Naval Launcher Evaluation

Naval Launcher Evaluation by Ken Fraser Early 1958 Good generator buddy Robert E Gottschall and myself would hear rumors about different things and those in the top secret category were quietly passed between ourselves: only when no one else was nearby. I always knew when he had a good one because of the slight difference in his walk, when he spoke his head was just a little tilted to the right and the words came from the right side of his mouth, slow and deliberate. When it was really good, after glancing around, just above whisper he would start with; "Did you hear the latest?" My mind would clear and I’d reply, "No, tell me!" If it was my rumor the words were almost identical, but after glancing around I would face the ground and barely move my lips to let him know. For example, from somewhere, one of us learned that the Hercules also had a ground to ground capability and the serious knowledge was that to change it from ground to air, all that was needed was an Allen wrench. This was used to loosen a ring in the nose section, rotate it 90 to 180 deg and retighten: a few minute job because the approximately basketball diameter ring was built right in, part of the outside and once loosened, turned with ease. Also, the Herc booster was simply four Ajax boosters strapped together and the Herc had an accurate ground to air range five or six times an Ajax. The range was so great because of the huge sustainer motor. When we learned about a, ’Zeus Project ‘, our reaction was close to that of having seen Buck Rogers. Most of our rumors were not this intense, but for two low, ‘low-tech‘ guys, this was very heavy stuff, and we would six-pack about all of this as often as we could. We would warm beer buzz-bobble and agree that we were in the midst of the latest and nothing we saw, or heard about, could be told to anyone else. And so it went, week after week, until around ?, (I’m not sure when) Robert E(I think it was he) told me there was a rumor that could not be believed and this was that RCAT, ORC, had been slated to test and evaluate a new type of launcher, that soon we were to get one of only three existing and this was a most important assignment: it was straight from the Pentagon through White Sands. Excellent results would have major impact on future naval ship design and near future use on present vessels. Wow!! Who else could stretch its limits except us, but doing all this for the Navy?? It didn’t sound right, and as best we could six-pack, the major of many loose ends was that this was too secret/important for ORC and would be handled by White Sands proper if such a launcher existed. The only guys that knew anything about everything, and some knew more than that, were in the radar vans with secret and top secret clearances: they never told us anything except when they jawed about the quality of our electricity causing a lot of their problems. The Launch Crew couldn’t care less about anything that happened, the Target Techies let on they knew nothing and all we could do was make the direct approach to the ’Old Army’ NCOs. --Yes, there was a prototype launcher on its way: yes, it belonged to the navy: yes, they should test their own new gear but were paying the army because we had the operating facility and personnel needed: yes, it might be dangerous: yes, we didn’t have the time but this could be done on weekends if ordered: yes, expensive, about $250,000: yes, it meant a lot to the navy: yes, and to the army: yes, the army was getting the results for free and: "Shut up, wait till it gets here and we’ll do as ordered".-- These guys had seen it all before. Good Generator Buddy and I let it lie and in not too many days everyone was told the Test Prototype Launcher would arrive soon. What perked the whole camp was that we were to be ready to look our sharpest because there was a real Hollywood film crew coming out just to film the tests. Oh, indeed, this had to be a good one. The ’Old Army Guys’ weren’t impressed even a little bit: the responsibility was right on them and the other NCO’s and their attitude towards a Hollywood film crew was the same as they had towards the local big ranchers*. Maybe worse. Such nonchalance, such sophisticated disinterest prevailed amongst the Rodents and when this vaunted launcher arrived, meaning the Hollywood guys had to be close, the order to look sharp was not truly necessary. So much, seeming non-real, to tell you. The Navy launcher used a similar ‘Cat cart as the JATO one and the rail was maybe 1/5 shorter. The impacting difference was the mode of propulsion. Resting close to the ground at the start end, hugging the rail, were two objects each about the size of two foot lockers stuck together, but more as square and with rounded corners. With the coil spring suspension and tires a little forward, they were each one on a side and looked like large misplaced saddlebags. These were two V4 gas drive special air compressors that pressurized a reservoir which fed a compressed air mechanism which pushed the ’Cat cart, thus, effecting a launch. Size, weight and location of all was just right because the teeter-totter effect firmly placed the rail’s snout at the optimum angle. Ingenious, joyful engineering. 250,000. 1957 dollars?!! For downsizing a real launcher, adding two air compressors with a pusher of sorts, etc??? (and rod?).* All of that doesn’t matter very much because the navy was paying the bills and their launchers were, in fact, catapults. During the first day, all those interested went out and satisfied their curiosity: some looked at the mechanics/engineering, but most wanted to see what could cost all of that money. The Launch Crew received their OJT and I’m not sure but I think the film crew got there later that day. Anyway, late the next morning, all was almost ready for the first launch: the ’Cat in place on the trolley, generators rumbling, radars peaked, controllers anxious, Launch Crew giving its best ’big deal’ attitude, and the sharpest bunch of troopers you ever would see nonchalantly loafing about. (my boots had three layers of shine). Enthralled, leaning with arms folded on the brains end of a Hobart generator, I watched as the Launch Crew pumped up the contrivance, let this first ’ Cat, engine and prop yowling at peaked rpm, dramatically sit a long time, and then someone tripped the trigger. Ed, the total of the Hollywood 'crew' was so unreal I walked in about a 50 yd radius semicircle to make sure hidden film crews weren't making a movie within a movie. I checked all through the boonies. If I did not see this I would not have believed it. The director was so garishly garbed he flashed like a rain forest caterpillar. The next day, pumped up to past max pressure, this thing exploded with a "crack" that hurt my ears and a piece went ’whoosh, whooshu’ (low frequency sound), close enough I could feel a breeze on the right side of my face. I looked over my right shoulder, saw something bounce for about 10ft maybe 25 yards away. It was one of the oil sight glass made up mostly of steel flange and ’round as big as a softball. Four launch crew guys were standing within 5 feet, two on each side, and not one was hurt.

Killed - Twice

Killed - Twice by Ralph Hatzenbeler Ken, I just read your story about a Nike coming down. That happened to me and a couple guys when we were due West of Oscura. I believe it was on a Saturday and we were flying RCATS, but they weren't shooting at them: at least thats what they told us. ('they' - Red Canyon) We were out just for the drive and had no intention of picking up any targets and ran into a a guy who was driving a water truck, or grader, can't remember. We could hear an RCAT all of a sudden and we looked up and saw the trail of a Nike coming at the 'Cat. It hit the target, and the target was coming down on the chute, right over the top of us: boy, I thought this was going to be easy, if I planned it right I could of put the truck under it before it hit the ground. We were standing there waiting, licking our lips as this was going to be easy, and no one at camp was going to believe this. All of a sudden we looked up and we could see the con trail of another Nike coming at the Cat on its chute: that Nike exploded just above us and we all headed for the duce. We waited, and in a few seconds here comes pieces of the 'Cat and what is left of the Nike, falling all around us. We picked up what was left of the 'Cat and headed back to camp To us, it was just another day at Oscura. Hatz. Kens note - Hatz is referring to the story, "Two Greenhorns" When I edit, I try to stay close to the original words. Comment from Technical Purists is welcome!

