First Tour
Since reporting to Beale Air Force Base (AFB) on New Year’s Eve 1978, I had completed several months of ground training in many areas I would have never dreamed existed within the top-secret compartmented black world of ISR (intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance). It was not unlike a jigsaw puzzle in which the U-2 was a major part of other intertwined pieces, but contained a multitude of subsets within, that had to be understood and mastered. Only when proficiency could be certified in all aspects of the training would I be granted the privilege to dance with the “Dragon Lady” on operational deployments. The numerous survival schools I attended as an army aviator and air force pilot were now supplemented with further classified interrogation and water-survival schools. Flight training paralleled the ground instruction until, having completed the initial and mission qualification phases, I was now at the point where all my check rides were complete as I moved into pre-deployment flights. The purpose of these flights was to build the required 100 hours of U-2 flight time in order to be trusted with accomplishing nationally tasked operational missions. These missions were flown from our detachments (Det) and known as TDYs, which were conducted during 70-day temporary duty assignments around the world.
So, it came as a great surprise to me when Willie, the commander of the 99th Strategic Reconnaissance Squadron, called me into his office one Friday afternoon and made me an offer I happily accepted. Even though I had only accumulated slightly over 80 hours in the U-2R and 11 hours of acceptance/initial qualification training in the U-2CT, which had dramatically different flight characteristics, he had monitored my flight training carefully and had confidence enough in my abilities to turn me loose on the “Black Cats” at Det 2. As the shock was wearing off, he flipped me my “official” passport and, as I was leaving his office, admonished me to try to keep a low profile while I was “operational.” Since my best buddy “Jug” and I had recently been called on the carpet for lambasting a very strait-laced non-rated major, who we offended at the O’ Club stag bar, I took the quip with a grain of salt. Willie and his ops officer cracked up with laughter while wishing me well and cautioning me to keep my eyes open for “pimps.” Now, I heard about these practical jokes, also known as “frags,” played on unsuspecting novice pilots during their first deployments to each of the Dets. But I’d been around the block a few times, from accumulating 1,000 hours of combat time in Vietnam to leading refueling formations—known as “Coronet East”—missions, of fighters across the Atlantic, and was cocksure no one was going to pull the wool over my eyes anytime soon.
The weekend passed rapidly and I found myself at base operations, underneath the control tower, on a very foggy July morning. There I met two of my Physiological Support Division (PSD) compatriots who were attending to a couple of white fiberglass steamer trunks on self-contained rollers. It was a smart design, as they contained both of my pressure suits, helmets, and accompanying equipment, for both high and low flights, and were quite heavy. The three of us would be the only passengers aboard the 150-ton tanker for our non-stop 13-hour flight, escorting a flight of slow-moving, A-10 Warthogs, to Kadena AFB for an overnight stopover before proceeding to Osan via C-130 Hercules. Besides a couple of “Sled” engines tied down on their dollies, the cabin was plenty cavernous enough to accommodate the three of us in a very spartan interior of nylon fold-down troop seats. They would be almost suitable enough to grab some sleep during the half-day and several time zones we would be aloft in a very chilly and noisy cabin, requiring the use of sound-insulating communication headsets.
After nearly two miles of take-off run, aided by 670 gallons of demineralized water injection to increase the thrust of the aging J57 engines for the first 180 seconds of the flight, the old tanker rose majestically off the Beale runway with an immediate turn to the west. Trailing four plumes of black smoke from its engines, the noise inside the fuselage was unbearable without ear protection but would subside somewhat at water run out when the aircraft would instantly lose 12,000 pounds of thrust while also shedding its quad trails of dark smoke for the remainder of the flight. Occupying the cockpit jump seat between the two pilots brought back vivid memories of these long, heavyweight takeoffs at Loring AFB, Maine, where I spent the first four years of my Air Force career progressing from co-pilot to aircraft commander, then instructor pilot (IP) to standardization-evaluation check pilot. I was very grateful those years were behind me now as we struggled climbing to 25,000 feet for the first leg to Kadena.
