CHAPTER 1
If you have ever been in a Holiday Inn Bar, you have been in them all. At 2:00 in the afternoon when the bar tender was unlocking the door, I was walking by. "Why not!" I said as I walked in.
While sipping on a stale, overpriced beer out of a tall glass, a couple of other people walked in. They all appeared to be regulars from the greetings given by the bartender. I just sat there with nothing to do. My traveling partner was still in bed. I guess he was suffering with the world's biggest hangover.
We had been boozing and whoring for almost a year. We had gotten lucky and won the "BIG LOTTERY" of 83 million in Texas the year before. I had kept my mouth shut, went to a lawyer, made sure my wife of 40 years, our grown kids, and all the grandkids were taken care of for life.
Immediately thereafter I went bumming, in style. A big motor home with two drivers so we could keep that sucker rolling. We had a hard time finding two female drivers with the right type of license.
My lawyer made me run everything through him. "Big tits do not a bus driver make", Max the Mouth Piece yelled at me. I have to say that Max is one of the few honest lawyers I have ever known. He charges the shit out of me, but he keeps his word.
"And why not? You ever have seen them drive a bus?" I asked. But I knew he was right.
"Yes, I have" he screamed. "And I am still trying to settle everything with the two guys that the two blonde bimbos ran over making the turn off IH-10
a couple of days ago. It is a good thing the drivers were not hurt. I had to promise them a new pickup each for a signed release from them. They are at the dealers right now picking them out. Do you know the price of a new Ford Diesel?"
I noticed that those veins in his neck stick out a lot when he talks to me.
Here I am 60 years old and he talks to me like my daddy would if he were still alive. He is right though. I knew I was too drunk to drive that big Greyhound looking thing. Bart was in the back puking, so what were my options? Let one of the bimbos drive the bus? I can't even remember where we found them.
One of them told me she used to live with a truck driver, so that had been good enough for me. Away we went, out of the parking lot of a "Gentleman's Club," up on the west bound ramp of IH-10 on the eastside of Houston, Texas. We made it across town okay. The Bimbos did okay while I was in the back trying to make myself a vodka martini. I gave the one driving instructions to take us to the Wal-Mart on the west side of Houston. I told them we had to stop and get supplies for a trip Bart and I had planned. That is when things turned to shit.
"Get off here", I hollered as I felt the bus swerve to the right.... There was a terrible sound on the right side of the bus. Even Bart stopped puking cheap wine long enough to open the bathroom door.
"What the fu__!" Bart said over the screech of metal. And then a second screech and grind as the bus made a skidding stop.
I looked outside. There was the remains of a pickup smashed against the cement guardrail. I got out and looked. Here came two very pissed off individuals in hardhats... looking directly at me.
I knew the drill. Say nothing. Called Maximillian Guerra, Esquire, Attorney At Law. I ran it down to him what had happened and he hung up and told me to stay in the bus and not say a word. He called back and wanted to know EXACTLY where we were. I told him we were on an exit west of Houston and the two guys banging on the door had hard hats on that said "International Lighting Company, INC". Houston. There was blood in their eyes. Mine.
"That's great!" yelled Max the Mouth Piece. "What do you mean `GREAT',", I said.
"The owner of the company and I went to college together. Let me make a call" and he hung up.
I left the phone on and waited about fifteen minutes and the phone rang. "Yo", I said.
"Charlie, ask out the door if either one of the guys trying to get in is named Steve Riley" said Max in a very tired voice.
"Yo, ... any body named Steve Riley?" I shouted over the crowd noise. Several of his buddies had shown up too.
"Yeah, I `m Riley. What's it to you Shit Head. How did you know?" The biggest of them all shouted back.
"Yup, there is a Steve Riley here" I said in the phone to Max. "Put him on" he said.
"What? You want me to go out there?" I said. I then noticed that the two bimbos were leaning out the window on the driver's side giving all the boys an eyeball of tits. At least it kept them off Bart and me.
"NO! NO! NO! Just hand him the phone through the door. Any cops showed up yet?" Max asked.
"Nope"
"Yo! Steve. Its for you." I said "What kind of shit is this? You know my name and now you trying to tell me I am wanted on the phone. What kind of shit is this?" As he took a large piece of two-by-four and attempted to pry open a window.
"He don't wan...." I started to say.
"I have his boss on the phone on conference call.... tell him it is Ben Price calling and please talk to him".... groaned Max.
"Hey, Ben Price wants to talk to you." I said. And then all of a sudden things got quiet. Steve Riley looked at me strangely ... took the phone and walked away from the bus towards the front and stood in the lights with one hand over his left ear while talking. After a few seconds, he came back ... tossed the phone back up to me in the bus and said, "You got a deal".
