Moon

Captain Bill Collier

After returning from Vietnam where I flew H-34 helicopters, I was based at the Marine Corps Air Station, Tustin, CA. This base is well known for its huge hangars that housed blimps before and during World War II. Either of these hangars can swallow up the GOODYEAR Blimp and still have lots of room left. Another acronym for this base is LIA, which stands for “Lighter than Air.” Both these huge hangars are still there as of my last visit in 2016, surrounded by homes where vast fields of pepper plants used to grow.

I was assigned to be the Assistant Operations Officer of a Marine Corps Air Group, newly created to fill the needs of Vietnam. Realizing that the word “officer” meant, “one who works in an office,” I escaped down to the working squadrons whenever I could, to train the new guys just out of Navy flight school headed for Vietnam. I wanted to teach them what I learned in the war and give them skills that might keep them alive. I am pleased to say that years later, one of my students thanked me for teaching him tactics that, he said, kept him alive in the war.

One of the fun things we senior pilots did was take the new guys on long trips called “Cross Countries” for long-distance navigation experience. This entailed flying as far as San Francisco, Phoenix, or Sacramento. We never flew further because our old, tired H-34s were prone to break down, and it was difficult to repair and retrieve one much further away. Going to Phoenix we refueled at Marine Corps Air Station, Yuma, and on the way to San Francisco, we usually refueled at USN Jet Base at Lemoore in California’s Central Valley. At our destinations, we stayed over at nearby military bases for fuel and security reasons.

Of course, as we were mostly single males, we always tried to find the hot disco action in whatever city we visited. We always had a great time. I felt it was essential that the young pilots realize that flying was not always dry, dusty checklists and military procedures.

After one particularly arduous mission to San Francisco, tired and hungover, we departed from the US Army airport at Chrissy Field in the Presidio, flew under the Golden Gate Bridge, stayed low and buzzed the local

nude beach just south of Pacifica, then proceeded south along the coast, enjoying the spectacular scenery. We passed Santa Cruz, Monterey Bay, Big Sur, Hearst Castle, Moro Bay and San Luis Obispo. After refueling at Vandenburg Air Force Base, we called the tower and departed southbound. Twenty minutes before we would penetrate the busy airspace of the Los Angeles basin, I was bored, so I told my co-pilot sitting to my left, “You got it,” words every pilot loves to hear ... this means he got to fly the aircraft.

Our wingman was close, right off our right side. Ignoring the radios, I gave him the military aviation hand signal to cross over to the other side of my aircraft, to fly on our left side. I then unstrapped from my safely belt and shoulder harness, and very carefully ... as not to knock against any of the controls of the helicopter ... I halfway stood up, unzipped my flight coveralls, and pulled them, along with my boxer shorts, down below my knees. Then I told the copilot to again give our wingman the cross-over signal.

As the other helicopter flew across our tail and got into position close on our right side, I held on to secure parts of the window opening and stuck my bare bottom out the pilot’s side window, shooting the other crew an air-to-air full moon.