The flight progressed smoothly, although time seemed to drag, aided by the A-10s’ remarkably slow 190-knot refueling speed, with a cruise speed not substantially higher! At least the crew and passengers aboard the tanker could walk the length of the cabin to stretch their legs, not a convenience I would be able to enjoy on more than 12-hour missions in the U-2 (neither could the A-10 pilots). Besides reading the material I brought along, the pilots were overjoyed with my background as a “Tanker Toad” and gladly accepted my offer to relieve one of them at a time on the controls while they took one-hour breaks, thus helping the time pass for me as well. By the time we were on final approach to Kadena, we had formed a bond of sorts that would last throughout my years at Beale. The word got around that the new “Deuce” rookie was a good guy with a common background that, unlike some of the other high flyers, was approachable in social as well as official settings.
Habu welcome
After a little over thirteen hours in the air, we finally touched down and taxied to the ramp behind a “FOLLOW ME” vehicle to our designated parking space. We had lost our race with the sun though, having launched in the early morning at Beale while arriving at mid-afternoon, halfway around the globe. We did gain a full day though, as we passed the International Date Line just west of Midway Island in the Pacific. Time travel into the future wasn’t that difficult after all! We were met by the very impressive Sled Director of Operations (DO), Lt Col. Jay Murphy, sporting an orange flight suit (aka “orange bag”) identical to the one I wore, save a Mach 3-plus patch on his left shoulder vice my Dragon Lady patch. He had the build of a pro linebacker and I could immediately recognize he was a competent leader and hard-charging Sled advocate. Accompanying him was his first sergeant who would take care of our PSD troops and the pressure suits they were shepherding to Osan. Jay had a gregarious and confident personality, formed by many years as a fighter pilot and Sled IP, and was just fun to be around. He drove me to their quarters and showed me my impressive guest room where I dropped off my bags before proceeding down the hall to their Habu bar. There, he presented me with a nearly frozen Japanese beer called Asahi, followed shortly thereafter by a stiff gin and tonic while he outlined our evening ahead in the “Ville,” just outside the main gate. It promised to be a fraternal “guest night” that I wouldn’t soon forget! It seemed the Sled was down for maintenance, awaiting one of the engines we just delivered, so the following few days were off and it was party time.
After a shower and shave, I donned my civvies and was met by Murph and four other pilots currently flying operational missions out of the Det. The night started with a huge Kobe beef steak dinner prepared to perfection, along with round after round of liquid libation of various intensities and quantities. This was followed by a “Habu Club Crawl” to a half-dozen of the more notorious establishments, within a half-mile radius, where beautiful dancing girls, and I suspect perhaps some less than feminine dancers posing as women, displayed their delightful talents. Following a very long day transiting the Pacific, my lateral vision was fading fast as Murph held court at our last stop in a quiet hotel just outside the main gate at 1:00 am for a Ville nightcap. It signified the end of downtown drinking before proceeding to the Habu bar for some real partying. Although the Deuce pilots made fun of the Sled wine bar back at Beale, these guys were no sissies when it came to downing vast volumes of alcohol! The bar was going strong with numerous civilian and military groupies crowded into the converted officers’ quarters as we arrived to the beat of South American jazz mixed with a noticeable wave of body heat! I could only manage another hour before staggering back to my room, after bagging only a couple of short kips during the preceding 24 hours. I gladly fell into bed, having already preset my alarm clock to 7:00 am for a 9:00 departure time.
Awakening to the alarm buzzer, my previously youthful and fit body felt as if it had just barely survived a junkyard car crusher as I rolled out of bed for a hot shower. I spent as long brushing my teeth and gargling as showering since a bear had obviously snuck into my room during my four hours of sleep and crapped in my mouth (probably a byproduct of the Japanese cigar I foolishly accepted to accompany my double Glenfiddich nightcap at the hotel). After donning a fresh orange bag and repacking my luggage, Murph banged on my door and I followed him downstairs, with my bags and briefcase containing my classified pilot’s checklists, to his staff car. There, he told me to make sure the case was unlocked for inspection by their trusted customs agent and relieved me of the classified portion of my checklist before loading everything in the trunk. He assured me he would pass it on to PSD to be inserted into one of my pressure-suit containers. Apparently, it was standard procedure for one of the Det’s security personnel to accompany the baggage until it was securely tied down inside the C-130 on a pallet, to be retrieved at Osan. It sounded like he had everything well in hand as he drove us to base ops for a quick snack-bar breakfast, but damn he looked rough and I wondered what his eyes looked like behind his ever-present Ray-Bans or if he’d even been to sleep. As for myself, I felt like I’d been ridden hard and put out wet, so I wasn’t about to challenge his appearance!