Hatz' JATO

Hatz's JATO by Ralph Hatzenbeler Ken, This happened maybe late 57 or early 58. Three or four of us were laying around the barracks, talking about the good time we had at the Atomic Bar the night before: we were broke, half sick and very bored. Then, I remembered about all the round mine air shafts we had seen out on the range, when we were out picking up targets: at least those targets that the thieves from Red Canyon hadn't stolen. Most of the shaft holes were steel lined, about the same size across as a Jato Bottle, (6 inches-?) and we got to talking how far would a Jato go if we were to lower one down and set it off. "Great", I told them, "lets try it". "The four of us got a duce, went out to the launch area, picked out a bottle, some wire and a plunger, and headed out to find an air shaft. If I remember, we headed North from camp and it took a while, but we found one. We took all the gear, went over to the hole, wired up the Jato, slowly lowered the Jato down into the shaft, ran the wire about ten or fifteen feet from the hole and hooked it up to the plunger. Now Ken, I had made a few trips up to RC to watch them fire a few Nikes: when they touch that button, those missiles are gone. The point I'm trying to make is, when we touched off the Jato I think it left as fast as a nike would. "It went up out of sight, and what goes up has to come down and the four of us ran for the truck and waited: nothing happened. Only God knows how high it went and where it came down! We got the plunger, got in the truck and headed for camp where we went to the launch area, dropped off the plunger and parked the truck. "Back in the barracks we talked about the good time we had at the Atomic Bar the night before and we quietly swore to each other that we would never talk to anyone about what we had done. That was almost 45 years ago. "Now, if anyone thought they had seen a UFO I'm sure it was that Jato. "Hatz Kens Note -- When Hatz says "range", he includes the mountain foothills on the west side of then Oscura Range and other hills that are wherever. The "mine air shafts" could be just that, but are possibly weapons test bores, installed by the military for seismic readings, (anybody know?)

The Mighty RCAT

The Mighty RCAT by Ben Allgor One Friday night during my tour at Red Canyon Range Camp, I was on K.P. while the mess hall was held open far into the night so that one unit could have dinner after they completed the firing of their three missiles (which was unsuccessful). They had been trying since Monday to get their system and missiles ready to fire so they had apparently had many problems. During and after this long wait, I wrote this short poem about the events. The Mighty RCAT It's Friday night, three missiles unfired. The K.P.s are waiting the K.P.s are tired. The mighty Nike arose with a thunderous roar; A missile was fired from launcher four. The power arose to make men free; And tumbled down on Area Three. It's Friday night, two missiles unfired. The K.P.s are waiting the K.P.s are tired. A crimson shaft arose in the night; The Nike began its deadly flight. A burst appeared way off in the sky; The target unharmed continued to fly. It's Friday night, one missile unfired. The K.P.s are waiting the K.P.s are tired. A button was pressed. A Nike was fired. A colonel got drunk. A captain retired. Off in the distance, in the still of the night; "To hell with you all. I'm still in flight." Ben Allgor -- C. Ben Allgor, PE Consulting in electronics, measurement, embedded systems. mailto: benallgor@ieee.org Tel/fax: 616-657-4871

The Stomper

The Stomper by Ken Fraser Oscura Range Camp, Aug or Sept weekend, '57 I was walking in the latrine roof's overhang shade, maybe 50 yards 'due east' of my barracks and was near the 10ft wide doorless entrance when I noticed some motion way out and south of myself. I looked over my right shoulder and saw a fatigue wearing average sized GI jumping straight into the air and coming down hard, quickly, again and again. He was in the hot midday sun just past the RCAT Arctic Hut, (ha, ha), day room, (laugh again), building, half between it and the frame building across the way. Hurrying my stride I tried to figure out why he was doing this because the distance made details difficult. Looking around and not seeing anyone else, I did a fast, hard left through the doorway and went to the northern trough wall so I would be far into the building and out of his sight. I feared he was in an uncontrollable, physically violent frustrated mood and didn't want him to see me and start this all over again: after a few more stomps he simply ceased and casually walked out of sight behind the day room. Waiting and watching for a good two minutes in case he came back for more, my curiosity overcame my sensible caution and I had to trip to that place to find out the whatevers. Inconspicuously glancing to my right as I did an easy stroll, when closer I saw sort of a lump on the flat, barren, dusty ground and dropped the fake to save time. Damn. There lay a rattlesnake, not big, not small, not stretched out but not crooked either, with it's head plus a couple of inches busted up pretty good. Stopping a safe stride short I carefully walked around it and standing still on it's north side made my observations. The lower jaw was skewed to the left around 3/16", it's short fangs each on about a 45, the left eye glazed beady and the left top fang, 3/4" (?), seemed normal. The pinkish glistening right side was different with it's eye hanging loosely on a whitish thick thread and the upper fang sticking straight out front. The head itself was sort of flattened and parts of the maybe three foot long and couple of inches wide body were out of synch with the rest: on the end was a, I guess, 2" or so rattle and after a few minutes, knowing it had to be graveyard dead I decided to take the rattles for an unwarranted trophy. I stepped forward, and not having a knife was going to pick it up behind the bad part and carry it to my barracks to show and tell the boys and then cut off the rattles. When my right hand was around 3 to 4 inches from it's head, the sneaky s.o.b. came back to life: with lower jaw flopped it snapped its head at my hand and was close to biting me with its four fangs. At the same time I unbent, I went into the air a foot or so and two feet back, took a fast long step backwards and noticed it was again still but now knew it was not dead, just beat up and setting a trap. I was so scared I couldn't breath! After I got my breathing back to near normal, I decided I couldn't go for a mop handle or some rocks because it might get away and bite someone. Besides all that, it was my turn but I didn't know what to do. Deciding to make the first move, I cautiously took small steps forward till I was within leap distance and stood absolutely still: spring back ready. It didn't do a thing but wasn't going to fool me again: No Sir! I took a really deep breath, jumped up and forward and cursing my best came down with both heels on its head. Up and down, ranting, cursing, up and down just like the first guy: I did this until the head and about six inches with it were mixed in with the dusty ground and only itty bits showing what it might have been; but now, 'twere pinkie, brownish muck. With pride I stood back for admiration time and saw to my right a staff sergeant and spec 4 from Engineer Det 6, sticking just their heads around the corner of a building with parts of their right shoulders in view. Both of them had that look on their faces and I knew they thought I was temporarily insane. Staring at them, I thought, 'Let them think what they want and to hell with the rattles!' ; they ducked back real quick and I walked behind our day room and out of sight. As I walked to my barracks and then lay on my bunk, I couldn't figure how that 'radler' could have survived the damage from the first assault: yes, and still have enough attitude to pick on me. Recalling almost too late the unheeded wise advice that a dead 'radler' can strike till sundown, (or something like that), I sought and found an ORC old-timer who told me a 'radlers' strike system, the sensory organs, nerves and necessary muscles stayed responsive until the body was cold. Aha! To this day, I wonder who the first guy was and if I were the second or third. (Copyright by Kenneth Pratt Fraser)

A REALLY BIG SNAKE

A REALLY BIG SNAKE A REALLY BIG SNAKE by Ken Fraser At Oscura, rattlesnake season OJT was never, ever walk close to a barracks or any building with a crawl space or open porch that could be a den. Never, ever round a corner close to a building: not just because you might surprise a rattlesnake but you might bump into another RCAT GI who could be in a bad mood. It didn't help to be told that when rattlesnakes shed they are with pain, blind, in a very bad mood and will follow by infrared just to bite. Foolish not to heed. "SOP": When a warm six-pack or two had to be rid of at night it was real fast out the door, get 20 - 30 feet away into the open area and turn in a circle: don't worry about the wind. It didn't help to be told that under our barracks were the most snakes because it was on the end and closest to the boonies. Want to hear something really scary: have someone stomp on the barracks floor really hard a few times and hear all those rattles. One guy was in a mean mood and wouldn't stop: They rattled all over the place, thick, edge to edge. A monster and its buddies let loose right below me. The barracks was full of us and Sgt. Lane threatened physical violence, (he could back it up), and told this stomper, "Cut that shit out" and when he didn't said, "If you want to see something pissed off and dangerous you just keep that shit up and it's gong to be me." Sgt. Lane never swore: Immediate tension, because some of the guys were enjoying the pissed of snakes and some, (me too), were on Sgt. Lane's side. The 'Stomper,' real nasty faced, looked around and I'm glad he stopped. Funny now, but not then. I'm certain this guy is Bird, now a rancher in Oregon and of course, still a good buddy of Hazard Hatz. They are going to meet half way to each other in Walla Walla and Hatz is gong to find out if Bird was in my barracks. Damn right, walla walla: sounds just like them. ;-)) [I won't tell Hatz why I have to know. This way he won't forget ] :-D Thanx, I enjoy. Ken. (Copyright by Kenneth Pratt Fraser)

