day break and brought her back to Zaragoza.
Art’s wife, also named Linda, arrived in Zaragoza, and since Art and I we were on the same flight, the two Linda’s, Tiger and Zephyr, became good friends. Art’s Linda was called “Zephyr”, a play on her maiden name, something about a gentle breeze. Art and Zephyr moved into an apartment only a block away from ours, on a quiet little dead end street that is now a busy arterial, Avenida de las Torres. Their apartment was across the street from our favorite bodega.
This is what it looks like in 2010.
Juan Pablo Bonet 25
October 2010 Photos by Gonzalo C. Arteta
Avenida de las Torres, October 2010
The private vehicle entrance with red and white stripes is visible in both pictures.
Avenida de las Torres, August 1965
The Martinez’s apartment building in the left Photo, across the street was Juan’s bodega, shown on the right.
Zaragoza Main Gate 2009 Photo by Rafael Pérez Verdú, Capitán Jefe Policía Aérea
4 February 1963, there was a reflex B-47 crash at Greenham Common AB in England. This excellent story follows the Bomb/Nav, who survived, to Nam.
http://www.307bwassoc.org/documents/February_Third_000.pdf
23 February 1963, I received a small inheritance, $144.26. We used it to purchase a slightly dented refrigerator from the AFEX for $151.95. It was delivered to our apartment on one of those three-wheeled motor scooters that were used for most everything.
This was a first for our building, and the portero and a small group of onlookers soon formed to watch.
Art and I were prepared to struggle up the stairs with the refrigerator, but the frail looking old gentleman that had delivered it, put a strap around his forehead and around the refrigerator and carried it up the stairs on his back, while we watched in awe. There wasn’t room in the kitchen for the refrigerator, we had to put it in the dining room.
The natives were friendly and tolerant. Our landlady, who lived next door, and the portero, looked out for us. They were very confused that we were not Catholic. They had a statue of the Virgin Mary in a viewing case, that circulated around the building. For a while we just took it, then the Tiger decided to broach the subject that we were not of that faith.
Our landlady was pretty easy going, but it we weren’t Catholic, we were barbarians. I don’t think she had even heard of any Protestant faith, in any case they were forbidden.
Most of the locals either dressed in black, or in the case of men, wore a black armband in memory of loved ones lost in the Spanish Civil War, twenty-five years before, but still fresh in the minds of the people. There were many advertisements on the radio proclaiming “Viente Cinco Anos de Paz”. “Arriba España! Viva Franco!”
La Despedida: A Lost Memoir of the Spanish Civil War
http://www.thenation.com/article/la-despedida-lost-memoir-spanish-civil-war
The first two weeks of the Spanish revolution
http://anarchism.pageabode.com/andrewnflood/first-two-weeks-spanish-revolution-1936
Spanish Civil War Diaries
http://www.spanishcivilwar1936.com/diaries.htm
A Spanish Civil War Photo Essay
http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/scw/photessay.htm
This is the internet archives of Albert & Vera Weisbord, Leading Communist Radicals of the 1930's. Organizers of 1926 Passaic Textile Strike, 1929 Gastonia Textile Strike, leaders of the Communist League of Struggle 1931-37
About the Spanish Civil War
http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/scw/scw.htm
Even though it seemed to us that we were poor, we were the only family in the building with a car, and now a refrigerator!
From my flight mates, I soon learned how to supplement my meager income. Certain items, like booze, gasoline, cigars, and cigarettes purchased at the AFEX were controlled by ration card and were worth quite a bit more on the Spanish economy than they cost in the AFEX.
A carton of cigarettes in the AFEX sold for $1.80 at the time, the cartons were wrapped in foil. Certain brands were popular with the locals and were worth more downtown. Marlboro, Winston, Salem, and Pall Mall were favorites. I was still puffing those Salems. Harvey smoked Kools and had gotten me started on the menthol.
A box of cigars, 1886s, I think, was $2.75. I don’t remember what they sold for downtown. There was more profit than cigarettes, I remember. I only did that a couple of times, and it was kind of scary.
