The C-130 could hold five pallets. Figuring ten people across, we could fit 50 people per pallet. At a maximum, we could fit 250 refugees if all the CG numbers worked out. We never got that many on a flight. Our record was 218 on a mission flown by Operations Officer, Lt Col “Sweats” Tollefson.
Sweats earned his nickname by sweating constantly and always sweating the small stuff. Whenever I saw Sweats he was red-faced and smoking a cigarette. I don’t think he ever slept or had his blood pressure drop below 170/100. He was a chain smoking worrywart who was scared to death of letting people do the jobs they were trained to do. “Sweats” was not a delegator. He was a doer and a rechecker. If it were possible, Sweats would have flown all the missions himself while simultaneously manning the command post and sweeping the flight line with a broom stuck up his ass.
Although it was rewarding for us to help so many people survive, we did have challenges to work through.
The flying facilities were primitive or nonexistent. We were used to accurate navigation facilities so we could get from point A to point B in the weather. These facilities didn’t exist in India in 1971. The flying was VFR or “visual flight rules.” The navigators needed to see the ground in order to get us to our destination. If the weather rolled in, we didn’t fly. Many of the airfields were dirt strips. We parked the airplanes on the grass, which had been overlaid with perforated steel planking (PSP). PSP was reinforced steel planks with holes. These planks were laid on the ground to prevent the aircraft from sinking into the grass or mud. It is still used at remote airfields around the globe.
And then there was the one factor none of us had counted on, the smell. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this smell. Most of these refugees had been on the road, fleeing death and destruction. There were no showers or baths on the refugee trail. They fled with only the clothes on their backs, and they were still wearing them. They ate large amounts of curry and spices, all of which came out in their sweat and breath. It was a sharp, acrid, painful, nearly nauseating odor that the stifling heat did nothing to alleviate. It was June in India and the temperature and humidity stayed in the nineties. It was tolerable in the open air but closed up on an airplane with 200 of them for an hour-long flight — Stink City.
When I first experienced it I had trouble breathing. I had to put on my oxygen mask. This gave a new and terrible meaning to the term “eye watering.”
After a few days of this routine we were able to somewhat tolerate the smell; but it still watered the eyes. We dropped the refugees off at resettlement camps where they would later move on to more permanent housing. Even living in these tent cities was a vast improvement to what their lives had been like those last few months. Doctors, aid-workers, and UN personnel, all helped out at the camps.
The end of our long flying day meant a shower, a fresh set of clothes, a bite to eat and later, a gathering at the “Officers Club” for a few beers and war stories. Since space was so restricted we had combined the Officers and NCOs clubs into one. It was a 10-foot by 20-foot cinderblock room with bench seats and Indian beer. I had never tried Indian beer before, but quickly became a convert. It had two distinct advantages over American beer: first, it came in liter bottles, and second, it was 8 to 10 % alcohol. The taste was richer and more biting than American beer. Those of us who had grown up on 3.2 beer were soon stumbling around walking into walls and trying to speak Hindi to our Indian Air Force buds; it was pretty good stuff.
After the first night at the club, and a few beers in, I made my way back to my room. I had only been asleep for a few minutes when my fellow co pilot and neighbor called me into his room.
“What’s up Vince?” I asked through my beery, sleepy haze.
“Tell me what the fuck this is,” he said pointing to his chicken-wire screen. Something was caught in the wire and it was still alive. It looked like some kind of prehistoric bug. Not being an entomologist, I squashed it with my flashlight and went back to bed, dreaming of prehistoric bugs.
The next day I corralled our Indian Army rep and showed him the remains from the previous night.
“Oh, that’s a rice bug,” he said.
“Are you shitting me, that’s a bug?” I exclaimed.
“Oh yes sir, very good eating you know,” he replied.
I had no response. The whole concept of a six-inch long bug flying around had eluded me up to now. And as for eating it, as my buddy Vinnie would say, “Fuggettaboutit.”
So as it turned out, our guide on that first day in India had been correct. The chicken wire kept the bugs out, at least the bigger ones. The rice bugs weren’t the only natives we had to get used to. One night I was awakened from a sound sleep by the sound of something scratching across the concrete floor. I turned on the light and discovered a half dozen crabs walking in a straight line across my floor. These crabs were about six inches across and they marched with military precision. I didn’t know whether to smash them or cook them. Instead I let them go on their way. I didn’t know where they had come from or where they were going so I just turned out the light and went back to sleep. I never saw the crabs again after that night.
Chapter 5
About three weeks into our mission we took a trip to New Delhi. Each flight crew was given one weekend of R&R there. We stayed in a nice hotel called the Oberoi Intercontinental. There we could take unlimited warm showers and experience the joys of air conditioning. We would start the day with a big breakfast in the hotel’s opulent dining room. Real eggs and fresh juice were not available in Gauhati so we made sure we got to get our fill of these luxuries while in New Delhi.
After our big breakfast, we would wander the streets taking in the sights and sounds of this very crowded city. One of my favorite activities was souvenir hunting. There were countless side streets with shops selling everything from spittoons to sitars. I mention sitars because I bought one. I had no musical background but Ravi Shankar and George Harrison played the sitar so how hard could it be, right? My backup plan was to use it us as a display piece just in case my playing didn’t work out.
My lasting impression of New Delhi was the crowds. So many people packed into small spaces. We westerners were used to so much more room. Even the buses and trains were jammed to overflowing. I was standing on a street corner in Delhi and watched a bus approach the intersection. The bus was packed full and there were people hanging off both sides. I held my breath because I felt sure that the bus would roll over. The hangers-on knew what was coming, and as the bus started to lean precariously into the turn they leaped off. The bus righted itself and then they all jumped back on. Only in India.
I was proud of my new sitar and showed it around the base when I returned to Gauhati. I tried unsuccessfully to play it at the Club that night. Maybe the Indian beer had something to do with my ineptitude. At least I managed to learn how to hold it before we left India. But the sitar was destined to decorate my living room.
My flight engineer, Ed, was at the club that night. Ed was a very good engineer but he was very fond of the “sauce.” He fell in love with the Indian beer and had more than his share that night. When he started speaking in tongues we convinced him to turn in. His building was only about 20 yards from the club so we sent him on his way, confident that he could find his way home.
Around 2 a.m. we called it a night and headed back to our rooms. An irrigation ditch ran along the path between the buildings. It was about three feet wide and three feet deep. As I walked along the path I glanced down into the ditch and thought I saw something. It looked like a body, but I couldn’t be sure. I shined my light on it and discovered a body covered with something. And that something was moving. On closer inspection, I could see it was Ed, sleeping peacefully, and covered with rice bugs! Yuck. I yelled for some help and three or four of us yanked him out of the ditch and brushed the rice bugs off. He was none the worse for wear and was ready to head back to the club. We convinced him the club was closed and walked him to his room