The Bag

THE BAG THE BAG by Ken Fraser (Oro Grande East Camp - Late Summer - '59) The new operations pad was completed and loaded with the toughened transplants from shut down ORC, other high-tech guys, serious nco's, lots of the latest equipment and the regulars from Bliss. With all of the radar vans, acquisition radar's, air conditioners and generators, it was a busy place but I can't remember where the generators were because we had so much help I seldom got near them. For a brief time they called me a 'Section Leader' because I was an old Oscura hand, had unit seniority, kept the records and was good at passing on information and requests. That way if there was a screwup it was my fault: good system if you're not on the bottom. I spent all day doing paper work, loafing, seeking/keeping gossip to myself and gladly being put out of sight and mind: stayed away from the hard work The ops pad was on a manmade sand flattop ashphalted hill about 15 feet high, 200 ft long or so, 75 feet (?) wide and the only authentic part of the whole mess was the Operations Shack which I think was brought down from ORC: an unpainted wooden shack that was crowded when more than two were inside, built who knows when from scrap or stolen 2 by 4's, boards, planks, screening and etc. There were pigeon holes for flight documents & etc's on the back wall, a few shelves on the other walls holding coffee cups, more paper work and just scrap paper. As you entered, the radio and handle-crank phone were on the left near a waisthigh lean on piece of plywood used as a desktop and each side had a screened opening: efficient, practical, some might call it quaint. The door, also home made, was full screened and strong sprung so that it slammed with little effort like some of it's users. At the north end, the pad turned into a two lane blacktop right turn road, down a slight east slope for about a hundred yards to what was left of the old operations area: this being three sturdy, green, white trimmed, maybe eight ft square and eight feet high at the peak storage sheds, on skids, and the old operations shack, now the CQ's room and generator section office. This shack, my office, was about seven feet square, same construction as the one on the hill, but without screens, and connected to the hill's WW2 handlespinner telephone. Nestled to my office was the mess hall, a nicely built big screened affair with the floor about 2 feet off the ground and would feed maybe 30 at a turn. These buildings fronted south, about four feet apart and ran west to east with the mess hall far east. Between the 2nd and 3rd sheds some plywood had been put across, from low eave to eave, thus giving shelter from the sun: a faded olive green and dusty, hung The Bag. There were two plank benches and a couple of wooden boxes for loafing in the shade: nailed to a corner was a partly rusted small cone paper cup dispenser and beneath The Bag was a sump of sorts: this was a two foot on a side square of half buried in the sand two by fours that contained what was the richest of soils, created by the daily waterings: this soil was pitch black and so potent it bubbled stinky little geysers of it's own gas. Close by and in a different place day to day, was a dented flat gray three gallon pail used for a trash can: several times each day, myself or one of my buddies would police up the paper cups and other trash that intentionally missed when thrown at the pail. My good buddies and myself wanted as little attention as possible to The Bag operation, trying to keep it exclusively for the good guys because this was the only place at *OroGrandeEast that was a neutral let's relax and socialize center. Only one nco constantly came around: he was shrewd, short, wiry thin, tough, had dark hair, dark darting eyes, a quick mind, a cynical sense of humor and reminded me of a street urchin. The shade provided and the damp Bag with its sump gave a cool spot: if there was any air movement at all, there would be a nice little breeze coming through. When all others were busy it was nice to sit there, sip ice water, relax and look north, through and over the mesquite boonies. Being located and arranged just right, there was zero sound from the south side of the sheds, not a sign of civilization, not even a telephone pole was in view to spoil the imaginations of not being there. This was a far safer operation than ORC but it had it's moments. Two of these involved a recovery deuce and a 3/4 ton Jeep. I know they didn't make a 3/4 ton Jeep, but this was a 3/4 ton Dodge with a wannabe Jeep body and we had to call it something. The third was when an armed, misguided Hercules came right at us: memorable was the heroic, selfless actions of Msg. Lewis, who, though terrified, with intense self discipline and at great possible risk to himself, used his precious seconds to warn everyone else! One other time I have been privileged to be sheltered by such bravery and that is described in the story, "Target Coming In," when a GI charged through our barracks warning of an out of control target. So, tranquil as compared to ORC, *OrGE had the edge of tension when in operation. Anyway, around 8:30am, a bored two man detail would arrive in a Jeep carrying blocks of ice under insulating canvas covers and hauling a leaky, two wheeled, sand blasted olive drab, oval shaped perhaps 200 gallon water tank. Silently, they would walk north through the shaded little tunnel, lead man first fully opening The Bag and dumping some of the old water by pushing up the bottom and his buddy would then drop in several large chunks of ice: the first chunk would go 'k-splashed/thump' as it hit the left over water and simultaneously hard hit the bottom: the various corners of the ice block made sharp impressions through the side and bottom of the jerking bag. After tossing in two or three other chunks, which made a distinct sort of half-hollow 'thunk' sound as they hit the one below, the water detail would boringly pour in five gallon Jerry cans of water till the bag had stopped it's gentle swaying and was almost full, throw in two light brown small cookie shaped tablets that looked like radiator leak stoppers, secure the top and leave, all without saying a word. Not even a good-morning. I understood. The day had it's good start and a little after nine the troopers from the pad would mosey by for a sit down, small talk, and nice drink of ice-water. There was a bag on the pad but ours was preferred as we had seats, were concealed, and attracted the guys with attitude. They would show up in two's and three's and the occasional single drifter, grab a paper cone water cup, toss back two, three, maybe up to five good hits and each would always save a little from the last, swiftly toss that to the side with a downward slash, or splash it into the sump: depending on the macho: crumpling the cup and tossing it at the trash can, or just giving it a little flip towards same: many missed. They knew we knew they didn't give a damn and we knew they knew we didn't give a damn either. Everyone understood. The most useful days for The Bag would be Mondays, especially after payday weekend. Many would grimly approach, quickly fill and quaff down cup after cup: sometimes bumping shoulders with others crowding the bag as they flushed the hot dusty aching down their pipes. A few would hard gargle, swish and spit, giving the impression they were wanting to cleanse their mouths and throats of what they had swapped over the last day or two. And so, it went on. Finally, tired of always having to pick up after these guys, someone bashed off the cup dispenser and hung on nails several brown Bakelite coffee cups from the mess hall. This was not appreciated because it caused a wait for a cup and who would want to use a cup after the garglers, swishers and spitters: now, before each drink, a disinfecting rinse and toss: more macho. Very soon, almost everyone brought his own cup: worked out good. For more than a few days I noticed the water, even when fresh, had an unpleasant tainted taste and also the other drinkers were not as enthusiastic as they had been. When the bag was almost empty, and the water just cool, the taint was strongest: in fact, nasty. No one really paid much attention: didn't care. This passed. Now, we were wrinkling our lips and stroking the inside of our mouths with our fingers because it felt as if we had little teeny hairs in our mouths, but could never find them. This went on for days: irritating, strange, --- but, --- so what. After noon chow in front of the mess hall and holding a full cup of iced water, I was about to take a drink, looked down into the cup and noticed just an instant of a teeny glimmer. Curious, I looked into the cup from different angles and with the sun just right, saw there was what appeared to be a spider's thread about two inches long suspended near the bottom: slow, careful turning and searching revealed more of same but not as long. I was determined to find out what this was, called over one of my buddies, showed him and as he watched, using the middle finger of my left hand, I carefully, slowly drape-nurtured this 'whatsit' out of the cup and held it aloft. It looked just like a teeny little hair and unless being hit by the sun at just the proper angle it was invisible!. Without a word said, my good buddy and I quickly went to the The Bag. We reached up and assumed the top would just slip off. Not so. As often as I had watched the water detail fill the