"He said you got a deal. What deal?" I asked. That was when I was told I had just bought two new pickups.
A few minutes later, I felt like we could open the door of the bus without being dragged out and stoned. I opened the door and five or six guys all wearing hard hats and T-shirts with "International Lighting Company, INC Houston" got on. All of them were scoping out the bimbos while Bart and I got off the bus and walked over to the Wal-Mart parking lot. As luck would have it, a taxi was dropping someone off. Bart and I jumped in and said "Hyatt Regency, please."
The driver turned and looked at us. It was 7:00 AM and we looked and smelled like bums. I handed him a $100.00 bill, he smiled and away we went.
So, the next day Max called me about hiring two drivers. The bus had minor repairs that could be fixed in a week in Dallas.
He hired me two drivers alright. Not bad looking, a little rough around the edges, quiet types. Great drivers, but they did not smile. He made me promise that Bart and I would leave the "hired help" alone. We did. They were gay and we didn't know it until we had been on the road for about a couple of months later when we got the bus back. Bart comes up with a black eye he never did explain.
"That sorry piece of shit, signed a years contract with them two at six figures and per diem," I said to Bart Duffy, my traveling companion. Max was looking after my best interest. I got to admit they were good at their jobs ... the bus was always clean inside and out ... and they were Johnny on the Spot. Good mechanics too. Maybe, Max knew what he was doing after all.
My "partner in crime" was an old Navy buddy of mine ... we had both been with Inshore Warfare Group Pacific. We were not SEALS in any way shape or form ... those guys were good.... we were not sea going sailors either. In fact we had been "McHale's Navy" type all the years we were in the Navy, but we kept the brass happy by doing things that were "not Navy" when the others could not find rules to follow, so they left us alone. The Navy Department gave an audible sigh when we Bart and I retired. No ceremony. No nothing. I just threw the wife and three kids in the station wagon and headed back to Texas.
We trained dogs in the Navy. Oh, did I not mention that? Well, I did. Met Bart Duffy while doing hair brained things with dogs and parachutes at the Navel Test Station, El Centro, California. Bart was the Master Chief of the Parachute loft. We used an R4D to jump out of a plane with a dog strapped to us. Bad idea. We had the dog in a safe strap, but Bart figured with our weight and the weight of the dog, air temperature being hot and thin that we needed a better idea.
"O.K. Chief, what you got in mind," I said.
Now, Bart was the Chief Rigger too. He knew his business, but I did not recognize it at that time. We were both young bucks who had all the answers in those days and I bet we looked like two Bantie roosters standing there, trying to impress each other.
Bart suggested we use a bungee cord. One end attached to the harness and one end on the dog's hoisting sling. When we jumped, the dog was strapped tight to our chest. Both of our arms were placed over the top of the dog that was strapped crossways in front of us. We did not have a reserve chute since it was supposed to be strapped to the chest where the dog was. So, we would "static jump". This means we would have the ripcord attached to the aircraft and when we jumped, the chute would be pulled open.
The plan was this: after we jumped, the chute would open. After the chute opened and we stabilized, we would release the "quick-connects" and allow the dog to be eased down on the bungee cord, which was about thirty feet long. The objective was that the dog would reach the ground first. By landing first, the dog would take the pressure off the chute and jumper, long enough to make a softer landing in an old T-type chute.
"Chief Duffy, that sounds like a great idea. Lets try it" I stated in my best "military voice".
Away we went to the parachute loft. We rigged up the dog's harnesses with a few modifications, along with the harness we were going to use. The chute was packed with special care. The bungee cords were folded back and forth and secured with the correct size thread. We dangled in the tall parachute loft over and over to make sure that everything was correct. Chief Duffy's Parachute Riggers were real pros. Stayed up all night making sure we could do it the next morning since it was going to be a calm day. Calm days in El Centro were rare for that time of year. But the "weather guessers" said it would be a good day. Chief Duffy's boss was the Air Operations Officer (AirOps) and he made arraignments for the R4D aircraft that the Air Force called a DC-3.
We were all set for the jump the next morning at dawn. All of Duffy's men and my team slept on the long riggers' tables with our heads on the chute bags. Our dogs slept on the floor beside us.
The dogs were German Shepherds. Nothing special in the breeding. In fact they were "rescued" from several places. Pounds. Backyards. And mine was a stray named "Hobo" or just "Bo" for short. "Bo" was a black shepherd with a large white patch on his chest. Solid as a rock and brave. Could not ask for more. I picked him up off the streets in National City, California at the back of a Shoney's Big Boy at 14th and National Ave. He was hanging around, probably eating out of a trash can for a living when I drove in. The kids and I were down there getting a special treat when we spotted the dog.