In the Class VI store a bottle of Crown Royal or Haig & Haig pinch bottle went for $4.50. There was no market for liquor downtown, and I’m not sure why it was rationed.
I do remember the numbers for the gas coupons. They were a life saver for the Tiger and I. We were authorized three books a month for our sized vehicle. There was fifty gallons worth of coupons in each book. That was 150 gallons a month for a Volkswagen. We used to joke that we could leave it running 24 hours a day and it wouldn’t burn that much. At any rate, we could pay our rent with one book, use another for fuel, and still not max out the ration card.
So, for $9.50 we could purchase 50 gallons worth of CAMPSA coupons. I was shown where to place this book of coupons under the mat in the trunk of the VW. When we filled up the car at the Plaza de San Francisco, it would magically turn into 1800 pesetas under the mat. The exchange rate was 60 “P’s” to the dollar, so that would be $30. That paid the rent and later, the maid too.
There were a couple of guys on the flight that prided themselves on their expertise in these matters, and one of them took me under his wing to show me where the best deals could be had. He had it figured that cigars offered a better markup than cigarettes and shopped around to see who would pay the best price.
So, it was that I was in the checkout line at the AFEX with my monthly ration, maximum five boxes of cigars, when I noticed that Capt T was in line behind me.
He looked at me with a storm raging on his face. His comment was, “Marston, I never want to see you without a cigar in your mouth.”
15 March 1963 It's Reflex Turnaround Day at Morón AB. Here is a good look at one of our sister installations in Spain.
http://www.geezerflight.net/RRRReflexOperationsDraft3.htm
20 March 1963 Art and I both purchased Grundig radio and phonograph sets. These were on sale at the AFEX for $169.95. Now we could pick up the Zaragoza AB AFRS station, which was low power FM and could barely be heard downtown. Before long, I figured out how to pick up AFRTS, and other English language broadcasts, on the shortwave bands as well.
The Armed Forces Radio (and Television) Service, AFRTS, was bland and “command modulated”, but it felt like we were connected, and they broadcast news, programs and sporting events from the networks back home, so there were even familiar voices.
Link to AFRTS History
http://afrts.dodmedia.osd.mil/heritage/page.asp?pg=50-years
With our new Grundig, we could play records. Since the record selection in the AFEX was poor, those record clubs that I had joined back in the states began to pay off big time. I would take the catalogs in to work and order records for guys on the flight, thus receiving many free records for myself.
As always, there was a large Country and Western contingent on the flight, and Roger Miller was popular. “Dang me, dang me, they otta’ take a rope an’ hang me!”
The black market wheeler-dealers had come up with a new plan. They had noticed that the price of pineapple, canned, rings, was much higher on the economy than in the commissary. These geniuses shared the plan with others who chipped in to purchase all the pineapple available in the commissary. The beauty of the plan was that pineapple wasn’t rationed. You could buy as much as you could afford.
We assumed that we would then just sell the pineapple, but the ringleaders noticed that the price downtown went up. They decided to sit on the pineapple and proceeded to buy up the next shipment to the commissary as well. The theory was that they would drive the price up even further and then cash in.
Well, the unthinkable happened and suddenly the price of pineapple crashed. There was more pineapple around than Zaragoza could use for a long time. There was pineapple everywhere. Several cases rode around in the posting truck for a long time. I remember humping a B-47 and noticing pineapple rings in the grounding well.
4 April 1963, our son Douglas was born at the Zaragoza AB hospital. Art and Zephyr were godparents. The grandparents were howling for photos. We only had the $9 camera I had purchased at Lackland AFB.
Here is Doug on the living room floor.
Handing out cigars on the birth of a child was customary, and I made sure to offer Captain T a cigar every time I saw him. Somehow, he took pity on us, and I scored a ten day leave to help out, but he still thought I should be kept on a short leash. He also thought that we should have a maid to help the Tiger.
We had never dreamed of being able to afford a maid, but Spanish customs were different and it was considered normal, even for Airmen Second Class. Also, it was ridiculously cheap, and would still be covered by our $9.50 monthly gas coupon investment.