Arriving at the aircraft, although we were early, it appeared everyone was awaiting my arrival. At the boarding ramp, Murph wished me well on my first operational tour and mentioned he was headed back to the rack for some intense sleep. The loadmaster assured me all our belongings had arrived under the tutelage of PSD and a security guard before escorting me on board to point out my luggage, briefcase, and pressure-suit containers securely tied down to a pallet. PSD had kept the very valuable suits, helmets, and related personal flying gear under lock and key for the duration of the stay and were then making their nests on the outboard troop seats for a planned horizontal journey that lay ahead. Since I hadn’t seen them since arrival, I went over to say hello. It was then I observed in their eyes that they were in the same dreadful condition as myself. It was apparent that Det 1 knew how to treat their guests, or perhaps it was a normal down-day celebration. I had a lot to learn about the inner workings of black-world operational practices, and my education had just begun!
Osan arrival
I don’t remember much of the flight to Osan, except for the take-off roll and being awakened for landing, as I spent the trip in blissful sleep, stretched out on the troop seats with a seatbelt secured around my chest. The overpowering din from the howling turboprops and lack of heat experienced in the cabin, devoid of insulation or apparent soundproofing, did not affect my previous 48 hours of sleep deprivation. I drifted into a deep state of unconscious bliss, awakening halfway refreshed as we touched down. After a short taxi to the transit ramp, the engines were shut down as the aft ramp was lowered. There, awaiting our arrival, was the El Camino mobile and the ops officer, and Black Cat DO, Maj. Stan Rauch, smiling in his orange bag. In short order, the PSD van also pulled up to escort the two technicians that accompanied me along with my pressure suits and baggage back to the Det. Stan told me that PSD would transfer my classified checklist to the vault safe and one of the pilots would secure all my belongings in my quarters under lock and key. It sounded to me like everything was well in hand as I strapped myself into the passenger seat of the mobile for a short drive to the Black Cat ramp.
The first thing I noticed when Stan cranked up the mobile was a very husky sound emanating from under the hood. I asked if the Det was having problems acquiring mufflers from the U.S., to which he replied that the standard V8 Chevy had been modified by the maintenance troops to produce nearly twice its factory horsepower! Not only that, thanks to a paperwork snafu, the Det had also obtained a very rare 454-cubic-inch El Camino the troops had pumped up to over 400 horsepower. As we approached the guarded entry point to the ramp, I got my first glimpse of Black Cat Operations and noticed a very dominant sign stating “PHOTOGRAPHY STRICTLY PROHIBITED” on the guard shack as we were presented a snappy salute and waved through the gate. Situated between two hangars was the non-descript brownstone operations building sporting the Black Cat logo high at its peak. Adjoined to the side of the building was the PSD facility, actually a customized compact mobile home, where the technicians were unloading my pressure suits as we arrived.
Stan brought me inside for an introduction to the support staff and the commander, Lt Col. Doyle Krumrey. After a warm reception from the admin troops, as I made my way to the boss’ office, I suddenly was accosted by a 22-pound ball of black fur that leaped on my shoulders from an 8-foot-high partition, knocking me against the hallway wall! It was Oscar’s way of welcoming new arrivals which, rightly or wrongly, I took to be a sign of affection. Following a warm welcome from Doyle, I was escorted through a cipher lock-controlled steel door into the heart of U-2 operations at Osan, known as the the vault, or just plain ops, where all the Det’s top-secret materials were stored in ironclad filing cabinets, secured by built-in tumbler locks. Within this inner sanctum was to be found the heart of Black Cat Operations and was the home for the ops officer, staff navs, and operational pilots, serving as Mobile Control Officers, or “Mobiles” for short, during the 12-hour days that the Dragon Lady flew her nine-hour-plus missions. It was no secret the Det was the most heavily tasked air-breathing high-altitude reconnaissance unit in the world and that everyone concerned took their responsibilities very seriously, directly contributing to a mission completion rate that hovered at 99 percent!
