filled in weekly and changed daily, with the next day’s schedule usually posted by 4:00 P.M., so each pilot can check it in time to go home and get some rest if he has to be back by 4:00 A.M. Starting in 1969 (and still in force, except during wartime), pilots were required to have twelve hours off before flying.
Also at work in the scheduling process is the law of supply and demand: if there is to be a workable schedule, a squadron needs so many flight leaders. For instance, if the daily schedule calls for four four-ship flights in the morning, four more in the afternoon, and three more later in the afternoon, that means a total of forty-four sorties (what they called “4 turn 4, turn 3”). Say a pilot can fly twice a day. Then about eleven four-ship flight leaders are needed, plus someone on the duty desk and in the tower. Since some of those forty-four sorties require an IP or check pilot, that means about fifteen flight leaders are actually needed.
There are about thirty pilots available in the squadron, plus a few overhead — the squadron operations officer (he may have an assistant) and the commander (who also has an adjutant, an intelligence officer, and a maintenance officer, who are not rated). However, four of the pilots are on alert; five are attending school in the United States, or are at Wheelus, Libya, for gunnery training, or are attending bomb commanders school; three are on leave; two are on Duties Not Include Flying (DNIF) with colds or sprained ankles from sports; two are processing out to return to the States; three are new pilots who just arrived and are looking for a house; and three more are in Germany on forward air controller duties. That means that twenty-two of the thirty pilots are not available. You can get some help from the five wing staff attached to the squadron for flying, but that still only makes thirteen pilots to fly, with fifteen flight leaders needed… That kind of math went on all the time.
? The wing commander is the senior commander on the base and has about 3,500 people under him. In the past, the wing commander was a colonel (as were his deputy and his vice commander), but now he is a brigadier general. Immediately under the wing commander comes the vice wing commander (usually a steady old hand whose job is primarily to help a young up-and-comer who will probably get promoted to general), who fills in when the wing CO is flying, TDY, or otherwise off-base. Under the vice comes the DCO, or deputy commander for operations, who runs the three flying squadrons (and who usually moves up to wing commander); the DCM Maintenance, who is responsible for all the aircraft maintenance (a big job which can make or break the wing; the DCR Resources, who runs supply, finance, and the motor pool; and the base commander, who watches over civil engineers, services, security police, legal, public affairs, and personnel.
Above the base level (at the time Horner was in England) was a three-star numbered Air Force commander (in those days, most Air Force one-and two-stars worked in the Pentagon), then a four-star Air Force Command commander (commanding TAC, SAC, MAC, USAFE, or PACAF), then the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, the Secretary of Defense, and the President.
The Goldwater-Nichols Law of 1986 changed all of that, at least in terms of operational command, but that was twenty years into the future
LAKENHEATH
In October 1960, after three months at Nellis, Chuck and Mary Jo Horner left for England. Their C-118 transport landed at RAF Mildenhall, and they boarded a bus for Lakenheath just a few miles away.
RAF Lakenheath was in Suffolk, just north of Cambridge, and about two hours’ drive time northeast of London. Originally a World War II base, whose Quonset huts and brick tower looked like sets from
A more accommodating airfield seemed like a good idea.
A replacement for the B-47s appeared in the late fifties, when Charles de Gaulle ordered U.S. fighters to leave France; and in 1960, the 48th Wing, then stationed at Chaumont Air Base east of Paris, pulled up stakes and moved to Lakenheath. In the process of the move, personnel who were close to the end of their overseas tours went home early. This in turn resulted in unusually large numbers of new people being assigned to the wing. This had a downside: Every week six or seven lieutenants with the bare minimum of flying time showed up at each of the wing’s three squadrons. Since Horner was in the first wave, he became a flight leader almost immediately. For a young pilot to become a flight lead is an honor and indicates rare confidence from the squadron leaders — or else it means there aren’t any experienced pilots in the squadron and you use what you have and hope for the best. In Horner’s case, it was the latter. The blind were leading the blind; and the accident rate proved it. In the first three months he was assigned to the wing, six aircraft and four pilots were lost (Horner didn’t actually contribute to any of these accidents, but he came close). Since the tour was for three years, that meant he stood an excellent chance of going home early in a pine box. On the other hand, young Chuck Horner was having a very good time, and learning a great deal about flying fighter aircraft.
Second Lieutenant Horner got quite a shock, however, when he first walked into the squadron. He had 100 hours of F-100 time, had never flown in really bad weather (a daily occurrence in England), and expected to be led around by the hand for six months or so to learn the ropes. The ops officers smiled, got him a local area check-out and a Stan Eval check ride to certify he could sit alert, then stamped him flight leader and hoped he made it.
When Horner arrived at Lakenheath, among the first people he met was his new squadron commander, Major Skinny Innis — one of the wildest members of a profession that tries to corner the market on wildness. Innis, like many others, had gone off to World War II before he finished college. During that war, pilots of his age group had operated almost without rules — the name of the game had been to get the job done. The downside was that a lot of them had died in accidents and not as a result of enemy fire. Innis had survived that war, and Korea, by means of brains, energy, flying talent, and luck.
In the two worlds that make up the military — field and headquarters — Skinny Innis was at the far extreme of the field orientation. One earned points there for being outrageous, and Skinny had acquired just about as many outrageous points as it was possible to accumulate. All he wanted to do was fight wars and have fun in the downtime. He was profane, inelegant, not only un- but antidiplomatic, and often wrongheaded; but he deeply loved his nation, flying, and the Air Force; he made it fun to serve with him; and he kept his pilots looking at the enemy instead of worrying about their own careers.
Skinny hated to be supervised. In practice that meant that he and the wing director of operations, Colonel Bruce Hinton (who was called “Balls” Hinton and had had several kills in Korea), often had fistfights when they had a difference of opinion. Since they had both served in World War II and Korea, lived with adjoining backyards, and were friends as well as antagonists, however, they tolerated each other’s wild behavior.
Even though Skinny hated authority, he was loyal to senior commanders, which meant he worked their problems and did the mission they laid out for his squadron. He ran the squadron the way he wanted to, however, which today would not be politically acceptable, and he specialized in making flamboyant statements.
At the officers’ club at Lakenheath, a large bell was mounted over the bar. When you walked in, you had to buy drinks for everyone at the bar if someone could ring the bell before you got your hat off. Skinny turned the game upside down. He bought bowler hats for all the 492d Squadron, declared them the Mad Hatters, and “ordered” them to wear their hats in the bar. If they didn’t, they had to buy the bar a round. (The bowler rule was in effect only when you wore a civilian jacket and tie; uniform was excepted.)
Then Skinny decided that wasn’t enough. His squadron also needed to be different from the other two squadrons at work, so he bought them glengarries, the traditional Scottish hats, to wear with their flight suits. When Bruce Hinton tried to stop this change in uniform (correctly judging it against the uniform rules), they had another fight, and Skinny won. Thus, for the three years Horner was at Lakenheath, everyone in Skinny’s squadron wore a glengarry, with his rank on it, with his flying suit.
There was a serious point behind the apparent silliness. Skinny’s goal was to create an elite unit, the 492d Tactical Fighter Squadron, within an elite unit, the 48th Tactical Fighter Wing. His methods probably went too far by today’s practices; but back then, in the shadow of World War II and Korea, commanders had a great deal of latitude. During Vietnam, Horner and the other pilots at the bases at Korat and Ta Khli in Thailand wore
