Air Operations - Back In The Day

In our air operations group we have had some pretty exotic people who were pilots. I am using the past tense because some of them have transferred to other locations or retired, and the group is not the same as it was before I retired. In fact, the Border Patrol, now, has no pilots. All pilots are CPB.

To be a Border Patrol pilot it is required that you have a commercial pilots license, instrument rating, fifteen hundred hours experience (a large portion must have been as commander of the aircraft, not as a co-pilot), and you had to be "current" in these skills. If you had these qualifications, as a "fixed wing" pilot then the Service would cross train you as a "rotary wing" or helicopter pilot. If you were a "rotary wing" pilot then you would be cross-trained as a "fixed wing pilot". Since there was only an occasional opening for a pilot "trainee", you might have to wait for several years for your chance. Under these requirements nearly all of our helicopter pilots were members of the military reserve. They had learned their skills in the military and upon discharge had enlisted in the ready reserve to maintain the currency of their licenses. In 1975 it cost $300.00 an hour to rent a Hughes 500C helicopter, so maintaining currency without the military picking up the tab would have been formidable.

Consequently, after a number of years, we had three high-ranking U.S. Navy officers flying our helicopters. Two were Captains, one promotion away from being an Admiral, and the other was a "full" Commander, two steps below an Admiral. This can be pretty frightening when you know some of the fellows, kind of like "Dr. Strangelove". The two Captains were commanders of antisubmarine helicopter squadrons and the Commander was a squadron Executive Officer. All of them were Viet Nam combat veterans and thought that their Border Patrol work was "great"; no one was shooting at them. Well, they didn't get shot at too often!

The Commander, the hero of this episode, had been in a psychological warfare squadron in Viet Nam. Their helicopters had powerful outside speakers on them and they would precede or accompany units that were attacking Viet Cong positions, very loudly playing martial music and propaganda messages. After the enemy got used to this, they could disrupt the enemy's rest by simply flying around in the area and making noise, as they were perceived as a precursor of an attack. Anyway, the boys were diabolical when it came to playing mind games with the aliens.

During the winter there was extremely heavy rainfall, causing extensive flooding. Just to the west of the San Ysidro Port of Entry, the Tijuana River flood control channel enters the United States and goes west to the ocean at distances up to a mile north of the border. The flood was one of those hundred year floods that come along every five or six years. It totally overwhelmed the flood control channel. When the channel turned, the floodwaters didn't and they cut a new river channel to the ocean. This took out all of the roads and bridges to the south side of the channel.

The people that lived on the south side of the flood control channel became defacto Mexicans. There was no way to get into the United States without going into Mexico and entering through the port of entry. Consequently, the chain link fence that was the United States / Mexico border was almost destroyed. It became a series of holes tenuously wired together in spots. There were numerous dirt roads cut to ease traffic between the two sides by the United States residents trapped on the south side of the channel. The whole thing assumed a surreal quality as if "KINGS' X" had been declared.

There was a Border Patrol Agent that lived on a ranch on the south side, so he was more or less assigned to help the S.D.P.D. maintain order. He patrolled the area on one of his horses, to help prevent looting and burglaries and to generally show the flag. This went on for several weeks. The S.D.P.D. had a couple of four-wheel drive vehicles that the Navy carried over the river on an amphibious vehicle and patrol units were changed by helicopter. There was no attempt to control illegal entries south of the Tijuana River, as the river was almost forty feet deep in the concrete flood channel. While driving his Dodge "Ram Charger" on top the north wall of the levee, an Agent could pace debris floating at twenty-eight miles an hour. There wasn't anyone going to be swimming across there!

The Mexicans knew that they weren't going anywhere, so they turned the area into a giant arena to loiter and yell remarks at the "Migra" (Immigration Officials) on the other side. We had always maintained a presence on the south levee to prevent them from staging there and running "Banzai" charges to the north levee. From the north levee there was only a few hundred yards of open ground until the group would be in a densely populated residential area, MOSTLY filled with immigrated Mexicans who sympathized with them. If a group of fifty or one hundred made it into the houses, we'd be lucky to dig out five or ten.

This was their chance to "rub our noses in it" by flaunting their presence and calling us names. As was mentioned earlier, there isn't a hell of a lot of difference between the Border Patrol and the Mexicans, and two street gangs having a turf war. The feelings can run high.

The stage is now set. The Mexicans had escalated the challenge to the point of setting up tent restaurants and bars, and having street vendors selling tacos and tamales from push­carts. Lovers were strolling arm in arm while jeering at the "Migra". The B.P.A.s on the north levee were not "happy campers"!

Late one Sunday afternoon there was a "whomp-whomp-whomp" in the distance. Then it got louder. Up the flood control channel from the ocean came a Navy "Sea King" antisubmarine helicopter. Now, we are talking about a BIG helicopter. Each blade of the main rotor on the Sea King is about forty feet long and when the pilot is "pulling pitch" (has the blades angled to provide lift) the propeller wash is terrific. If you are not alert it will knock you off your feet.