We went through a few maids before we found one that could get along with the Tiger and our strange American ways.
We had a lot of fun times. One of the first girls had never seen a toaster before and put the scissors in. Canned goods from the commissary all had white labels with no pictures, and we had an episode where she was looking for peaches and kept opening cans until she found them. There was also a time that white paint was confused with spray starch and a pair of fatigues bit the dust. We learned a lot of Spanish from these ladies.
These girls had never seen the feminine hygiene products like those that Linda used. They were so happy when we would bring them face cloths from the BX, these were used for the purpose, washed and reused.
15 May 1963 we caught “Dr. No” at the base flick and i lost my wallet. This was the first James Bond film and we had never heard of the guy. We had low expectations going in, and were delighted by the flick.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dr._No_(film)
When I went back the next day to see if my wallet had been found, the NCO theater manager said a wallet had been found, and asked me to identify it by my social security number, rather than my AF serial number, thinking to screw with the young troop. He was astonished that I had it memorized and handed my wallet back with no comment.
They changed the movie at the base flick almost every day, and many evenings we would drive the 15 miles or so out to the base to see a movie.
As our Spanish improved we began to discover the city. A cerveza, San Miguel, Cruz Campo, or Estrella de Sur could be had for less than a duro in any of the neighborhood bars.
The Nevada was close by and served an excellent hamburguesa that vaguely resembled an American hamburger. Their version of catsup was what we would call stewed tomatoes. They had a counter with stools and a black and white tv that I remember showing American Cartoons like Yogi Bear, in Spanish. “Que Paso, Booboo?” “Nada, Yogi”.
Paseo de Don Fernando El Católico
The Nevada, hamburguesa place is to the right, blocked from view by the tramvia. This shot is east, on the paseo in the center of the street, towards the “China” in the next block.
The “China” had a bar lined with tapas, and served the best tacos I’ve ever had. It was also the first tacos I had ever had. The bartender kept track of the tab with chalk on the bar. Messing with this, even in fun, was an 86able event. At the China I remember being taught to play a complicated beer drinking game where the goal was to work your way up to Pope.
By this time we had discovered Juan’s Bodega, just across the street from Art and Zephyr’s apartment. Juan was a character and was forever pouring us samples of liquor from 10 liter wicker jugs. These were always served in the same dirty glasses, and he would be offended if you didn’t finish it off.
Juan’s Bodega, Camino de las Tores
I don’t where this liquor was made, but 10 liters of gin or vodka, or whatever, for a couple of dollars was quite a bargain. At a party at our apartment, a guest poured out a glass of this stuff out of the window, and it ruined the paint on another guest’s car down below.
Juan also loved screwing with Art, who spoke fluent Spanish, of the Mexican variety. He would pretend to not understand Art, and would ask me, with my poor Spanish, to translate.
At Juan’s we first had to purchase the wooden cases for our bottles of San Miguel and Coca Cola. After that Juan would come to our apartment and replace them weekly, along with anything else we needed.
Another favorite was the Terry Centenario conac. It came in a bottle with a yellow string mesh around it. We drank this with Coke.
We also purchased many bottles of delicious Champagne recommended by Juan, and special ordered for us. This was one of the more expensive that he sold and cost almost 25 American cents per bottle. Very good stuff.
Cerveza San Miguel was our favorite beer. Other beers available were Cruz Campo, who some say guaranteed one dead mouse in a bottle per case, or Estrella de Sur, which we referred to as Estrella de Sewer. There was a sign across Juan Pablo Bonet advertising “Coca Cola, Refresca Mayor”. Vale, we were picking up a little Spanish. Then they switched the sign to Fanta, and I still don’t know what that means.
San Miguel in Spain has the same origins as San Miguel in the Philippines. However, since 1953 the brewery in Spain has been under separate ownership and no longer has any connections with San Miguel Corp. Philippines. The beer in Spain is brewed by San Miguel Fábricas de Cerveza y Malta S.A., part of the San Miguel-Mahou group.
Google translation of Spanish Wikipedia "Cerveza San Miguel"
“Cruz” is no owned by Heiniken.