Next, I was off to one of the two hangars where my first impression was that of the Lady standing proudly on the spotlessly shined floor with a large Black Cat logo emblazoned thereon, that matched an identical rendering on the flat-black tail of “The Article.” The only other marking on the aircraft was that of her red tail number, 10331. I was introduced to the maintenance supervisors and their boss, Chief Dickhaus, along with the recovery crew chief and his team, many of which I recognized from Beale and, who in turn, knew of me as “Bud Man,” having earned that moniker by dating the local beer distributor’s secretary.
They were eagerly awaiting the return of ’337, just then vacating her lofty altitude in orbit for a landing in 30 minutes. There was just enough time to meet the civilian tech reps, also hidden behind cipher-coded steel doors in shops that contained very highly sophisticated and highly classified cameras (hardcopy/electro-optical/advanced synthetic aperture radar), defensive systems, electronic/communication sensor systems, and even “Igor,” our extremely accurate inertial navigation system. Each tech rep was the final authority for the performance of their company’s equipment and many, like Marsh, “J. J.,” Norm and Lum, had spent most, if not all, their careers in support of the Dragon Lady at various Dets.
Recovering the Lady
Because of the impending arrival of the mission aircraft, I had to postpone “glad handing” the PSD troops until after the postflight mission briefing. Stan cranked up the big-block mobile and, with 15 minutes remaining to touchdown, gave me a quick tour of the taxi routes to the runway, emphasizing the minimal “pogo”/taxiway light clearances and the absolute requirement to stay on the yellow centerline, lest certain damage to the Lady’s lower “hockey stick” antennas occur. On our way back to the arrival runway threshold at just over 100 mph on the taxiway, Stan casually tossed the UHF microphone in my lap and said, “Tell Wally ‘Mobile is up’.” This would be the first unsecured communication with the mission pilot in just over nine hours, as the retort came back “Bud Man, is that you?” I was more than pleased that Wally Drage, a “Deuce Driver” two years my senior, recognized my voice as I responded, “At your service with landing calls.” “Make them good, I’m pooped and thirsty!” came the response, code for the cold Michelob beer that would be presented to him by PSD at the bottom of the howdah as he deplaned.
In the characteristic late-afternoon haze that permeates the Korean Peninsula during the summer months, the U-2 was all but invisible and remained so until the dual nose gear mounted landing lights finally penetrated the pollution at three miles and 900 feet altitude. Still, at two miles and 600 feet, the Lady’s thin frontal silhouette wasn’t evident and Wally had no visual contact with the runway as he pegged the electronic glideslope of the instrument landing system leading to the runway. Since he was staring directly into the late-afternoon sun, it wasn’t until one mile that he picked up the sequenced flashers and high-intensity runway lights, leading him to cross the “T” at exactly 10 feet. This was where my duty began, as the altitude calls went something like this: “10 feet at the T, 8, 6, 4, 2 feet, 2, 2.” At that exact instant, Wally deployed the inboard landing spoilers on the wings, executing a rather rare two-point landing, with both the main and tailwheels kissing the runway simultaneously. Of course, with his advanced U-2 experience, he needed no rudder or wing-level corrections as he settled exactly on the runway centerline and taxied flawlessly off the runway, balancing precariously on the bicycle landing gear without either wingtip touching the ground. Having banked with his ailerons towards the inside of the existing taxiway to preclude centrifugal forces pushing fuel to the outside of the turn, he came to a stop, wings level, reminding me of a perfectly balanced tightrope walker. This could only be accomplished through a skillful transference of wing fuel, even during the landing rollout, to achieve a perfect lateral balance, and took many hours of practice (and sometimes luck) to perfect. Now the recovery crew had only to walk under each wing to plug in and safety pin the pogos into the wing receptacles, before mounting the leading edge of the wings for their cherished ride back to the ramp. Normally, after one wing dropped, allowing fuel to flow laterally toward the lighter elevated inboard tank and the tip of the lower tank on the heavy wing, two to three crew members had to mount the upper wing leading edge (pull ups were preferred) in order to elevate the heavy wing for pogo installation. This choreography was performed without comment while the pilot transferred fuel back to the lighter wing, perhaps embarrassed, if the fuel differential was excessive.
