Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

if you’ve managed to keep the same call sign while flying in three different theaters
(like Europe, the Far East, etc.) then it’s yours to keep. Third, and most common, if
you really hate a call sign then it’s probably also yours for life.
I was named Two Dogs in loose reference to an old joke about how American
Indians name their children. (“Why do you ask, Two Dogs Fucking in the Night”)
You see, I suntan to a deep reddish brown and my nose is beaked, so it kind of
made sense in the Tinto haze on that sultry Spanish night in the gutter. Hey, there
are definitely worse things to be called. Like Homer, Kraken, or Moto (“Master of
the Obvious”). Anyway, it stuck. Honestly, at that stage of the night, I wouldn’t
have cared if they’d named me Cindy, as long as it got me back to the Officer’s
Quarters and my toilet any sooner.
At least once during the trip, there would be a mass exodus to the Spanish
Riviera—Costa Brava. Americans with wild, long shorts and Europeans wearing
extra-small Speedos would mix on topless beaches, burn in the sun, and watch girls.
I’d like to say the beaches were filled with young Penthouse Pet types, but it just
wasn’t true. There’s really nothing like a saggy, half-naked, middle-aged German
housewife to kill the picture. Still, nothing’s perfect.
We’d also have to spend at least two days up at Bardenas Range in the north of
Spain. A qualified fighter pilot had to act as the Range Control Officer (RCO), a
duty that inevitably fell to the lieutenants and younger captains. The RCO was
there as the approval authority for aircraft to drop bombs and to strafe with their
cannons. He was also on hand to deal with aircraft emergencies and to officially
score the bombs that each pilot dropped. This was a big deal, since Mission
Qualification was the life blood of a fighter squadron. That and Jeremiah Weed
whiskey.
The Air Force had a detachment permanently assigned at the range to maintain
targets, scoring equipment, and facilities. They all seemed to be Hispanic and loved
being up there where they could speak the mother tongue. The senior sergeant was
a guy named Vic. I never knew his last name, but we always said “stick with Vic.”
Vic would shuttle us around, take us out to dinner and to see the sights. He also
helped perform one of the more harebrained stunts in my short career. Running
with the bulls in Pamplona.
Five hundred years ago, the merchants of Navarre sold their cattle at a market
in Pamplona. They would move the beasts through the narrow streets to holding
pens and await the sale. To speed things up, they’d “run” the animals through the
streets. Eventually, some young, brainless Alpha-male types, undoubtedly fortified
by Tinto, decided to see if they could outrun the bulls. Over time this became a rite