I didn't get involved in the actual combat because that would've been too touchy, but I did fly around and pick up shot-down Indian pilots and take them back to prisoner-of-war camps for questioning. I interviewed them about the equipment they had been flying and the tactics their Soviet advisers taught them to use. I wore a uniform or flying suit all the time, and it was amusing when those Indians saw my name tag and asked, "Are you the Yeager who broke the sound barrier?" They couldn't believe I was in Pakistan or understand what I was doing there. I told them, "I'm the American Defense Rep here. That's what I'm doing."
India flew numerous raids against the Pakistani air fields with brand new SU-7 bombers being escorted in with MiG 21s. On one of those raids, they clobbered my small Beech Queen Air that had U.S. Army markings and a big American flag painted on the tail. I had it parked at the Islamabad airport, and I remember sitting on my front porch on the second day of the war, thinking that maybe I ought to move that airplane down to the Iranian border, out of range of the Indian bombers, when the damned air raid siren went off, and a couple of Indian jets came streaking in overhead. A moment later, I saw a column of black smoke rising from the air field. My Beech Queen was totaled. It was the Indian way of giving Uncle Sam the finger.
I stayed on in Pakistan for more than a year after the war ended, and it was one of the most enjoyable times of my life. From 1972 until we came home in March 1973, I spent most of my time flying in an F-86 Sabre with the Pakistani fighter outfits. I dearly loved the Sabre, almost as much as I enjoyed the P-5 I Mustang from World War II days. It was a terrific airplane to fly, and I took one to see K-2, the great mountain of Pakistan and the second highest mountain in the world, about an hour's flight away at over 28,000 feet.
It's a fabulous peak, as awesome and beautiful as any on earth, located in the middle of a high range that runs the length of the Chinese-Pakistani border. We actually crossed over into China to get there, and I've got some pictures of me in my cockpit right smack up against the summit. I made two or three trips up to K-2-real highlights. I also did some bighorn sheep hunting in the Himalayan foothills. Susie owned a little Arabian mare. She took her horse when I went hunting and actually learned some of the Urdu language of the mountain people.
Mumtaz Hussain was a village chief I got to know very well because his village was in good sheep hunting country. One morning, shortly after dawn, I drove up and noticed quite a few villagers standing around in mourning dress. I was told that during the night the grandmother of Mumtaz's wife had died. She was a woman of very high standing in the village, and Mumtaz said this meant he had to go into forty days and nights of mourning. I remembered that forty days and nights bit from Sunday school, so I told Mumtaz that out of respect for his wife's grandmother I would cancel my hunting that day. "Oh, no," he said, "you are my guest, and it would grieve me if you did not hunt this day."
So, I went on out in the desert with the shikari, the guide, hunting sheep and chucker partridge, and came back late that afternoon. By then all two hundred men in the village were seated in a big circle in the village square, all in mourning. Mumtaz was at the head. They drank tea and gossiped, but every few minutes one of the villagers would hold up his hand and say, "Let us pray for the old woman." They'd pray for about ten seconds and go back to their tea and talk. Nearby were steaming pots of curried rice, barbecued goat and sheep. A visitor would be invited to eat and drink tea with them and join in the ten second prayers
I returned the next weekend to see how Mumtaz was doing in his mourning, and I took Susie with me. This was during the war, and she was afraid her mare would be killed by the bombing and strafing, so I said, "Okay, we'll see if Malik Atta will take your mare and care for her." Malik Atta was Mumtaz's nephew and raised the most beautiful stallions I have ever seen. In Pakistan, men only rode stallions. No way they'd even climb up on a gelding, much less a mare.
We drove to the village, and I saw that the mourning circle of villagers was still intact, with more than thirty days and nights still to go. I got out of the car and told Susie to go over to Mrs. Mumtaz's house. In well-to-do families, the woman had her own house and her own women servants, while the men had their own houses and male servants. I didn't want Susie to be exposed to the tribesmen because they had never seen a Western girl before. However Mumtaz came down the steps and took her and said, "No, Susie come with me."
He led her up on the platform of the village square where the two hundred men all sat visiting and drinking tea, and when they saw Susie, they all stood up and bowed to her. Then each of them came up and shook her hand. Through me, they had heard a lot about her and knew she loved to ride. She had on jeans, boots, and a blouse and scarf because she had planned to ride her mare, but Mumtaz led her to the head chair and sat her down on his right. One of the men brought her some tea and they all stood there, gazing at her for five minutes. They couldn't take their eves off her. It was very unusual for the tribe to see a girl without a veil over her face, especially a Western girl dressed as she was.
Finally I told Mumtaz I thought it best for Susie to go over to Mrs. Mumtaz's house because then I could visit with him and the rest of my friends in the village. He agreed. When it came time to leave we sent for Susie. She got in the car, and on the way home she chuckled about the scene at Mrs. Mumtaz's house. About fifty women were sitting around drinking tea and socializing while a couple of professional mourners wailed loud and long. She said it just about drove her nuts listening to these pro mourners screeching and wailing. The rest of the women, including Mrs. Mumtaz, just ignored them. In Susie's opinion, the men in the village had the better deal. They prayed for ten seconds every few minutes, but they didn't have to listen to all that wailing.
Malik Atta sent a stableboy to fetch Susie's mare, and he rode her back to the village, a distance of fifty miles.
THE FLYING GENERAL
Chuck and Glennis came back out to the desert in 1973. Chuck was stationed at Norton, just down the dusty old trail from Edwards. His new assignment was safety director of the Air Force, which made him, m effect, the only general officer who was allowed to pilot an airplane. Of course, like all generals, he had to have a pilot along with him, but Yeager never in his life sat in the second seat. He argued with the Pentagon, "Look, how in hell can I be in charge of Air Force safety if I can't fly airplanes myself to see if they are safe?" So, he was the exception to the rule and loved every minute of it.
He traveled constantly, going around to all the bases to hold safety inspections, and when he got to where my son was stationed, he asked for him to fly in the cockpit with him. He said, "I hear Captain Anderson is one of your best young pilots." Jim didn't know what in hell was happening when he was ordered to go fly with some general. When he saw it was Chuck, he burst out laughing. But Chuck told me, "Hey, ol' Jim can really fly."
I know he had had his heart set on his son Don becoming a pilot, but Don really wasn't that interested, and although it pained Chuck a lot when Don couldn't get into the Air Force Academy because of some minor thing with his eyes, he eventually saw the light about it. He told me, "Hell, I went to test pilot school with Jimmy Doolittle, Jr., and I remember the pressure on that guy trying to live up to his dad's reputation. Same thing would've happened to Don. No matter what he would've done, people would expect him to do as much as me, and there was no way, because those kinds of opportunities are long gone." My son Jim didn't have the famous father problem. I was only "famous" as Chuck's friend.