As Wally taxied back to the Black Cat ramp, giving the wing riders a well-deserved thrill, he had already installed three critical safety pins—two into the primary and backup ejection seat initiators, and one for the canopy-jettison handle. Now, as he remained on the taxiway centerline, he started the arduous task of disconnecting the numerous life-support connections that attached him to the cockpit, so when the canopy was raised after engine shutdown, he was ready to step on the seat cushion and exit over the right canopy rail onto the howdah. Even this ritual took considerable practice while maintaining the centerline, as several connections were in hard-to-reach locations and out of view. The PSD techs were trained to perform this intricate procedure for the pilot, upon arrival, although it became a “rite of passage” to learn the steps required to exit the cockpit unaided after the howdah was rolled up to the right side of the cockpit and either PSD or Mobile raised the canopy externally. In my case, after almost 100 flying hours in the Lady, I’d mastered this arrival procedure as long as the taxi distance wasn’t too short!
Wally stepped over the canopy rail and trudged down to metal stairs donning a big smile, with the metal “spurs” attached to the heels of his boots clanking on each step of his descent. These life-support devices were connected to retractor cables underneath the ejection seat that would have saved the loss of his legs below the knees had he needed to eject. They emit a sound not unlike those worn by tap dancers. At the bottom of the stairs, both the commander and ops officer shook his hand, welcoming him back after another perfect mission, while I awaited my turn. After downing half a cold beer, presented by PSD, it was he who welcomed me to the Det, as if I were a long-lost brother. “Not bad calls, Bud Man” were the first words out of his mouth although, with his experience level, he would have executed the identical flawless landing even with a sock stuck down my throat! His gesture warmed my heart with a feeling of recognition and bolstered my hopes of eventual acceptance within this tight unit. As I walked with him back to the PSD facility to be extricated from his spacesuit, he mentioned I had arrived just in time for a rare two-day break and my first “Green Bean.” This traditional trip downtown for some serious partying, as well as introductions to the bar owners, tailors, and countless merchants, was the first of many forays into the Ville of Songtan Si that would be experienced during the tour and would be capped with a “Brown Bean” the night before departure back to the States. Although all Black Cats were exposed to these rituals, it seemed that the civilian tech reps and pilots were highly cherished for their spending and tipping practices; the red-carpet treatment, especially by the bar owners and tailors, knew no bounds.
The Black Cat Lounge
After the formal debrief with maintenance, intel, and the tech reps, in which Wally reported that once again ’337 had returned with all systems performing flawlessly (known as “Code-1”), a cheer went up indicating that only standard postflight servicing of the Lady was required prior to the party commencing! We departed the ramp with Stan, Wally, and the other three pilots in the two Det mobiles and headed for the enlisted quarters that also housed their Black Cat Lounge. This was their communal center separating two wings of rooms housing many of the 100-plus enlisted personnel required to support U-2 operations out of Osan. The area, better known as a “day room” in military jargon, served as a gathering point away from their cramped rooms, sometimes occupied by four individuals in bunk beds. Basically, it was a recreational area that normally contained a TV, perhaps a ping-pong table, and a game table or two. However, in this case, it had been transformed by the troops into a fairly nice bar complete with pool table, card tables, pinball machine, and shuffleboard table. Funding was supplied by monthly dues, drinks cards, regular lotteries, and sports pools. Liquor and beer inventory that couldn’t be scrounged or stolen was bolstered by everyone’s rationing allowance of alcohol and other consumables to make a profit for the lounge. Although teetotalers’ ration cards were highly prized, the pilots usually offered little help in the booze department, but gladly went shopping at the commissary to supply the variety of snacks offered.
Most of the enlisted launch crew were getting an early start as we entered the lounge, having received word they had the following day off. When Sgt. Mike Wills spotted me, he let out a yell that turned heads: “Bud Man, welcome to Osan!” I was surprised to hear my moniker had made it all the way to Osan within the months I’d been in the program. Mike introduced me to the few of his maintenance troops that I hadn’t met back at home plate, quickly making me aware that the formalities of rank were universally relaxed during operational deployments at our Dets while respect was earned through flawless job performance. Since many dozens of three-dimensional “Bud Man” stickers, which were donated by the distributor, had preceded my arrival, more than a few curious troops were wondering what kind of character this new pilot would turn out to be.
