Presumed Guilty Because Someone Did It

I had been at Clark Air Base, Philippines for several weeks.  I worked with aircrew survival equipment; helmets and oxygen masks, parachutes, survival kits, life rafts, life preservers, aircraft passenger oxygen bottles, and other items.  Our job was to inspect, maintain and repair the equipment, load and unload equipment on aircraft, and inventor the equipment on aircraft to ensure all equipment required was onboard and in serviceable condition.  We worked on the KC-135 Stratotanker and B-52 bombers.  There was a constant flow of aircraft in and out of Clark moving equipment and personnel from country to country, sometimes due to precautionary evacuation due to typhoons, and once in a while due to an inflight emergency diversion to the closest Air Force base.

I was working a day shift when a call came into the shop about a KC-135 which had diverted to Clark due to decompression of the aircraft during flight.  Whenever a decompression took place, passengers were instructed to use the emergency oxygen bottles we supplied which gave a 10 minute supply of oxygen.  This gave the pilot enough time to declare an inflight emergency and get clearance to descend to 10,000 feet, an altitude low enough where supplemental oxygen is not required.  Each bottle and mask was stored in a canvas carrying bag.  This aircraft was packed with passengers, so most of the 60 bottles and masks had been used.  We had to go to the aircraft, separate the used from the unused, take the used ones back to the shop for inspection, repair, cleaning and refilling, and get them back on the aircraft before the cause of the decompression was repaired.  This particular aircraft had come in from Thailand.

Two of us went out to collect up the bottles.  The aircraft was a mess; storage boxes, bags, bottles and masks were strewn all over the aircraft.  Since time was of the essence, we decided to pile everything in the middle of the floor before sorting through them.  It was a big pile.  It turned out to be somewhat of a mini treasure hunt; in addition to bottles and masks, we were finding trash and remnants of inflight lunches in some of the bags.  When we were about half way through sorting, I reached in one bag found something solid wrapped in newspaper stuffed in the bottom.  I was hoping it was someone’s uneaten lunch.   What I found was the last thing I would have expected… a package about the size of a large orange of marijuana, which later proved to be laced with opium.  I damn near had a heart attack!  I remember yelling out… probably a resounding “holy shit!” which got the attention of everyone else on the aircraft.  Seems like everyone wanted to be my new best friend!  If no one else had been there things may have turned out differently; but… all it takes is one with loose lips to screw things up.

The first one who got within grabbing distance I asked for his ID card; he was stupid enough to give it to me.  Once I had it I told him to guard the bag; I got off the aircraft, flagged down a maintenance truck, and made a radio call to notify the Base Commander, control tower, and Security Police of the find.  As it turned out, that had to be… to this day… the dumbest thing I ever did!!

Anyway, knowing an investigation was going to take place, and I was going to be in the middle of it, I told one of the maintenance men working on the aircraft that I was going to walk to my shop to “hit the can”, get something to drink, a book to read, and that I would be back shortly…  it was going to be a long day!  I hadn’t been gone 15 minutes and the aircraft had already been cordoned off by the security police, the Base Commander plus a slew of other base officials were there, and everyone who had been on the aircraft was being interrogated.  I walked up to one of the guards to tell him I was the one who called in the find, but was ordered to keep quiet, and step back.  I tried to tell him again, but he wasn’t interested in anything I had to say.  So I went over to the Base Commander’s car, sat on the ground, leaned against his front right tire, opened the soda, and started reading the book.  I could hear people asking “where did the guy who found the dope go”, but I had been told twice to stay away and keep quiet, so I did.  About ten minutes later I heard someone yell “there he is… there he is, by the commander’s car”.  Before I could close the book and stand up, I was surrounded by security police, being treated like I had committed a crime!

After they interrogated me as to why I left, how much of the drugs I’d taken and hidden, and where I hid it, I finally got a chance to get a word in edgewise.   I explained that I knew I was going to be “tied up” for several hours with the initial investigation, and I needed to hit the can  It was very hot and muggy so I needed something to drink as well as something to kill the dead time with.  I also explained that I had tried to identify myself as soon as I got back, but was ordered twice by a security guard with an M-16 assault rifle to get back and be quite.  At least the Base Commander seemed to understand.  It was all downhill from there.

I was asked more questions by the security police about the drugs… what was it, who brought it in, who was my connection, how many times had I brought drugs into Clark, and was then turned over to the Office of Special Investigation (OSI) for further questioning.  Oh joy… to have people call you a drug smuggler and liar, have them tell you they know how you did what you didn’t do, and threaten you with a dishonorable discharge and time at Leavenworth.  As their investigation of me continued, it became crystal clear that their only mission was to make certain someone… anyone was held responsible so they would look good.

I was interrogated daily for the next several weeks; one investigator one day, two the next; good cop, bad cop; two investigators asking me questions at the same time; changing investigators occasionally.  The little boogers used up most of my of my off-duty time trying to get me to confess to something I didn’t do.  They would tell me how they “knew” I had smuggled the drug onto the base; they knew who my accomplice was; they knew who my contact on Clark AB was, and that he had “ratted” me out.  I kept asking how it made sense that a man would successfully smuggle in drugs and then call the Base Commander to turn himself and the drugs in foregoing a nice profit and guaranteeing himself a dishonorable discharge with prison time.  To this day I wonder if those idiots smoked all the dope while they were interrogating me.