Google translation of Spanish Wikipedia "Cerveza Cruzcampo"
Estrella is now owned by a company called DAMN. Damn.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Estrella_Damm
Traveling downtown to the public market in the tubos was a fascinating step back in time. We soon began shopping there regularly for fresh fruit, meat, and bread. It was an old world market with all the sights and smells. The tubo district with streets so narrow two cars could not pass. There was a little bar down the street that made the best patatas bravas ever.
There were sidewalk tables at several cafes in the area. They served calla Mari with plenty of lemon and frosty San Miguel. This was the pastime for the guys, while the wives went shopping at the SEPU department store, (Sociedad Española de Precios Únicos), had everything. I admit to walking through a few times.
SEPU was the biggest department store in Zaragoza, and a little reminiscent of Woolworth’s back in the States. The houseware, knickknacks and toys were pretty similar, but there were some peculiar differences from what we were used to..
They sold perfume and cologne in bulk from large colored jugs mounted on the wall. The first tiny Christmas tree lights I ever saw came from here. Back in the USA we used the large, larger or largest bulbs.
At SEPU I purchased a tin star, like a Sheriff’s Badge, that had “Jefe” (meaning Boss) printed in the center. My plan was to wear it on my ridgeway cap instead of the tough tiger pins that were so common. I put it on a time or two, but I never did have guts enough to wear it at guardmount.
May 1963 Tiger and Zephyr had become good friends, and the four of us hung out together whenever we could. We looked for low cost entertainment on our three-day breaks, and camping on the Rio Ebro was one. We loaded up with pan and chorizo, fruit and San Miguel, checking out a tent from recreation services, packing baby Douglas along, we hit the beach.
Camping on the Rio Ebro
You can see the guys were a lot more photographically creative. We were in the shade with the San Miguel.
At work, I was gradually starting to get a few better posts. From perimeters, I moved to Alert Aircraft, and even started to get a strike team assignment now and then.
The B-47 was a pretty sweet aircraft to guard. Being parked so close meant that there was always somebody to bull shit with when things were slow. At night, I would take that transistor radio that I bought in Topeka to work. When posted on a B-47, wrapping the crew chief’s headset wire around the radio gave it incredible reception, picking up stations from all over Europe.
The MMS Patrol was especially sweet duty, since nothing much ever happened out there, there was an off road challenge of a perimeter road, and a bumper pool table in the same building as alternate CSC.
I made sure that the Flight Commander was aware of my alternate CSC prowess from Bunker Hill, assuring him that I could type, and operate the ADT panel, even though I had never seen one like that before.
There were a few other posts that didn’t involve humping the ramp. The Command Post was an excellent spot to get a lot of reading done while staying out of the weather. I got through “Catch 22” on that post.
There was also a post in the BOQ supposedly to protect the Reflex aircrews. I had a couple experiences with surly and/or intoxicated crewmembers. Too many officers around, this was not such a good post.
A lot of the TDY personnel didn’t have drivers licenses and didn’t know their around the base, and that worked to my advantage. Strike Team was OK, CSC Standby, running errands was much better, that way you had your own wheels.
June 1963 President Kennedy was in Germany.
We had been going to the bullfights. Tickets were divided between sol (sun) or sombre (shade). The seats in the sun were cheaper, as were those fights featuring novice bullfighters and/or younger bulls. The picadors were not used in these exhibitions, giving the bulls a considerable advantage. Ole!
I have a favorite photograph that was taken at the Plaza de Torros in Zaragoza just a couple of years before we arrived.
The Hemingways in Zaragoza, Spain, 1956.
Photo: Marin-Chivite Studios, Zaragoza, Spain, in the Ernest Hemingway Photograph Collection, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library.
Art had been reading the local newspapers. He discovered that they published a handy list of fiestas in the area. Many of these were small towns, pueblos, and within easy driving distance. With this list of the dates when they celebrated their fiestas, we were well equipped.
It sounded like another low cost happening for a three day break and we picked a fiesta to attend. For a picnic, we packed finger peppers and bologna and cheese sandwiches. Of course, the 20mm ammo can full of San Miguel and ice.