The Habu strikes
After a couple of beers, it was time to be shown my quarters within the pilot/tech rep annex, a quarter mile down the road in supposed quieter surroundings. It never dawned on me the ops officer and all the pilots were eager to show me my room as they dropped me off at the door with a half-hour to shower and shave before reporting back to the lounge prior to my Green Bean. Once inside, I found my luggage, as well as my briefcase, which contained the unclassified portions of my checklist and shaving kit, laid out on a comfortable queen-sized bed. Stripping off my orange bag and popping the latches brought instantaneous terror, as what appeared to be a three-foot snake leaped through the opening in the case, shooting over my left shoulder! I let out a howl that probably could have been heard all the way back to the flightline as I stumbled backward into the dresser, knocking a mirror off the wall, resulting in a resounding crash! During my long string of expletives, the door flew open and the boys rushed in snapping photos for posterity and laughing their asses off as I stood red-faced in my underwear! I had only been in Osan for a few hours and had already been pimped twice—once by Oscar and then by these laughing hyenas!
So much for my military aviation worldliness and immunity to well-thought-out pranks! Unlike Oscar’s joyous leap on my shoulders, which might be considered a fluke, this particular ruse took considerable coordination between both the Sled and the Black Cat hierarchy to pull one over on me. The “spring-snake” was of Japanese origin, designed for shock effect, and certainly planted in my briefcase after relinquishing my unlocked belongings to the Habus for inspection by their “trusted custom agent” to inspect. Thereafter, it was secured along with my space suits with tie-down straps on the C-130 ride to Osan where it was then transferred to my quarters by two trusted Black Cat pilots. Unfortunately, it never sank in that I hadn’t touched the case until the moment I opened it in the room!
After my heart rate returned to normal, and having shaved and showered, I walked back to the lounge awaiting the hyenas to spread the word to the enlisted corps of Bud Man’s near-death encounter with the Habu. So, I purchased a double scotch and prepared for the onslaught of well-deserved heckling. Sure enough, the boys not only arrived to convey a slightly exaggerated account of my stark terror, but the tech reps had given them a Polaroid Land Camera that produced colored photos in 30 seconds! So, not only did a hundred or so troops get a look at me red-faced in my jockey shorts, they now also had a story for Black Cat posterity. It was all good-natured fun and I actually felt a little more acceptance from the troops, especially the females. However, dwelling in the back of my mind was the fact I would not be considered a Black Cat until I returned unscathed from my first operational mission, now just four days away.
Following this initiation, the boys promised to cut me some slack for the “Cat Walk” into the Ville although the spring-snake rendition became more extravagant with each new telling. With every stop at the two main tailors and custom shoe shop, numerous bar owners, along with their hired help and hookers, laughed themselves silly about my first day of calamity. Starting with the Det’s preferred tailors, Alex Yu and Mr. Oh, after bowing deeply as the pilots entered their establishments, rushed to a cooler in their backrooms to produce nearly frozen Korean-made Heineken beers for all. This was followed by complete measurements of this new Black Cat for future suits, military uniforms, sports coats, slacks, and any other conceivable garment. Custom-tailored military shirts were Mr. Lim’s specialty, and fit like a glove, at nine bucks apiece. I would later find out that no matter what time of the day or night I frequented these establishments, their owner’s reception was the same and also tailored to each pilot’s libationary desires. For me, it was Heineken until about 3:00 pm then scotch on the rocks thereafter, obtained by one of their assistants from an adjacent bar.
After surrendering body measurements I never knew existed, the boys set off to show me the “Strip.” This was the main drag of the village which was basically an outdoor strip mall and open market, with bar entrances appearing on both sides of the narrow cobblestone road seemingly every 50 feet, that went on for a good half-mile! Bar hopping for the pilots started deeper in the village and centered around three or four establishments, usually ending up at Miss Penny’s “Honeymoon Club.” She was a shrewd businesswoman who knew how to draw crowds and seemed to favor Black Cat officers and tech reps, often with free drinks. And since most of her waitresses were also hookers, managed by her husband, a honeymoon could indeed be arranged for the right price. While I strictly avoided ladies of the night, I was soon in her crosshairs, as an eligible bachelor, after a formal introduction to her daughter, who somehow always appeared after my first free drink of the night. As pleasant as she was, she wasn’t my cup of tea, although I learned several years later that she was successful in marrying an American non-Black Cat officer. I suspect it may have been part of a package deal, as Miss Penny sold the bar and retired to Florida a few years after the wedding. Shrewd indeed!