"BO" looked at us and we looked at him. The kids made some comment and I told them not to pet strange dogs and all that. When we came out, he was still there. He sat there as we got in the old pickup and watched. "Bo" caught my eye and something happened.
"Well, if you want to go, get in," I said and with that "Bo" jumped from the ground over the side of the old ragged `60 Chevy pickup and looked in the back window at the kids. I know he smiled a little smile. But hell, we all know dogs can't smile, don't we? Anyway, we went home.
The next day, "Bo" went to the Coronado Vet Clinic and was given all the shots a dog would need to be a working dog. "Bo" was supposed to be taken to the Military working dog kennels and processed. The U.S. Navy at that time did not use the DOD Kennels in San Antonio. There "dogs did not meet the Navy's needs" was the official reasons. The truth to the matter was the asshole running the place, some chair bound USAF major, who had been stationed at Lackland (Medina) all his career except once when he got transferred to Italy someplace. To inspect veggies for the "O" Club. This man turned out to be a wart on society's ass.
But "Bo" never did officially go the kennels in Imperial Beach Radio Communications Station. He lived with the family and slept with the kids on the bed.
Back at El Centro we got up early and went to the flight line for a briefing. Three teams would jump with dogs. One team member was a Photographers Mate, Second Class named "Casey" (what else) Jones. Casey was going to photograph everything he could and had lined up a few of the assigned base photographers to use the long lenses out on the test jump area to make moving pictures.
Now, remember this is back a long time before VCR cameras were even thought of. These were big and bulky type cameras. But Casey would do it.
"Bo" and the others dogs had been strapped into their canvas "jump suits" and then after being airborne, they were strapped to us with the help of Bart Duffy's crew. "Bo" went along with everything real well. All three of the dogs were very "sociable" dogs and had no problem with all the noise.
To the best of my knowledge this was the first time any of the dogs had ever flown. They did just great.
The takeoff was at dawn, very dramatic looking with the blue flames from the Pratt & Whitney 1300 engines belching blue flames as the "Gooney Bird" struggles to get airborne. Dawn was coming up over the dessert and we were a little chilly. The dogs are laying up over the wing spars so the engine sync "wall" will not be on top of us.
Finally the throttles start coming back to cruise speed and we can see out the square windows while setting on canvas folding "troop seats", which meant we must be getting close. The Test Range rules state that it must be full light to make an experimental jump of this type. And since the pilot was also our Air Ops. Boss, we waited till dawn.
The three of us are setting there, trying to look calm as we look at each other every so often. Here I am, the Team Leader, "what the fuck did I get us into this time?" thoughts going through my head. But the idea is great. While we were in Viet Nam a few months before, we wanted to be "inserted" to do some "blood tracking" for a sniper team. But the Hueys were noisy and I was not in the Infantry. But that is how we went in country. A place where myself and the two other dog handlers just "dropped away" from an Army "leg" Company sized patrol and lay in the bush while they went past. The "shooters" dropped off with us along with the spotters and a couple of automatic weapons men we had hand-picked from an Army group we knew. I do not think anyone except the First Sgt. even knew we were there or when we dropped out. We were dressed in OD fatigue uniforms and looked like the rest, except we had no flashings or markings of any kind. Just like we wanted it, we were "just there".
I have to say our U.S. Army counterparts were great people. They helped with logistics (dog food and supplies) and even brought the beer to the hooch so we could drink. We never left our dogs unattended.
After making that long walk into the bush the next morning, I said, "There has to be a better way."
So now comes the bright idea of Charlie Gray, that's me, to have a "parachute dawg team." So the idea was born.
Now, you have to understand that you do not go and do things like this on a whim. The U. S. Navy has "channels" and official paperwork to do. So we did it.
I wrote (or Frankie Roberts, the Yeoman wrote) a long mega page "proposal" to the Commander of the Naval Air Forces Pacific Fleet, a three star admiral in charge of all navy airplanes (see, we are thinking of transportation too) in the Pacific Ocean. The very last page of the proposal I wrote "Unless otherwise directed, I will commence this experimental canine program under the direction of ComNavAirPac (Code 049) as soon as possible"... submitted: Charles P. Gray, Senior Chief Petty Officer, USN.
I took the finished document to the "Code 049", a Navy Commander named Johnson. Commander Johnson was an old "war horse" who had done several tours in Viet Nam on carriers in the mid-60, He was a real live hero, an A4D driver. This job he had as Code 049 was a reward. So he did not get excited about the "petty shit" as he always said.
