Our crew did get to make one additional side trip while in Gauhati. We were tasked with delivering several pallets of medicine to Calcutta. Our destination was the Calcutta International Airport and all went smoothly, arriving right on schedule in beautiful weather. They parked us on a military ramp right next to a Russian airplane, an AN-12. Before I describe the plane, just a brief explanation of the Russian philosophy of aircraft design: copy the Americans but try to make it bigger and faster. We were scoping out their aircraft from afar when we saw the Russian pilots disembark and walk towards our C-130. Keep in mind that in 1971 we were cold war enemies. We looked at these Russians with a mixture of caution and excitement. None of us had ever met a Russian pilot and none of us spoke Russian. They came up to us smiling, excited and spoke broken but understandable English. Basically, they were in awe of our airplane, our technology, and us. They wanted to show us their aircraft and hoped we would reciprocate. Sounded good to us, so off we went into the AN-12.
The AN-12 was a Russian attempt to copy the C-130. The exterior of the Russian plane did look like the C-130, but inside was another story. In the cockpit, the two pilots sat up high with the throttle quadrant between them. Below the pilots was a flat bench where the navigator would lay face down looking through the glass observation bubble. Next to the navigator’s station were his navigation aids, Esso road maps.
The AN-12 did not have hydraulics and it cruised at 300+ knots, so it took some strength to operate the flight controls. This probably explained why both pilots looked like weight lifters. Both pilots would operate the controls simultaneously. The navigator would give them a countdown, then say “turn right” or “turn left” and both pilots would execute together.
The cockpit instrumentation was right off the set of “Young Frankenstein.” Tubes, rolling drums, exposed wires, giant levers, etcetera, were everywhere. The back of the airplane was even more startling than the cockpit. In the C-130, we had our roller system to easily load and unload freight. No such system existed in the AN-12. It had a plain floor with park benches screwed to the wall. They told us that any airborne equipment drop was an emergency procedure only.
When we showed them the 130 they were mesmerized. Even our old (to us) instrumentation was light years ahead of theirs. A look at our roller system in the back had them yammering to each other accompanied by non-stop pointing and gesturing.
But those Commies could bargain. We had some items they wanted and they had genuine Russian hooch. We swapped several bottles of their vodka for our blue jeans and Marlboros. When we left Calcutta, we were a little wiser in international relations, and a few bottles of Russian vodka richer.
We spent six weeks in India and as bad as conditions were, they were the fastest six weeks of my life.
We completed our mission to India in the summer of 1971. Hostilities against the Bangladeshi separatists continued through the fall.
On December 3, 1971, Pakistan launched pre-emptive air strikes on 11 Indian airbases. This caused India to declare war on Pakistan and to enter the conflict on the side of the separatists. The resulting India-Pakistan War lasted 13 days, one of the shortest wars in history. During these 13 days, Indian and Pakistani forces clashed on both the eastern and western fronts. The war came to an abrupt end after the Eastern Command of the Pakistani Armed Forces signed the instrument of surrender on December 16, 1971. This marked the birth of the new nation of Bangladesh.
The statistics of this struggle for independence are shocking. Between 90,000 and 93,000 members of the Pakistani Armed Forces were taken as prisoners of war by the Indian Army. As many as three million civilians were killed in this conflict. It is estimated that the Pakistani Armed Forces raped up to 400,000 Bengali women. Eight to ten million people fled the country seeking refuge in India.
Our mission to India saved thousands of lives but we all felt unsatisfied, not because of those we helped, but for those we could not.
Chapter 6
When it came time to leave India the hot topic of discussion was: which way do we go? Back west the way we came, or continue east and make a complete circuit of the globe. Naturally, all us young guys wanted to go east just to see the places we hadn’t been. We finally won out and headed east to the states.
After careful planning, the navigators came up with an itinerary for our return. The first stop would be U-Tapao Air Base Thailand, then Yakota Air Base, Japan, Elmendorf AFB, Alaska and finally Pope.
Before leaving India, we had to complete the one mission that every red-blooded American pilot was compelled to do: shop for souvenirs. In addition to the stuff we had already picked up in Spain and Italy we added Indian room screens. These were beautiful mahogany, tri-fold room divider screens, inlaid with brass on one side and ivory on the other. This was definitely a must have item for every C-130 pilot’s home. Plus, it went nicely with the sitar — which I now knew how to hold. Space was getting tight on our airplanes: globe bars, guitars, sitars, room screens, silks, paintings and carvings all had to go somewhere. After the souvenirs were loaded, off we went to Thailand.
U-Tapao Air Base, Thailand, about 90 miles southeast of Bangkok, was beautifully situated on the Gulf of Siam and the first stop on the road home. We had been away from home for over six weeks and we were all eager to get back to our families. But all of us wanted to see Thailand. Those of us who had not been there heard all the stories from the old salts about the food, the weather and most important of all, Thai women. Thai women were beautiful, friendly, mysterious and eager to meet American airmen. Six weeks of living in hellhole conditions without the benefit of female companionship was coming to a welcome close. Irv had been talking non-stop for the last two weeks about the charms of the oriental woman. Adding a note of caution, and throwing a bucket of cold water on the whole discussion was our Flight Surgeon, Dr. “Shaky” Akers.
Shaky got his moniker while on a previous rotation to Europe with the squadron. It seems some of the boys got a little frisky one night and pushed over a coke machine. As luck would have it, one of the young Captains was pinned under it. The Captain came out unscathed except for an ugly gash on his forearm. Since it was two o’clock in the morning, with alcohol involved, the guys decided to take him directly to Dr. Akers’ room, rather than the base ER. The Doc was unnerved by the whole incident and preceded to stitch up the coke combatant in front of eight witnesses. Maybe it was his rude awakening or just the hooting and loud farting noises from the crowd, but Doc shook as he stitched up the Captain. Hence the name: “Shaky” Akers.
Every time Irv told a story about the magical Thai women he had experienced, Shaky would counter with a gonorrhea-from-hell horror story that was guaranteed to shrink your manhood. These discussions usually occurred while sitting in our Indian O club and consuming large quantities of Indian beer.
Young pilots in those days were decidedly different than today’s group. We grew up in the sixties. In the civilian world, it was the era of Woodstock, free love, and smoking dope. As military pilots we had to keep our hair short. None of us would dare to smoke dope. We couldn’t afford to lose our wings and get dishonorably discharged. But we loved the music: Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, The Beatles, and The Stones. While we stayed away from the dope, the free love part appealed to some.