I learned a lot about the South Koreans that night which made me even more grateful for being born into western culture. It seemed they were perfectly comfortable with eating anything that originated in the sea regardless of appearance and whether or not it was cooked. A mound of rice in a bowl eventually revealed an adolescent purplish octopus, eyes still open, gazing at me from across the bar; I didn’t stick around to watch its consumption. Sea urchins, eel, jellyfish, and other sea creatures beyond description were normal fare and always accompanied by a bowl of rice and kimchi, a highly spiced cabbage and radish fermented in a salty brine in an urn while buried underground. Of course, there was always “Gaegogi” available, for those westerners lacking a conscience or a heart, which was barbequed dog! I needed no more convincing to realize I would be eating all my meals in the O’ Club, even though the Korean cooks there laced everything on the menu with vast quantities of garlic, just as they did in the Ville. The combination of garlic and the base water supply, purified with iodine, would transform me into an orange-skinned individual whose pores exuded the strange smell that I previously detected on pilots arriving back at Beale after their 70-day Osan TDY, as well as everyone at the Det after arriving on the C-130 from Kadena. Those brave souls that took to kimchi emitted an even more caustic scent every time they opened their mouths to speak! The offensive odors and unusual color could not be washed off or gargled away, taking a couple of weeks on normal American food to diminish the aftermath.
Luckily, I was a scotch drinker but was warned early in the Cat Walk that all the booze was diluted with formaldehyde to increase profits, not to mention a chance of blindness and death! The popular belief was their national brands of beer were also thusly tainted during production with the exception of Heineken, which was produced in-country under license. This, of course, didn’t slow any of the troops’ vast consumption of anything alcoholic, followed the next day by hangovers of stupendous proportions being nursed back at the lounge. Since Miss Penny had taken such a liking to me as a hopeful prospect, she promised to buy my favorite brand of scotch, reserve it just for me and keep it off limits for any chemical altering by her staff. Even during future TDYs, she kept her promise, allowing me to inspect each bottle before placing it on reserve for “Bud Man” and, later, “Fang.”
While there were lots of discoveries of this culture that lay ahead, I found the unisex restrooms to be the most disconcerting. Besides the fact they were absolutely filthy and reeked to high heaven, the single entry/exit passed within feet of the old-fashioned urinal trough, often leaking on the floor, attached to the walls where the men stood side-by-side relieving themselves. As the ladies strolled by, the sight of men exposing themselves always elicited comments and giggles. They, on the other hand, felt no embarrassment in squatting over one of the two holes in the floor that served as toilet cubicles, often with no doors offering an inkling of privacy! Miss Penny’s loo was by far the cleanest, had doors on the “waterless closets,” and was by far the least offensive to the olfactory senses. But it still took some getting used to and later I always made it a point to be well serviced before venturing downtown.
The boys took good care of me that night of drink and merriment but as the base siren sounded at 11:30, it was time to walk toward the main gate or be locked out until 6:00 am the next morning; a fate, I was assured, that was worse than death! At this point, with little or no sleep in the past 48 hours and the sun just clearing the mountains at 8:00 am back at Beale, I was suffering from extreme jet lag and eager to end the night as we approached the gate. Since I had been reluctant to even sample any Korean food, I stuck to the recognizable junk food of peanuts, popcorn, and chips while consuming Miss Penny’s scotch, and my last meal was an inflight ham sandwich on the C-130. It was at this point I picked up a delightful aroma in the air that made my mouth water. Just before the gate were enterprising vendors with portable hotdog-like venues peddling deep-fried seafood of every description and questionable freshness along with fried potato wedges. These were the “Yaki Mondu” vendors that, after a night of drinking, were an irresistible draw within sprinting distance of the gate that would later form the background for some diabolical pimps of Black Cat lore. The only menu items I would venture into were the battered shrimp and potatoes, taking my chances the deep fryer would kill any harmful bacteria. They were served in sizable cones formed from light cardboard, with a tissue-paper lining to absorb some of the grease fresh from the deep fryer, and were absolutely delicious! I had finally found something palatable in Korea and I would have gladly stood there for a second helping if it weren’t for the boys hustling me through the gate en route to the Black Cat Lounge for a nightcap. I had passed my first phase in the Black Cat indoctrination process after wishing everyone a good morning at the lounge, managing to find my room, and throwing myself, fully clothed, on top of my bed while dropping off immediately into a deep, dreamless slumber.