of jet flight.
Next was the protective suit demonstration. Our suits were at that moment being loaded on the aircraft. The suits, known in military jargon as the 'aircrew ensemble,' consisted of numerous items each of which had to be put on, or donned, as they more often said, in a specific sequence. It was important to protect the whole body if possible because chemicals could come in the form of liquid droplets as well as gas. One drop on the skin could be fatal.
First you put on one of two pairs of cotton long johns, followed by a pair of cotton gloves and tube socks. Next you put on plastic bags over your socks. Then you stepped into one of two pairs of the charcoal fiber coveralls. They feel like coarse, fibrous wool, with a texture that makes your skin crawl, and they cook you in heat, both absorbed and retained. They were good for fifty hours wear time, after which they lost their impermeability and had to be discarded. The gloves and plastic bags were then taped to the coveralls with masking tape to make an airtight seal. Next you donned the standard issue USAF nomex flight suit over the charcoal suit, followed by the usual flight boots. After that, you pulled on rubber gloves over the cotton ones and standard issue USAF nomex flight gloves over those. By then your hand was so stiff that it was almost useless. Next you strapped an air filter pack to your side and adjusted it. It had an outlet that plugged into the aircraft's oxygen system and another that plugged into your mask.
Finally the brain bucket came on. We each had a custom-fitted USAF helmet to which was attached a chemical warfare protective mask. The mask was not specifically designed to be worn independently of the helmet, nor was it intended to be worn alone, for example when we were outside the aircraft. No one ever expected us to need it for that. A totally different kind of mask was available to soldiers and ground service personnel but was not issued to us. Our masks, unlike the ground masks, were awkward because you couldn't make yourself heard from them by shouting. Unless you were plugged into an aircraft interphone system, communication was almost impossible.
Once the helmet was on, a large plastic hood spread over the helmet and shoulders with an opening around the mask. Last we wore two ghastly large transparent plastic bags that covered our entire bodies. I had worn the complete suit in an exercise the previous year and did not relish the thought of putting it on again.
The suits were very impractical. A practiced person needed about twenty minutes to put on the whole outfit with the help of a buddy The whole concept was designed for use in flying in a known chemical environment where you had plenty of advance warning. But it was almost useless for no-notice alerts. The gear, already sized and customized to fit each individual, was packed into huge, cumbersome rubber bags weighing about forty pounds each that were tied at the top. To be carried they had to be toted the way a drifter bore all his belongings in a gunny sack, slung over the shoulder or heaved with a fisted hand. We suspected the sack was about to become our constant but loathed companion, yet few of us realized that it foretold perilous times ahead.
Finally, Day One ended and we went home to a last night with our families.
The Charles Sullivan Air National Base, located among the tall pines on the north side of the Jackson, Mississippi, International Airport, was a madhouse on the morning of Day Two. Under the watchful and wet eyes of our loved ones, we made ready for bag drag number one.
Our chemical sacks were loaded for us on the aircraft by the unit's Aerial Port personnel. This was the last time anything would be carried for us. We picked up our chemical gear and revolvers and bullets and were told to be discreet about having them. The roving newsmen and cameras might get wind of our defensive gearand we didn't want to alarm the American public, now did we?
Joining our chem sacks was a host of other bags and containers which we had to carry. We each had a main bag, usually a government issue B-4 bag weighing fifty to eighty pounds packed with personal gear. Our helmet bag contained not a helmet but a communications headset, checklists, gloves, a flashlight, and various other trappings of long-range fliers. Some of them weighed ten or twenty pounds.
Then there were the individual flight kits, fat briefcases into which was stuffed the literature of military flight: The 'Dash-l,' which was everything you ever wanted to know about the C-141 and more, much more; the 'Dash- l/Dash-1,' which contained the C-141 performance charts and test data; Air Force Regulation 55-141, which described down to a gnat's hair the science of flying C-141s the Air Force way; Air Force Regulation 60–16, the science of flying anything the Air Force way; Air Force Manual 51–37, the instrument flying handbook; Air Force Manual 51–12, the weather manual.