Finally, after considerable wasted time, harassment, interrogation, innuendo, allegations and threats, I was asked to appear one final time.  The investigator for this last session was the original investigator who had not been shy with the allegations, strong-arm interrogations and threats.  He pretended to be my friend, even offering to buy me lunch.  Yup… he must have just smoked a little more; he asked me “off the record” if I had ever taken drugs.  Halleluiah!!  It was payback time!  I told him I had taken drugs many times over many years.  He perked right up and turned towards me, I suppose to position his hidden microphone closer to me.  I continued… explaining how I had been prescribed many drugs for illnesses like walking pneumonia, urinary tract infections, and allergies.   I smiled as I looked him in the eyes… the eyes tell all.  He was not amused, and I had my small victory

Good Guys Finish Last… Sometimes

I had been at Clark Air Base for several weeks.  I worked with aircrew survival equipment; inspecting, maintaining, loading and unloading on aircraft, and performing inventories of a variety of survival equipment.  There was a constant influx of aircraft coming in from other bases in the Orient; some came bringing in equipment and personnel, some coming in on typhoon evacuation from other countries, and once in a while due to an in-flight emergency diversion to the closest Air Force base.

I was working a day shift when a call came in to go to a particular aircraft that had been redirected to Clark AB due to decompression of the aircraft.  One item we handled was oxygen bottles; a ten minute supply hooked up to an oxygen mask, stored in a compact carrying bag.  The oxygen supply was enough to allow the pilot to declare an in-flight emergency and get clearance to descend to 10,000 feet, an altitude low enough for aircrew and passengers to breathe safely without additional supplemental oxygen.  As this aircraft had decompressed, the bottles had been used by the passengers, so they needed to be retrieved, cleaned and disinfected, inspected, repaired as needed, refilled with oxygen, and reloaded onto the aircraft.  This particular aircraft had come in from Thailand.

Two of us went out to collect up the bottles.  The aircraft was a mess; storage boxes, bags, bottles and masks were strewn all over the aircraft.  Most had been used, some were broken, many bottles and masks had been removed from the storage bags; parts were scattered literally everywhere there was space to put one.  We decided to make a big pile in the middle of the floor, sort through them, leave the good ones on board, bring the rest back to the shop for reconditioning and refilling, and then reload them back on the aircraft.  We had made a pile and had started going through the mess.  Along with bottles and masks, we found trash and remnants of in-flight lunches in some of the bags.  I reached in one bag found a wad of newspaper stuffed in the bottom.  The paper was wrapped around something solid; I was hoping it was someone’s uneaten lunch, so I yanked it out of the bag, unrolled the newspaper, and damn near had a heart attack!  It was a large quantity, about the size of an orange, of marijuana, which later proved to be laced with opium.  I yelled something like “holy shit”, which got the attention of everyone else on the aircraft.  The first one who got within grabbing distance I asked for his ID card.  He was stupid enough to give it to me.  Once I had it, I told him to guard the bag; I got off the aircraft, flagged down a maintenance truck, and made a radio call to notify the Base Commander, control tower, and Security Police of the find.  As it turned out, that had to be… to this day… the stupidest thing I ever did!!

Anyways, knowing what was about to come down with the investigation, I told one of the maintenance men working on the aircraft that I was going to walk to my shop to hit the “can”, get something to drink, a book to read, and that I would be back shortly…  it was going to be a long day!  I wasn’t gone more than 15 minutes, but when I returned to the aircraft it had already been cordoned off by the security police, the Base Commander plus a slew of other base officials were there, and everyone who had been on the aircraft was being interrogated.  I walked up to one of the guards to tell him I was the one who called in the find, but was ordered to keep quiet, and step back.  I tried to tell him again, but he wasn’t interested in anything I had to say.  So I went over to the Base Commander’s car, sat on the ground, leaned against his front right tire, opened the soda, and started reading the book.

I could hear people asking “where did the guy who found the dope go”, but I had been told twice to stay away and keep quiet, so I did.  About ten minutes later I heard someone yell “there he is… there he is, by the commander’s car”.  Before I could close the book and stand up, I was surrounded by security police, being treated like I had committed a crime!!  After they finished chewing my ass for leaving, I explained why, and that I had tried to identify myself to one of the guards as soon as I got back.  At least the Base Commander seemed to understand.  And it was downhill from there!  I was asked a few questions by the security police, and then transferred over to the Office of Special Investigation (OSI) for further questioning.  All I can say about the manner in which the OSI investigators conducted themselves is; “if their lips are moving, they are lying their asses off”; they could not care less if they convict the guilty or not guilty, all they are concerned with is making sure someone…  anyone is left holding the bag.