bag I didn't learn the 'trick' necessary to remove the top and my buddy and I pried, twisted, pushed, pulled and cursed without result. We were just too low-tech. Somehow, an enclosed very tough steel ring was clamped over same at the top of The Bag and made an extremely strong and tight fit. Surprisingly so, as we couldn't stick our fingers underneath to gain leverage, all at once we had it half way off and I don't remember how. It so happened that I was positioned to quickly step onto one of the benches, grab the top of The Bag, pull down and peer in. In a brief moment, my eyes adjusted to the dimness and I enjoyed a pleasant and cool dampness as I breathed in. I then first saw a thick, grayish, sickly, very fine, about 1/2 inch long hairy type growth covering the side from the surface edge of the water to, and also covering the bottom. The water was maybe 10 inches deep and for around 6 to 8 inches above that there was a darker colored gray greasy slick scum coating the sides. Repulsed, I recognized this to be some sort of a fungus or mold, immediately felt a little sickened and then saw the source of the teeny little hairs and the nasty, foul taste. Therein, suspended in the clear water about half way down, one a little above the other, bitty noses pointed north were two, -- get ready for this -- , decomposing adult kangaroo rats. They looked like identical twins. Good grief!! Shocked, I quickly looked out over the tranquil desert to clear my mind, poked my face back into The Bag and did a careful observation. I knew this was a most unique situation. Excepting for a tuft on the end of their tails and a little short furred collar around their necks, they were hairless, smooth white skinned: naked. Their teeth showed, eyes were gone, little ears sticking out, innards were twisty-meshed, pasty pink, as if they were garden worms left on a hook in the water too long: this and other stuff hung out from the full body length split opened tattered undersides. My good buddy had become inpatient with me as I ignored his pleas of curiosity. I stood back, moved over a few feet, sat down, said nothing and looked again across the desert. He jumped up on the bench, looked inside, outside and back inside. The expression on his face cannot be fully described. Absolutely incredulous. Stunned, going through my mind was that we were all going to be sick and maybe someone would even die from a strange malady. With these fears growing and multiplying all by themselves, I just sat there and wondered about the near future: looking around but not really attaching anything seen to the present or myself. Scared, helpless. At this time around the corner came our good sergeant buddy. He looked at my good buddy with his head in The Bag, glanced at me and demanded, "C'mon you [curse] guys tell me what the hell is going on and what is in that water bag. C'mon, let me look!" He jumped up on the bench, made room for himself but was too short to see even when he pulled down hard and strained his neck. My partner got a small wooden box to give good sergeant buddy the needed height and he quickly got on it, pulling down as hard as he could and inserting his face as we had. His reaction was surprisingly swift and decisive: he pulled his head back, let go of the bag and with big eyed expression hopped backwards to the ground, scooted away about fifteen feet, let out a quiet, "ooooooh, oooooooh", and emitted mirth of sorts: a sound between laughter and cackle. At the same time he clasped his hands together, put them between his bent knees, right pivoted a little towards us on his heels and with a slight bend at the small of his back looked like he was going into an upright fetal position. This was a welcome diversion and knowing the bag wasn't going any place or change, I had my full attention on him. Recovering to normalcy, he faced us and loudly said, "You guys think you're so ( ) smart but you don't know a damn thing. C'mon tell me something. You can't because you don't know anything." We weren't offended because we knew this was just good sergeant buddy's personality and he was not the least bit negatively influenced by The Bag: it meant nothing to him but an opportunity and he gave us welcome relief by diverting our attention. "What the hell do you mean?", I asked. "Fraser, how long has everyone been drinking this bad water and how many got sick?" he questioned. I told him I didn't know exactly but thinking back, bad taste and then tiny hairs, it had to be at least three weeks and as far as I knew, no one got sick. Letting out a gleeful yowl and emphatically saying, "See, you don't know or understand a damn thing!" He leaned just a little back on his heels with a 'gotcha' expression on his face and looked like a young boy showing pleasure with quiet, excited anticipation, at having just received a little red wagon heaped with catseye marbles and a slingshot laying on top. Before one of us could say anything he explained, "See, the army can and does do things right. No one got sick because of the little pills they put in the water every time they filled The Bag. Nothing can survive those pills," and smartypants added, "I'm right and you guys know it!". He didn't mention the hairy growth. The man was a good career soldier and quite sensitive to the constant criticisms he heard from the younger set about the army. I understood but didn't care. Having dominance, he couldn't stop and said, "Smartasses, bet you can't tell me what the army did right twice in a row each day!" One of us asked, a little angry, "Oh yea, what is that?" "The army threw in two of those pills!" was the sarcastic answer and letting out his 'between a laugh and a cackle happy day noise,' he strutted off. We were over our shocked reaction because good buddy sergeant was fine therapy and taught us a little something again. He knew what he was doing. When some unsuspecting soul would walk by one of us would say, "Hey, have a look at what's in The Bag" or other similar worded suggestion. This was not planned, hatched or schemed, it just happened and we zapped five or six. Good sergeant buddy had returned after the first two or three and got one all for himself. Oh, this was something else happening. Yes, cruel perhaps, but the theatrics expressed were justification and had to be seen. It might have been a little tough on these guys but it was a lot tougher on us not to express our inner reactions as we watched: too dangerous. Getting on the bus for the day's-end ride to Bliss the troopers were unusually solemn, sullen for a couple of them is a better description, but I didn't care. I took a seat by a window and pleasantly wondered how we could further exploit what had to be seen to be believed. All we could really do was show the Water Detail and with this is mind the next morning I hurried straight from the bus to the bag. Like a kid getting a big box of really special favorite candy, I turned into the little tunnel but was dismayed at what I saw. There, hanging in The Bags Place, was a brand new bag bulging all the way to the top. I stopped short, my heart sank, dejectedly got to the spout and let a little water splash over my left hand. It was iced cold: this telling me that the change was made perhaps an hour earlier and also that someone informed: I felt cheated. Well, we didn't have hardly any of the good guys stop by for their morning hits before starting work or going for coffee in the mess hall. What a sorry change in life this was and as I recall, it was not long before the new water bag was moved to someplace else. Yes, it was over. I have often wondered how those little rascals got into The Bag and have sympathy for their plight as their El Dorado turned to tragedy. Perhaps they came by every night and finally found an opening to squeeze through. Years later, watching a tv documentary about Norvicus Norvicus, (the brown Norway rat which is called a sewer rat in the city and a barn rat on the farm), I was surprised to see how a large adult could slip through a hole about the size of a nickel and immediately figured that our desert kangaroo rats are really not rats: I think they are more of some kind of a clean living mouse with big back legs. It was suggested, and thought by some, that I had placed the * 'Roo Rats in The Bag.' Absolutely not so: I too was drinking The Bag's water and have you ever tried to catch a 'Roo Rat'? It took all day but I did catch two hand sized lizards, including tail, that I used for "Roach Control" in our two and 1/2 room apartment on Rio Grand in El Paso. One was used in our living quarters and the other in the 'share the bath' facility with the dwellers of two other apartments. At first, my wife was resistant as she remembered my Carrizozo pets, a bat, a baby rabbit and a kitten. I was given one week and she was proud of me: worked out real good. * - OrGE -- means Oro Grande East Camp and is pronounced "Orgy" - 'Roo Rats -- self explanatory and composite of a new type of ORR - being those who partook of The Bag in it's prime: now honored as "Orgy Roo Rats" also - Original ORR - Oscura Range Rodent from Oscura Range Camp, self explanatory - (ORR)2 -- that very rare individual, such as myself, who earned the distinction at both ORC and Orgy. - HORR -- a person who is complimented to be an Honorary ORR of either camp, but never from both or if that person has less than two stripes, all specialists qualify: this is pronounced as you wish. (Copyright by Kenneth Pratt Fraser)