Along with the flight kit each crewman had a personal bag, which I called a survival kit. It could be placed beside his seat for easy reach. Everyone's kit was different, built to suit individual tastes, but the kits were necessary for the maintenance of our sanity. Mine was a blue fabric bag with an abundance of zippered compartments containing some essential trappings: binoculars; a camera; a Sony Walkman with microspeakers that would fit neatly inside my headset; extra batteries; a collection of tapes with the music of Phil Collins, Tinita Tikeram, the Moody Blues, Alabama, and songs of the Civil War; three booksthe Bible and
Then there were the communal bags. Each crew carried a 'trip kit,' another fat briefcase containing various regulations and reams of forms and paperwork: per diem vouchers; noncontract fuel purchase, forms 1801 and 175 for filing flight plans; aircraft commander's reports on facilities and crew members; forms, forms, and more formsand requisition forms for forms.
And then there was that most essential of burdensome items, the crew cooler, cumbersome though it was. It was not an official item; it was the personal property of some member of the crew and would be stocked with ice and various foods and liquids. The cooler's owner would normally be responsible for keeping it stocked, for which he would assess fees, but it usually stayed in his room on crew rests.
The 'black bag' was one that got special care, for it held our duty orders, mission itinerary, and flight- planning documents such as the C-141 fuel-planning manual, plus various plotting charts and devices. We also carried in it secret material that was issued. The bag bulged with mission paperwork when we flew. It was not an issued itemwe bought ours in a base exchange storebut it served its organizational purpose well and caught on among the crews. I appointed Bones to carry it and guard it with his life.
Finally there was the gun box. It was a large ammunition container in which we stowed our pistols and bullets when we were not flying. The loadmaster toted the box and saw that it was registered and stored with the security police at our rest stops.
We were to move this mountain of material about 500 times in the coming year: rooms to bus, bus to plane, plane to bus, bus to rooms. The cycle repeated itself again and again. In the burning desert heat we heaved and lugged. In the gray English drizzle we lifted and shuttled. In the New Jersey snow we tossed and caught. In the wee hours of a Spanish morning we formed conveyer lines and moved the bags from bus to ramp, then from ramp to plane. All hands pitched in, officers and airmen alike. There was no special status or privileges here. Everyone's bags belonged to all of us.
Occasionally, through the years of Guard flying, new lieutenants not yet wise to crew life and swelled with the pomp of shiny new wings and bars would carry only their own belongings or worse yet would expect the enlisted crew to carry their gear for them. Such expectations were quickly banished. One dapper young officer began to wonder after a few days why his B-4 bag seemed so heavy. His crewmates elbowed each other and snickered as they watched him heave, grunt, and grimace for several daysuntil at last he opened a zippered side compartment and dug down, discovering a 10,000 pound-test-strength tie-down chain coiled beneath his dirty underwear. Message received.
Any bag would eventually be ignored if it proved excessively heavy. Jeff had brought along what became known as the Bag from Hell. It was back-cracking heavy, and after a while most of us wouldn't pick it up. Jeff got the message and downloaded it at the first opportunity.
Traveling light had become a priority and an art for us, but it was to become even more so in the coming months. And after the bags were loaded, there was always the 'laying on of the hands' ceremonywe had practiced this for years. You were foolhardy if you didn't at least see, or better yet touch, your belongings to make sure they had come on board. In the not-too-distant future, Pink Floyd, getting his jet ready to fly, would be in too much of a hurry to observe the laying-on ceremony. His 141 would thunder away for a ten-day mission with his B-4 bag containing all of his personal gear sitting on a New Jersey ramp. And there it would sit like a lonely sentinela symbol of Pink's impending misery, pointed to and guffawed at by heartless mechanics.
