Back to the crazy drivers. No one knows how their reputations got started but it is a well-deserved one. Maybe it’s because they had to bob and weave around all the garbage piles.
After we unloaded our aircraft, the transit coordinator for our exercise called for taxis for the two crews, 10 people in total. He told us the ride to the hotel would take around 20 minutes in normal traffic. If Naples traffic is anything, it’s not normal.
Three taxis arrived around 15 minutes later. All were small Fiats. We put four of the smallest guys in one cab. The luggage wouldn’t fit in the trunk so it was lashed to the rack on the back. The other two taxis held three each with a similar arrangement of the luggage. Our driver spoke not a word of English and the only Italian we knew was ciao, bella, and arrivaderci.
The drivers all looked the same — short and hairy with cigarette packs rolled up in their sleeves. They looked vaguely like Mussolini. They may have been related but we didn’t pursue the point; we only wanted to get to the hotel. We showed them the hotel name and address and they nodded eagerly, indicating they knew where it was.
Once the drivers knew the destination and everything was loaded in the cabs, all hell broke loose. Each driver raced to his cab shouting and gesturing to each other in what sounded like insulting terms. Apparently, these pint-sized Mario Andrettis had wagered on who could reach the hotel first. The race was on and the passengers were merely along for the ride. We flew down the street, tires screeching. Traffic signals and stop signs were meaningless. They didn’t even bother to stay on the street. When they came to a blocked intersection, they hopped up on the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians in all directions. We were all too terrified to speak, or move. Without seat belts our only hope was that our tight fit would keep us from flying out of the cab in an accident. When one of us finally spoke up, the driver pointed to the other cabs and mumbled something in Italian. If I were to guess, he was saying: “Hey, leave me alone, I have to keep up with these two.”
As we slid to a stop in front of the hotel, we were all wild-eyed and shaken. Our cab came in second so our driver jumped out and yelled at the winner; all the while counting out the money he lost on the bet. The scene was repeated for the third cab. After unloading our luggage and getting paid, the three pocket rockets hopped back in their Fiats and roared off into the night.
The rest of our time in Naples wasn’t nearly as exciting as the cab ride but we still enjoyed ourselves. I was able to fit in a trip to the Naples National Archaeological Museum. The museum was full of sculptures and artifacts collected from Pompeii and Herculaneum. And no trip to Naples would be complete without a real Napoli pizza.
The time to return to Pope was rapidly approaching. There was only one more mission to fly before heading home. It was a fairly routine trip but to an interesting destination. Our job was to move an Army colonel, his wife, and their furniture from Rhein-Main, Germany to Bizerte Sidi Ahmed, Tunisia. The colonel was assigned to the US Embassy in Tunisia and we were his United Van Lines. The whole crew looked forward to this one because none of us had ever been to Africa.
The weather that day was perfect: no clouds, no wind, and great visibility. Upon landing in Tunisia we were greeted by a representative of the US Embassy. He had arranged an elaborate open-air luncheon for us. The luncheon was set on a hill overlooking the city. A large native-crafted canopy shaded us. The meal consisted of native Tunisian dishes including spicy mutton, lablabi, (a thick soup made from chickpeas and garlic), fresh fish, vegetables, fruits, nuts and couscous, the national dish of Tunisia. The food was delicious and spicy. The Tunisians use a spice mix in their cooking called “Tabil” (pronounced “table”). Tabil is made from a mixture of garlic, cayenne pepper, caraway seeds and coriander. Once mixed together, the tabil is then dried in the sun. We were all surprised by how hot the food was. We had to blunt the fiery spices with traditional Tunisian oven-baked bread and lots of water. With nothing pressing scheduled for us after our furniture run, we savored this exotic meal and then headed back to the UK.
As fate would have it, the entire squadron was in base at Mildenhall on New Year’s Eve in 1971. We were set to leave in four days so it was a perfect opportunity for a party. The event could have been compared to “Animal House.” It was just as raucous but without the togas. The music was loud, the liquor flowed freely and we welcomed in the New Year in fine style.
The next morning, the base held its annual New Year’s Day Parade with the Mildenhall Base Band and Color Guard leading the way. Every permanent organization on base was represented in the parade. Since we were there on temporary duty, we wouldn’t be marching, only watching.
Irv and Angie had been up all night in heavy party mode. The parade route ran right under our windows in the BOQ. Irv had bought one of those giant alpine horns, the kind in the commercial for “Ricolla” cough drops. The Base Commander and his wife were in a convertible following the band and color guard. Irv and Angie wanted to participate in the festivities so they hung out of the windows with Irv blowing the horn and Angie holding the other end. Just blowing this gigantic horn was bad enough, but to put icing on this parade cake, both of them were stark naked.
The parade was rolling along smoothly until Irv started in with his horn. Everything came to a halt as all eyes focused on the bizarre pair of nudists hanging out of the second floor windows. The Base Commander’s wife nearly fainted. The Base Commander himself was red-faced. He was pointing up at Irv and yelling instructions. He was extremely pissed. Several members of the squadron rushed into Irv’s room and yanked both of them from the windows. Once they disappeared from view, the parade rolled on.
The next morning, Irv found himself on the carpet of the Squadron Commander enduring a royal ass chewing. He was put on the equivalent of double secret probation and told to behave himself, or else.
We tied up our loose ends at Mildenhall. This included selling our leaky Jag to the incoming group. The Jag was actually in better shape than when we bought it. We at least made our money back. Everything was loaded onto the airplanes and we headed back across the Atlantic to Pope.
Chapter 11
As much as we loved Mildenhall, it was great to be back home. The next six months were spent catching up with our families. It was a beautiful time to be in North Carolina. The springtime weather is unbeatable and it’s a great place to be if you liked outdoor activities. Seven of us squadron co-pilots bought motorcycles, actually high horsepower dirt bikes. These 250cc tree climbers were tough, powerful bikes for use off-road. Fort Bragg is one of the largest military installations in the country with thousands of acres of forestland. Woven through these forests are miles of trails used by the Army to train their tank crews. The tank trails made perfect off-road opportunities for us. We would meet once a week to ride the powerful dirt bikes. Up, down, around and around we went for hours in the North Carolina woods. Every boy’s dream fully realized, racing around a pristine wilderness with your buddies trying not to break your neck.
A week before our next rotation, I walked out of my house for one last ride before we left for Europe. I never got to make that ride. Some bastard had stolen my bike and I was grounded.
Before we left for Europe, all squadron members were called to a mandatory meeting. As is normal in the military, several rumors were in the air about the purpose of the meeting. Some thought it meant the cancellation of our rotation. Others said it meant a massive cutback or transfer of aircraft to other units. None of this proved true. The meeting was called to introduce the new squadron commander, Lt. Col. Benny Fioritto. Col. Benny, as we knew him, was a legend in the C-130.