BOARDWALK TUSSLE

BOARDWALK TUSSLE by Ken Fraser (Oscura Range Camp, probably Nov, '57) It had drizzle rained for the last couple of days, and this day's weather was damp with a sharp chill in the air and a dark overcast sky. The ground had maybe two inches of brownish muck which stuck to your boots, layer after layer, until it got so thick and heavy that to walk you would have to rock a little side to side with each step and lift your feet a bit straight kneed. After a short time the moisture would soak through and your feet would become damp, cold, and most uncomfortable. The only thing to do was trip to the barracks, put on the clean dry pair of boots with socks and then walk outside back into the muck. It didn't take long to mess up the second pair and you soon ran out of dry socks. So, to hell with it: save the dry boots and socks for tomorrow, just walk around with cold feet and carry a stick in a pocket to peel off the muck much the same as the skin on a ripe tangerine. Right after doing this your feet and legs felt real light, and occasionally you would see some guy, stick in hand, bouncing around like a kid wearing brand new running shoes. When about half an inch would stick and right beneath where you stepped there was a dusty dry spot, the contrast similar to a debark on a tree, you knew the next day the ground would be dry. This made it very difficult not to have dirty dusty floors in the barracks and more so for the radar techs. They had to also keep their van floors clean and as dust free as possible which was a constant hard to do chore. Frustrating. The poor living facilities, the isolation and boredom, the weather, the muck, the dirt and dust, the hours, the noise, personal tensions, the dangers, the warm beer - when you could get it: Depressing. So, from somewhere, came raw wooden sidewalks: at the most, two feet wide with six inch high sides and the walk on part was made from 3/4 x 8 inch boards nailed on edge to edge so there were no gaps. These sidewalks bridged from the barracks to the operations area, T'd across the front of the vans, went straight to the latrine from each of the four barracks east door, and were very practical: some of us, namely the Launch Crew, the Target Techies and we two Generator Sectioners had no choice when it came to our jobs as we had to truck in the muck. Humorous was when two dudes would be walking on the walk in opposite directions and one would have to step off or turn hard sideways to give room for the other. Stepping off meant messing shiny dry boots so sideways was pecking order acceptable. The fat ones were great fun: rank, or turf domination, what's the difference? Naturally, the worst area of this stuff was on the west side of the barracks and out into the work sections mentioned above. When it was still mucky west of the barracks, the mess hall, Det 6 side wouldn't be that bad. What made this more easily acceptable for us *ORRs is that we were part of the muck anyway, normally soaked with diesel fuel and gasoline mixed with the regular greasy work dirt, so we didn't have the bother of trying to stay neat and spiffy. I got tired of having a clean set of fatigues messed up with one day's work so I would simply wear the same pants and shirt till it got too hard to put them back after my break. Sometimes, they just stayed on for two days plus. I would keep them in my wall locker and when I opened the door, it smelt like an old fashioned four bay gas station and keeping them in my foot locker made everything stink for a week. A time or two a couple of the other guys made me stash them outside so I flopped them up onto the roof, with the legs and arms hanging down, over the window by my bunk. Another time I went into a radar van for a cigarette break, sat in the chair on the door side of the consol and could hear the techies mumbling their job on the other side. As I was about to strike the paper match one of them came fast around the consol, knocked the matches from my hand, grabbed me and literally threw me out the open door as he yelled, "Fraser, you crazy sob, I could smell you! One of these days you're going to catch on fire, burn up or just explode and you aren't going to do it in my van." He was pissed. He slammed and latched the door and I thought it best not to go back in for my matches: can always bum a light. Anyway, on this lousy afternoon, myself and four grungy others were standing in the muck near the T intersection of the boardwalk, joshing, smiling, just in a good mood and enjoying each others good company. We were having a nice time when up came Herc, our lovable part shepherd camp dog. He trotted up to us, wagging his tail, we said hello back and he tried to identify us by sniffing. Frustrated, he walked back a few paces, looked up at our faces, recognized who he was looking for and made his approach. He was sucking up to the guy that fed him the best treats of the day. No one owned Hercules. As we pleasured, up strutted on the boardwalk an RCAT truckdriver, called Gluffs, who was known to sometimes have an attitude and might look down on others that didn't meet his high standards. He was six feet, around 190 lbs, athletic, strong, had little fear and would fight if that's what someone wanted: as usual, his fatigues and boots were inspection ready. They should be: all he did was a sit on his ass driving a big flatbed semi truck from Ft Bliss to the range camps. He would haul targets and supplies out, junk back in and I never, ever, saw the prima donna load or unload a damn thing. He always stood around and gave exalted instruction as to how to properly do these chores. That was it. Good hours, took breaks almost any time, no guard duty, KP, or nasty stuff: came and went driving that nice big truck up and down highway 54 and all over the place: almost his own boss. Oh, I wished I had his job. The mood neutralized as Gluffs stopped, hautily glanced at us, and stiff back posturing as if he were a conductor of the New York Philharmonic, sans little stick, he first half raised his partially bowed right arm, pretended to flick off some imaginary dirt and then repeated the drama with his left arm. Almost with a sigh, he quietly stated to no one in particular, "I think I'll go to the mess hall and have a cup of coffee." For no reason that I can remember, maybe I said something he didn't like, he turned and contemptuously pretended to wipe from his hands imaginary filth of some sort, all over and up and down my chest. Stunned at this insult, I became enraged, swiftly bent down and with one smooth very fast motion, scooped two good handfuls of muck, swung them high up and forward like an Olympic butterfly swimmer and kersplut, slapped that muck on his chest and rubbed it around. When I hit his chest it felt like a big telephone pole and I knew I had made another mistake, but it was too late. I grabbed as much shirt with each hand as I could and hung on! During this second or two, his face went from great surprise to mad-dog mean, he thump grabbed a bunch of my shirt from around the upper bod area and started to lift me up onto the boardwalk. I pulled back and down as hard as I could but just started levitating, so I then pushed up really hard and he went backwards, almost falling while pulling me with him at the same time. Recovering very quickly he attacked again by pushing real hard and I fell back, pulling and trying to make him loose his balance. It worked, and he had a look of horror on his face seeing all that muck as he started down to my level. We then went side to side and back and forth and side to side till I was getting out of breath. Also, I was so damn scared and didn't know how to get out of this. I couldn't let go because I knew he would catch me and kick my ass real good. I looked around and didn't see anyone. Where was everybody? Oh gosh, if I did let go I thought I would head for the launch area and hopefully the launch crew would intervene. They were a rough, strong bunch of guys who could walk through walls and my good buddies. (?) This seemed to last forever and both of us, out of breath, let go at the same time. Huffing and puffing, I backed up, Gluffs headed for the mess hall and I was so glad to end this fearsome agony. Going over to my generators, I kept looking over my shoulder hoping he wasn't coming back for seconds. When I got there, I sort of skulked around, wanting to stay out of sight but not wanting to be too obvious about it. Hey, saving face is important! After an hour or so I figured to hell with it but didn't realize this was not over for this day. Around 8 pm I was lounging on my bunk and in walks a guy I'd seen around and didn't know anything about. He was on the short, stocky side, had a large face and wasn't very bright. He looked it, too. I wondered what he was doing in my barracks and he walked up and started to talk: he was Gluffs' messenger boy, so let's call him Scatz because I can't remember his name. The conversation went very close to this. "Gluffs wants to talk to you," he deadpanned. Concerned, I replied, "I don't want to talk to him." Sensing my lack of confidence, he said, "You better go see him." "I'm not going to," I emphasized. "What's the matter, scared"? He smartassed. I looked at this jerk and realized he wasn't going to go away. He was too dumb to understand anything and I started to lose my patience. "No, I'm not scared," I lied, and added, "I just don't care to have anything to do with Gluffs." He smirked and told me, "If you don't go to see Gluffs, Gluff''s coming here to see you." I know others nearby could hear all of this but they were too busy doing nothings to get distracted. I realized I had zero choice and accepted the challenge. With false nonchalance, I asked, "Where is he?". "Waiting for you in Sgt Feekses supply building," he answered and asked, "when will you be there?" I was getting upset with Scatz. Resigned, accepting that this situation could get worse, I stated, "In about half an hour." Scatz, a smirk on his dummy face, turned and sauntered out. Sitting back, accepting that I was probably going to get thumped, I tried to conjure up what I could say to lessen the danger. Not much conjured and thinking to hell with it I put on my boots and resolutely headed for Sgt Feekses domain. The supply building was a large Butler type with a lot of glass around one corner and about 10 ft inside the door was a short, so to speak, customer counter. On the right wall were shelves with very little of anything and in the left rear corner was Feekses desk at which he sat, just like a fat toad. A single green porcelaned light fixture hung down from the ceiling in the center of the maybe 25 by 25 foot room and this caused contrasting areas of low light and dark shadow. There were various boxes and other items, staged in the right places, to give an impression of erratic necessity. In an open area stood menacing Gluffs and close by Gluffs left side, was stupid Scatz with a really moronic, toothy grin on his roundy face. Being about five feet inside the door I knew I could skip out real quick and because it was a very dark night could easily lose anyone chasing me. I looked carefully around and out of the dark windows to see if there was anyone else getting involved in this, saw no one, and turned my attention to the scene in front. This could not be real. Again, this is close to the conversation that ensued. Gluffs loudly said, "So you think you're a smartass, Fraser, can you do this?" He turned slightly towards Scatz who stiffened and with the same moronic look on his dummy face started to fall to his right. Gluffs,bending from the waist, reached down and grabbed Scatz right leg with his left hand, right arm with his right hand and without effort, swung Scatz straight up over his head and held him there, rock steady. I thought, 'Oh damn, that could be me before the toss". Rapidly pumping board like goofy, grinning proud as punch Scatz up and down, Gluffs demanded, "C'mon Fraser, try to do this you sob," and added, "bet you can't!" I said something like I didn't want to try and made up a couple of other weak excuses and was very uncomfortable. Scatz bent his left arm, placed that palm alongside his face, sort of like supporting his head in reverse, and kept grinning: Feekses just stayed beady eyed toady and Gluffs was glowering. With them performing each his part, the setting of this scene with its clutter and boxes, the lone light bulb causing dark shadows and the large black windows caused me to think ,'this is like getting into the Twilight Zone'. I had to get out of there before some rubbed off. Turning very quickly I rushed out the door and making a hard right broke into a fast trot to and around the end of the barracks and into the bright area of one of the camp lights, and slowed to a stroll. Gluffs had proved his point and saved face, Scatz had fun and Feekses, we didn't like each other, did his gloat. The incident had come to it's end. As I took my time, I thought half the guys at ORC were dingy, and the other half thought I was. Who was right? *ORRs - Oscura Range Rodents: a wonderful group of rough, dedicated young men who did their difficult duty without complaint. It was more difficult for some, than for others.