For the next several weeks I was interrogated almost daily; by one investigator one day, 2 investigators the next; good cop, bad cop; two investigators asking me questions at the same time; different investigators occasionally.  They used up most of my of my off-duty time.  They would tell me how they “knew” I had smuggled the drug onto the base; they knew who my accomplice was; they knew who my contact on Clark AB was, and that he had “ratted” me out.  I kept asking how it made sense for a man to successfully smuggle in drugs, which had remained undetected and could have easily been removed from the aircraft without notice simply by picking up the bag and leaving, then calling the base officials to turn himself and the drugs in foregoing a nice profit and guaranteeing himself a dishonorable discharge with jail time?  All I could think was how this was a prime example of “military intelligence”.

Finally, after considerable harassment, interrogations, innuendo, allegations and threats, I was asked to appear one final time.  The investigator for this last session was the original investigator, who had not been shy with the allegations, strong-arm interrogations and threats.  He pretended to be my friend, offered to buy me lunch, than asked me “off the record” if I had ever taken drugs.  Hallelujah!!  It was payback time!  I told him I had taken drugs many times, over many years.  He perked right up, and turned towards me, I suppose to position a hidden microphone closer to me.  I continued…I explained how I had taken antibiotics for walking pneumonia as well as other respiratory infections.  I smiled as I looked him in the eye.  The eyes tell all; he was not amused, but I had my small victory!

Riding on Pins and Needles

It was the summer rainy season, and I was working at White Tanks Mountain Regional Park.  It had rained hard that day, but the sun came out, and people started showing up for the afternoon.  The park’s winding roads were wet, with a layer of washed sand, and very slippery.  There was no mistaking the roar of the Harleys as they sped through the park, taking a road through one of the picnic areas.  There were a few families enjoying a BBQ; fortunately, the majority of the area was empty.  With siren screaming and lights flashing, I started after them.  They were not impressed with the siren and lights, giving their bikes a little more gas hoping to lose me in the bends.

There was a 90 degree curve which always washed over with sand after a good rain storm, and they were heading for it.  As I rounded a corner, and that curve came into view, I couldn’t help but laugh.  The bikers had tried to take the bend way too fast.  One of the riders had slid on the built up sand, skidded off the road, through several cactus, and was laying on the ground beside his bike.  When I walked up to see if he was hurt, all I could see were cactus thorns sticking out of him from head to foot.  It was the first time I had ever seen a human pin-cushion.  The grunts and groans testified to the pain he was in.

When I was hired on as a park ranger, I was told my primary job was to educate the public as it pertains to use of the park system’s properties and facilities, as well as enforcing park rules and state statutes.  I could see that this man had definitely learned a lesson… the hard way.  I saw no need to further his discomfort by writing multiple citations unless he wished me too, so I made an offer.  If he could get on his bike and leave the park, I wouldn’t write any citations.  If he decided to remain in the park, I would write several, on both of the bikers.  It was pure pleasure to watch one with so little concern for others pick up his bike, push it to the roadway, very painfully get on it, kick start it, and ride the curvy roads out of the park.

Some days it really pays to go to work!

The SCA Takes care of Their Own

The Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA) is an outstanding organization.  Its members revel in reliving the times of pre-17^th century Europe.  A well-organized and disciplined learning environment for children and adults; where respect and honor are as integral part of its members as breathing air.

 

I had the pleasure of being an on-duty park ranger during one of their large, several day encampments at Estrella Park in Maricopa County, Arizona; the group’s attendance exceeding 4000.  A challenging task, as the main park area was made up of a huge open area in the center, surrounded on three sides by picnic tables.  During large group activities, much of the picnicking area was still open to the general public, and was full to overflowing this particular weekend.  Typical for picnickers was lots of food, lots of alcohol, and lots of loud music.

 

During this event, several complaints had been made by the folks running the SCA event about people in the picnic area playing excessively loud music, interfering with some of the group’s activities.  The bulk of the noise was coming from one particular picnic site.  However, driving passed the site several times produced nothing that was actionable.

 

Often, party groups would put out lookouts; their job was to let the group know when a ranger was coming by on patrol.  There was a road that went around the entire area, too large for foot patrol, accordingly, almost all patrolling was by vehicle.  The group would turn down the music and hide all the alcohol bottles when a ranger was sighted; once out of danger, the party was back on.  The usual patrol pattern was to make rounds every 30 minutes or so, making it easy for folks to avoid contact with a park official.  This cat-and-mouse game went on for a couple hours… it was time for plan “B”!

 

I contacted the SCA group’s manager, and asked him to gather six large, impressively armed, gnarly looking men to hang out near the problem picnic site, and come over when they saw me approach the group.   I made one round in the patrol vehicle, parked it, and walked back from the open field side.  The music was very loud, and the bottles were everywhere.   The SCA’s “enforcement” team arrived right on time; a very ominous looking group of very large men dressed in chain mail, armor, and packing a variety of period armament… large swords, maces, axes…

 

I had them stay behind me, as I walked up to the problem people, explaining to them that I was going to have to leave the park for a while, so I wouldn’t be there to protect them.  Then I left.  I went on another patrol 30 minutes later… the group was gone.