These pueblos visits blur together in my memory. That first little town that we drove into, we had the only car in town. At first we were concerned with the crowds around the car so thick that we couldn’t even get out, but they were singing and dancing and immediately whisked us off to what seemed to be a decorated cave, where the party was raging.
They had strung colored electric lights into a quite large cave that was outfitted with plenty of tables loaded with food and drink. One of the delicious treats that we were given was peaches, brandied in anise. It wasn’t long before we were singing and dancing as loud as anybody.
At a fiesta in a large city, the bullfights might dispatch six or eight bulls in one day. These pueblos could not afford such extravagance, and one bull was made to last for the entire fiesta week.
These bulls thus had much opportunity to learn about these drunken people who were insistent upon teasing him. By the end of the fiesta, these were much smarter bulls than your average big city bull.
The bull ring in this pueblo was made partly of a wall overlooking a cliff and wagons drawn in a semi-circle.
In the evening a large barrel of red wine was placed in the center of this makeshift bull ring. Floating in the wine, or the mud, was a coconut shell cup. The idea was to run to the barrel, fill the cup, down a shell full of wine and return before the bull took notice.
The immediate area around the barrel was all ready quite muddy with spilled wine by the time my turn came around. I used my invisiblity skills learned in basic training.
1 July 1963 Zip Codes were introduced in the States. We wondered why.
12 July 1963 on swing shift, a rider and myself were giving breaks to the aircraft and perimeter guards in the alert area. We heard over the vehicle radio that there was an inbound B-47 with an emergency, landing on runway 30L, right in front of us.
While inbound emergencies were a common occurrence with the B-58s at Bunker Hill, here at ZAB they were rare. The crash crews and strike team deployed to predetermined positions, toward the end of 30L, the intent being to follow the aircraft down the runway.
The inbound emergency was one of the B-47 reflex aircraft that had departed earlier for their home, Lincoln AFB, Nebraska, the land of the big BX.
The B-47 was declaring an emergency and returning to Zaragoza. The crew had reported smelling fuel in the cockpit, and had shut down all electrical systems.
The responding units were in place, and we waited for the aircraft to appear. There was no worry that this aircraft was carrying nuclear weapons. Reflex aircraft were not flown with weapons aboard, but were uploaded for alert, then downloaded and flown home.
This gave plenty of room for the crew to bring home souvenirs, and there was always a rumor that one crew had managed to fit a VW into the bomb bay for the return trip.
From the front perimeter of the alert area, a normal landing on runway 30L looked like this. We had a ringside seat.
But, this time, as soon as we could see the incoming B-47, we could tell that something was wrong. The flaps were not extended and it was coming in high and fast. The small approach chute was flapping madly. When the drag chute was deployed, it exploded into confetti. There was a very loud report at our close range.
Immediately, there were two more loud explosions as main landing gear tires blew out, with the aircraft just opposite us on the runway.
Then we could hear the engines begin spooling up again, as the crew decided to
abort the landing.
It didn’t seem likely that they were going to make it. My passenger and the guard that we were talking to started shouting to drop the rope, and the closest sentries scrambled to let us out of the alert area.
We were half the length of the runway closer than the response vehicles that had been deployed waiting to follow, so what the heck, although we weren’t told to, we put on the red light and punched it down the taxiway for 12R.
Dark exhaust was blasting from all six engines on the B-47, as it started to pick up speed again. We were behind it, on the taxiway, pushing that pickup as fast as it would go.
For a minute, it looked like they were going to make it, they were air born, but there was a little rise off the end of the runway, and the port wing and engines hit first. The pilot and co-pilot had the canopy off, and ejected. The bomb/nav, being in a position that ejects downward, was totally screwed.
A huge cloud of black smoke and dirt rose just ahead of us. As we arrived, the aircraft was totally engulfed, and the ammunition in the 20mm tail weapons was exploding. Engines were still running at power on the starboard side, throwing up debris and trying to push the aircraft around, or separate the wing.
The first crash crews arrived, and immediately set to work moving a vehicle into position to put foam into the operating engines. Once the engines were stopped, the rest of the vehicles moved in to start putting foam on the aircraft.