SNAPSHOT

SNAPSHOT by Ken Fraser (Oscura Range Camp, Fall, '57) A cool weekend afternoon, Rollins, (I forget his first name), Dave Fullam and myself were lounging in our barracks hut when, deciding to take some photos, I moved to the other side of the barracks for a more desirable field of view. While adjusting for available light and framing a view of Rollin's area, he approached and told me very nastily that I could not take his picture. He was just part of the scene and could have told me in a polite manner: I was offended and thought, ' ( ) him , I'll get one anyway!' Waiting till he settled down and sitting on his bunk with his back to me, I framed him, focused, and at the moment of click he looked back over his left shoulder; really upset! His bunk was on the same side as mine, maybe four away and he stood up, turned into the aisle and proceeded to approach myself. I was scared and thought, 'ooh oh!'. Quickly moving to and putting my rump firmly on the angle iron frame of my bunk, placing my camera under my pillow, straightening and stiffing my back, head up, shoulders back, chest out, with locked elbows my hands firmly grasping and pushing down on my slightly bent back knees; my feet were flat on fused with the floor! I looked at his face, he was about six feet away, and saw an expression of overconfidence with touch of contempt! Rollins, a quiet keep to himself radar tech, was around six feet tall and over 200 lbs, a bit barrel like and not much fat. He was making exaggerated body motions; long and wide strides, arms hanging out as if muscle bound, (he did have big arms), chest and belly sort of puffed and a total swaggering attitude of , "I'm going to show this guy!" Fear and anxiety turned into resentment because of his threatening performance and what he might do, causing me to think, 'Wait a minute, what the hell did I do to warrant this behavior? We could talk about the photo, I would apologize, whatever! He's not pissed; just found an excuse to screw with me! Fuggim!' The resentment grew and turned to nervous anticipation as he looked mean-eyed at me and was quickly getting closer. He didn't glance at my pillow and I was really glad he wasn't going to try to screw with my camera! When he arrived, I took and held a deep breath, stiffened my whole bod and glancing up saw the same overconfident expression but now with a smirk of pleasure. He stood close, feet wide, menacing, raised his arms high and after brief dramatic moment with all of his strength thumped down on and strongly grabbed my shoulders. This energy went through myself and then bunk without effect and as it transferred into the floor there was an audible sound. I was rock! Instantly, I shot straight up, my arms knocking his aside and at the same time latching my legs around his torso, locking my right arm around his neck, with my left hand, (I'm left handed), our faces inches apart, I grabbed a fistful of upper lip and nose and proceeded to forcefully push in and up while twisting clockwise. I was ripping face! Fearfully amazed, he snapped backwards into the aisle a few short steps, stumbled a couple more as he lost his balance and oh golly, looking over his right shoulder was I scared that we might go down with me on the bottom. He recovered and desperately thumped, grabbed, tugged, pushed and flailed but I held on and twisted as hard as I could. Somehow, very quickly, I was riding high on his back; my left arm over his left shoulder, my right under his right arm, each hand grabbing as best it could and my legs hard trying to hold on because he was fast twirling to the left. I didn't dare let him reel me loose because I knew if he did and got a hold of me he would rip much more than part of my face! We were spinning so damned fast my legs slipped off, I was losing my arm holds and feeling a hard noisy blow against my outside right foot and looking over my right shoulder, I saw that my bod and legs, with feet toes down, were straight out horizontal! There was a loud crash! Damn! On the next spin I saw some wall lockers and a bunk tumbled together from the blow of my foot. I was glad I had my boots on and oh, so scared! Rollins slowed and while he was changing direction I re-grabbed my leg and arm holds, pulling high and close. He looked hard over his right shoulder, our wide eyed faces close together and I was comforted by the expression on his! He was just as scared as I! As we started clockwise, Dave Fullam moved in and loudly said, "That's enough!". I very gladly let go, (what a ride), and went to my area as Rollins went to his. I stood the wall lockers back up, straightened a couple of bunks and lay on mine, relieved. I was so glad he didn't make it a fist fight and knew if we got outside, he would never catch me. We never mentioned this incident to each other, it meant nothing and was forgotten about as, 'one of those things'. note: Rollin's is a name change Full copyright by Kenneth P Fraser.