If we had visions of being heroes, there was nothing we could do. The strike team, followed by the reserve, soon arrived to set up a perimeter and check point, and the radio called us back to CSC.
The Flight Commander was not at all that happy that we had responded, especially since it was his vehicle that we were driving.
The next night, was our first midnight shift. At guard mount, there was a post change, since I liked crashes so much; I was assigned to guard the wreckage.
If I had thought that the 431st Hangar perimeter was lonesome and desolate, it was nothing compared to being posted on aircraft wreckage off the far end of runway 12R. There is a certain smell too, with burned aircraft, it gets in your clothes and hair. There was enough wind to bang some of the wreckage around occasionally. This was one spooky post, and it was a long night.
At the time, I didn’t know his name, but the crewmember who had been killed here the night before was Capt. Benjamin A. Quam, from Lincoln AFB, Nebraska. It was not a nice place to die.
As the sun came up, I could get a better look around. The debris field contained items the crew was taking back to the states. There was burned stereo equipment and tapestries, but no Volkswagen. There were liquor bottles that were still sealed, but empty, the heat must have vaporized the contents. There was quite a lot of exploded 20mm ammunition lying about, as well, and I picked up a casing for a gruesome souvenir.
The second night wasn’t so bad. Since I was pretty sure where I was going to be, I brought the transistor radio, plus a thermos and sandwiches. Peanut butter and jelly on pan (we would call it “French” bread), with coffee is excellent.
At night, the AM transistor would pick up the BBC and even AFRS from Germany. These stations would begin to fade in and out towards dawn, finally leaving only the Spanish locals.
15 July 1963 Art received unexpected orders shipping him back to the States.
(I still have a copy of those orders, and to give you an idea of how tough rank was back in that day, on this same set of orders was a Tech Sergeant re-enlisting with a Date of Rank of 1 June 1954.)
Tiger and Zephyr had become very good friends. Zephyr had been a huge help with our son, Doug. It was a shock that they would be leaving.
We helped them move out of their apartment and sell off their belongings. Art had a 1953 Pontiac that had been handed down from airman to airman, but was unable to find a buyer for this huge, wobbly, gas guzzling monster, so he transferred it to us to continue to look for a buyer after they left.
Pretty much like this one.
http://www.byelectric.com/~lpapik/photos.html
We were very sad that we were losing our friends, but took the opportunity for a last few days together, by driving them to Madrid. Accompanied travel was not authorized for A2Cs, so Art would be leaving from Torrejón Air Base, and Zephyr from Barajas Airport, where I had spent so much time, waiting for the Tiger.
23 July 1963, this was my third trip over the highway to Madrid, and we felt like seasoned veterans. In no time at all, we checked into the Guest House at Torrejón. The Guest House had a “pop” machine that dispensed beer. This was truly good living.
At the Airman’s Club, Zephyr won a jackpot on a dime machine, and for celebration, we went downtown to look around Madrid.
Besides the tapas bars, which are still there, one of the memorable moments was the bumper cars in the park. I had always loved these things at Natatorium Park when I was a kid, but these were bumper cars with a difference. American bumper cars have a divider strip down the middle, one way traffic and they stop the ride to let patrons on and off.
The Spanish bumper cars had a slot in the top in which plastic tokens were fed to make them run on a timer, it was not necessary to stop the ride to get folks in and out, you could keep going as long as you had tokens. Also, there was no center strip or one-way rule to get in the way of a good time. It was really rough, and ganging up was the rule. It became apparent that it was us against them. The girls wanted no part of this, but Art and I hung in there with the locals until we were bruised and battered.
25 July 1963 we watched our friends depart on separate aircraft, from separate airports, back to the USA. It was awfully quiet on the drive back to Zaragoza. Doug had the whole back seat to himself.
“7 High”
Recollections of a Combat Defense Squadron “Ramp Rat”
Chapter 7
References
More Zaragoza photos circa 1963-65
Special thanks to Gonzalo C. Arteta, Zaragoza, España, for his help with this chapter.