RCAT Truckdriver

RCAT Truckdriver by Ralph Hatzenbeler (Oscura Range Camp) Sunday morning, early March at Oscura Range Camp, White Sands Proving Ground, Southern New Mexico, I was sitting in the mess hall, trying to put down breakfast after a night at the Atomic Bar. Andy comes in sits next to me and was not sure if he was with me last night. I said, "Andy lets you and I grab a truck and go out on the range and just fool around, I'm broke, don't want to go back to Bliss and laying around the barracks is not my way of spending a Sunday. The range is clear, they don't plan on putting up any targets, so lets you and I go out there." Andy replies, "Sounds great, lets do it!". I told two guys next to us, can't remember their names, "Got room for two more." One of them says,"Sure do, lets go ". Went over to the motor pool, grabbed a duce, filled it up with gas and told the Sergeant we wanted to go out and look for targets. "Sounds great," he said, "Go for it!" The four of us got in and headed West, stayed on the main road until camp was out of site and then off into the sagebrush. Not looking for targets, if we run in to one we'll pick it up, just out here to fool around, we came up to this deep wash, not sure I could make it through it. "Go ahead Hatz, you can do it," so into it we went, when we got to the bottom I buried that duce in sand, and there we sit 25 miles from camp, no water or food and light clothes, and it is still cold in New Mexico in March The four of us tried for a couple hours to get it out, no way could we get it out. This is about noon. "Andy," I said, "you and I will start walking, you other guys stay with the truck, we'll be back as soon as we can." Andy and I started out, not worried about getting lost, we had been out there a hundred times, and we pretty much knew the area. The sun started to set and it was getting cold, I found a candy bar in my field jacket, Andy and I stopped, took a break, we split the bar and talked things over. This is not good, we know we aren't lost. Way off in the distance we can see lights from cars on highway 54. The wind from the North is starting to pick up and the temperature is really starting to drop, Andy doesn't have a jacket, I know he is cold, we take turns at wearing my field jacket, Andy wants to stop and rest. "We can't Andy," I told him,"got to keep going, if we stop we will be in trouble." What seemed forever we finely got to the Camera Station. White Sands took pictures of missiles and the impact area, in all the time I spent out there looking for targets, never once did I ever see anyone there, looked at my two dollar watch that I had bought in Mexico, it was 10 pm, I knew we still had 8 to 10 miles to go. We stopped to take a short break, our fingers are numbed by the cold, we got to keep moving. Andy kept telling me how cold he was. I shouted at him, "Listen!". In the distance I could hear a motor running. Looked up on this little hill and I could see a pickup sitting there, we walked over to it and there was a MP in there asleep, I tried to open the door, but my hands wouldn't move. No feeling in them, I hit the truck with my arm, next thing I knew Andy and I were down on our knees with a 45 cal. pointed between my eyes. I shouted, "Don't shoot," told him what had happened. He told us we were in luck, his relief was due any minute, and he would take us to Oscura. When we got there we woke up the sergeant and told him what happened, got a wrecker and headed back there, the two guys were cold but they had wrapped up in the chutes we had there and they were OK, true story Ken delete it if you don't like it......Hatz >> Hi Ed, Here's that story from Hatz. Humorous where he says, "if we stop we'll be in trouble." Hazard Hatz was bigger and stronger than most, known to be an active, aggressive type with a keen sense of justice which he wouldn't hesitate to administer. He has other exciting stories I hope he'll tell. Thanks. Ken.

The Sky Filled Up

The Sky Filled Up by Ken Fraser (Oscura Range Camp - late summer '57) On a pleasant, clear blue sky afternoon, I was walking north from Det 6 Motor Vehicle Repair Garage when directly ahead I watched something happen I couldn't believe. Maybe a mile or two away a dense, dark mass, having a bright flashing core of reddish, yellow and white hues, erupted from the ground and expanded with amazing speed into a huge, boiling black and dark swirling dusty brown cloud, reaching several thousand feet. Spewing west from the bottom of this awesome sight were many large and small solid pieces and shards that lost their velocity after scattering perhaps 1/4 of a mile. Prominent, and continuing from these was a large object, flying very level, fast, and perhaps 50 feet over the boonies! It did this for maybe a mile, hit the ground causing a small dusty cloud with thrown pieces of mesquite and chunks of ground. It hit again in a short distance, bounced almost straight up and dropped out of sight. I thought, 'this is like a flat rock skipping across a pond!' At the same time I watched a misty shock wave race across the desert floor, climb slightly into the mountains on the west side of the valley and dissipate! I looked back at the cloud: it was getting larger and being so huge I can only estimate it's size by saying the sky filled up. Though still churning and moving, after six to eight seconds it stopped expanding. A bright white delta winged F102, looking like a toy, circled this cloud several times, swooped close to the ground and after a couple of more passes like this it headed south. I searched the sky, wishing to see parachutes because I thought a large, very fast aircraft had crashed and the crew might have been able to bail out. Not seeing any I continued to look, from horizon to straight up and all around. None! I was upset! Turning around, I saw GIs running towards parked vehicles and I did the same. Sgt Waller, ORCs fire fighter NCO, ordered, "Fraser, get on the bus!". With him and others I did so and the driver took off! As we headed for the crash I noticed that the cloud was faint and in a short time the air was clear. We were on what I believe to be the same trail that goes to the firing range and I had to firmly grab the bar on the seat in front of me to keep from being thrown to the floor. The driver stopped near where he thought the crash might be and we spilled out; each running in his own direction! After some minutes of this frantic group motion we milled around, and I said to Sgt Waller that we didn't know where we were so how could we find anything! He was distressed and said we had to keep looking! I mentioned we weren't organized and that there could not be any survivors. Sgt Waller got onto me, exclaiming, "there is always a chance!" Chewing me out, he told me, "As long as there is a chance we will keep looking!" Everyone was upset! Thinking back, I don't remember feeling the shock wave or hearing any sound and I did not experience any fear. The large object must have been the engine, and if the direction of the crash had been towards ORC, and location close, we would have been severely damaged by this debris! Rumor said that the crashed aircraft was a top secret experimental "cruise missile": internally radar controlled, terrain following, that left White Sands, flew to a Nevada range, failed while returning and that the F102 was a chase plane: other rumor said, "Not so! It took off from a Nevada range, Their fault!" We never learned anything about what this was. E-mail from J.P. Moore to Ken Fraser Ken.......you gotta quit chewing on them smoked peyote buttons! and ... Hey there, JP Just IM'd a talk with RCAT Range Rodent Hazard Hatz and he remembers seeing a boonie burn area about 100 yards wide and 3 to 400 long where the, get this, tnt loaded Bomarc augured in. That would make a really big cloud. As he can best recall, Hatz is going to e-mail me his memory of this. Where do you stash those smoked peyote buttons? {}:-) Be in touch, Ken.

TARGET COMING IN

TARGET COMING IN by Ken Fraser (Oscura Range Camp - fall '57) On selected Thursday nights during nice weather, VIP's, high ranking military with what civilians from who knows where would show up for the nights' shoot. The Gl's calmly, seriously doing their jobs: the radar vans quietly humming - a soft glow leaning through their open doors; generators rumbling and most of all, the roaring targets being blasted off the launch rail by luminous, piercing screaming JATOs was colorful and impressive! Hearing from inside a radar van the shout, "Missile Fired" or "Missile Away", and looking north to Red Canyon, you could barely see the Ajax boosters' short lived flare as it put the missile to speed and then east, 15 to 20 thousand feet high, maybe 15 miles away and after long seconds, would be seen the distant small flash of the missile burst. Soon, a muffled 'kpow' would arrive and a radar tech would exclaim, "Target hit" or "Target going down". Usually the Target Controller would stroll out to relax, having just spent maybe the last two hours 'flying' the target at correct altitude and on correct miles long oval shaped course with his radio control box: he did this by intensely watching the radar's tracking pens slowly scribe the target's position along with vertical and horizontal movements on paper charts and if the target was missed he had to stay and 'fly' it back. This was the latest hi-tech missile air defense system in live, efficient, impressive operational mode and I loved it, especially at night. However. Although understanding the necessary positive image needing to be made on the influential military and civilian VIP's, we didn't appreciate the controllers bringing the missed targets back in so close so that the target's chute could be heard to pop and the target thumping to ground. Normally at night they would be brought back until the engine could be heard, chute popped and the target easily recovered the next day. Occasionally, for some reason, when the targets got too close the controllers would lose some radio control or lose it altogether, (oh, oh) It was my four hour turn to rest while my generator good buddy, Robert E Gottschal, did his turn babysitting our responsibilities. I was laying on my bunk in my skivvies with three pair of issue cushysoled socks on: far more comfortable than boots and necessary in case of an emergency. Operations were at full bore! A new group of targets was being JATO launched and low fuel targets were being brought in: the two light bulbs hanging from the ceiling were turned on and hearing with understanding all of this activity, I wasn't relaxed. Suddenly, charging fast through the west door came a very frightened GI without cap yelling. "Target Coming In. Target Coming In,!". He was nearing the foot of my bunk when my feet hit the floor and I heard the loud engine and prop of an RCAT close by and very rapidly getting closer. As he passed by, I knew by the noise, now being just outside the west wall that the target was going to crash into where we were! Spontaneously, I envisioned the wall exploding inward as with the target in a monstrous, lethal fiery burst of large debris. I was terrified!! In the seconds before I reached the east door, I heard the RCAT's parachute pop, engine stop and with 'kthumped,' land. We were safe! Exiting the east door, quickly walking to the south and around the barracks next to ours I saw the target, maybe thirty feet from our barracks with cargo chute blossomed limp on the ground: the fuselage was in a straight line, dead center with the door and for but less than a second would have bust through, entering with the engine and prop live. Already near the target was an attractive well dressed young woman with an 'isn't this exciting look on her face'. Anger replacing my fear, I loudly and profanely expressed my opinions about what had just happened and all of the persons connected. A growing group of spectators gathered and a buddy of mine whispered in my right ear , "Ken, shut your (curse, curse) mouth". As I paused and took a deep breath for more, someone quietly, frigidly warned into my left ear, "You're not (cuss, curse, curse) dressed and get into the (obscenity) barracks"! The left ear message frightened me, and now very embarrassed by my garb, looking straight ahead, with cushy sole sox on my feet and bow legs bare beneath my boxers, I hustled all 135 lbs into my barracks and was glad to be out of sight. I went to my locker and hurriedly put on a pair of fatigue pants knowing I was in for it again: flopped onto my bunk and still embarrassed put a spare pillow over my face hoping nobody came in to chew on my ass. One of the witnesses told me the next day that the target suddenly appeared from the darkness, was flying very fast with a slight nose down angle and about four feet off the ground when the chute 'popped'. When a target's parachute is deployed the result is lightning quick and dramatic: simultaneously the engine quits and the chute opens with a distinctive "POP" sound, stopping the target. Fun to watch. I don't remember what happened because of this one. Oh well.

THE GREAT COUGAR HUNT

THE GREAT COUGAR HUNT by Ken Fraser It was a Saturdy night before payday weekend and the camp was full. In the day room, (laugh), another Arctic hut,(laugh again),there were guys loafing: two of them into a so- what pool game and the rest reading worn out magazines and old newspapers that lay around. Along with assorted scattered small debris, the floor had a layer ofcliche dust with clumps: several full ashtrays, cigarette buts, paper wrappers and empty 12 oz pop top cans complimented the scene: the windows were so dusty that at night they looked frosted over. No one cared. From there I visited several of the barracks and made small talk to those so inclined. Most didn't give a damn and I couldn't blame them as nobody, especially us ORRs*, were looking forward to Monday AM. Worse than that almost everyone was typically broke. The barracks were in disarray: with the bunks a couple of feet apart, wall lockers in between and foot lockers on the aisle behind each bunk. there was little room for normal living. Each was doing his quiet thing. Some sleeping, others reading, writing letters, trying to organize their possessions, hanging wet laundry, playing cards and all just being there. Bored to a stage I can't describe I returned to my barracks hut. Same as the others, but home: laying on my bunk I joined the comatose. Suddenly, some guy wearing fatigues comes running in the back door, all excited about a mountain lion that was seen in the lava beds by a couple of guys lucky enough to have transportation and the money to go into town. I asked him, "What's so unusual about that?" Eyes wide, he looked at me and exclaimed, "The New Mexico Cattlemens' Association and the State of New Mexico each pay a $500 bounty for a Mountain Lion! That's a thousand bucks and we're going out to get the son of a bitch! "! I thought he was nuts, but you should see how the apparent half dead came alive. No wonder, being paid $72.00 a month made $1000.00 an instant fortune! It was incredulous! All at once here are these guys cramming into their fatiques, jamming on their boots, opening their wall and foot lockers, getting their assortment of guns and pistolas and charging out the doors. Watching this bedlam, I waited till they vacated, stepped outside and noticed it was a cold, very dark night; clear sky, no moon, no stars. Already the place was an eruption of excited activity. In such a short time who could realize the hubbub, the # of vehicles running with lights on: personal cars, a Jeep or two, even the bus from Engineer Detachment 6 was loading up. In a few more minutes I saw, with two others, the line of lights of this dusty caravan leaving camp and going out of sight to its' destiny. The Lava Beds are as dangerous as they sound and were Strictly Off Limits. If you lost your footing and fell you could be fatally lacerated; if by yourself, who would know? According to local legend there were all kinds of ominous beasties, especially monstrous lizards lurking within. I never saw anything living. To navigate, you have to be very careful as the terrain is unlike what you will find anywhere else, except in another lava bed. It's important to not walk on a convex or concave surface as they may be the thin covering of a large cavity. You have to favor, long stepping and jumping from one to the other over crevices, the tops and edges of the larger blocks and chunks of lava; avoiding openings the beasties might be in. And someone is going to hunt down, using flashlights, a cougar? I returned to my bunk and fell asleep. Later, I was awakened by the lucky returning Cougar Hunters who had lost their prey. Not much was said and I again fell asleep. Awakened the second time, (angry), I was told that two hunters could not be accounted for and that everyone was to go out there for search and rescue! After a short, intense discussion, the ncos left with a volunteer search party. All returned within a couple of hours, disheartened. What did they expect? It came to pass that these two huntsmen decided to hell with the hunt, went offrange and got drunk. I now believe that there never was a cougar. I now believe that the huntsmen earlier dramatically convinced our excited messenger, and others, of this profitable cougar opportunity. I now believe I know who it was. *ORRs - Oscura Range Rodents - a wonderful group of rough, dedicated young men who did their difficult duty without complaint.