The Sea King came to a hover over the water, facing the south levee, and then it began to move over the levee. The first things to go were the tent restaurants and bars, the tents went flying and all of the food and merchandise were scattered. Then it chased down the pushcart vendors. The prop wash blew the pushcarts into the water and they were last seen floating "out to sea". Then it came back and went to work on the campfires, and scattered them and anything else that could be found. Then the Sea King circled over the B.P.A.s on the north levee, gave them the helicopter equivalent of the wing wagging salute and went "whomp-whomp-whomp" back out to sea. The B.P.A.s all said to each other, "Who was that masked man?"

This pilot ended up leaving the Patrol and working for another agency in another state. We heard that he was involved in several drug apprehensions in which there were shootouts between his aircraft and the boats running drugs, but the only incident that we had confirmation of is more of a domestic one. He was patrolling one of his areas beaches when he caught a glimpse of something behind a small building on the beach. Swinging around he lit up the area and there was a citizen happily "buggering" his dog. It being a slow night, he called the police and the bad guy was apprehended. It wasn't real slow around Southern California, but everyone managed to find time to give him a call and congratulate him on his "big bust".

One of pilots was what you would call an aggressive pilot. The normal way to land a helicopter is to make an airplane type approach on the runway and then "air taxi" to the tie down area. This would stay out until the last minute, swing around over the tie down area at one hundred mph or so, do a beautiful side slip at sixty mph that would put him directly over where he wanted to land, and drop it like a feather exactly where he wanted to be. All the BP pilots who watched him do this were totally awe struck. The man is a fantastic pilot.

Nearly all of our pilots are what could be called free spirits. Any attempt to force them into conformity is sure to be met with resistance of the most insidious sort. Rick had a "full dress flight helmet" that he wore for special occasions, like when he wanted to drive someone at "Sector Headquarters" right up the wall.

He had taken a regular white military type helicopter helmet and tricked it out like a "pickelhaube", the classic Prussian spiked helmet. The left side sported a "Maltese Cross" about four inches across, and the right side had a "Blue Max" of about the same size. The "Blue Max" (known in France as the "Pour Le Merite") was a World War I medal named for Max Immeling. To earn it you had to shoot down twenty allied warplanes. It was the highest award for German flyers in World War I. Centered on the top, of course, was the traditional Prussian spike. The helmet had a very dark sun visor, like military fighter pilots wear, that covered the entire upper portion of your face.

This was worn with a military flight suit and he flew the helicopter with the doors removed so he was more visible and could be more expressive.

He would come swooping over a hill top, and pounce upon some poor group, scaring the crap out of everyone by buzzing them a few feet above their heads. He would do a tight circle or two around them while shaking his fist at them from out of the open door and shrieking maniacally over the outside loud speaker. Usually the group didn't move until the Border Patrol Agent on the ground arrived to rescue them.

All of the pilots were masters at using prop wash to stop a running group by blowing all kinds of debris at them as they are trying to run, but Rick far exceeded the criteria to be called master. Often in the Tijuana River bottom there would be huge piles of tumbleweeds that had been blown hither and yon by the wind. This game could be played in two ways. If the alien or aliens were attempting to hide in a large pile of tumbleweeds then Rick would peel the weeds away with the prop wash as cleanly as if he were cutting them out with a scalpel. Should the alien be trying to hide in a small pile of weeds, then Rick felt that he needed to be better hidden from our ground agent and again using the prop wash would bury him under huge piles of tumbleweeds (Russian Flax). After the ground agent arrived, if the alien wouldn't come out after Dave called him on the loudspeaker, the weeds were again rolled away so the agent didn't have to dig him out.

I've never tried it, but tumbleweeds are extremely prickly and I don't think that being holed up in them would be much fun; especially after running a distance and being all hot and sweaty.

The Great Gunfight

One day, an Agent known as The Professor reported for work at Station One in El Paso at about 4 pm. Pneumonia Wilson was waiting for him and motioned him into one of the interview rooms. He had a problem and sought The Professor's advice.

When he got to El Paso Sector, Punchy began calling this Agent "the Professor" and he was right. He was destined to teach at the Academy at Port Isabel.

This apodo led the other PIs at El Paso to treat The Professor like a jailhouse lawyer, and they often came to him for advice when they were in trouble. I don't know exactly why they thought him a sage beyond what Punchy named him, but I assume they knew the advice was free and probably worth about what it cost.

Penumonia had a problem. He had been in a shoot-out with a Tonk; the Tonk was in the hospital and he was worried about what to write on his report. The Professor told him to tell the whole story, and he did.

He and Center-Fire Reaves had been assigned the day shift working the Sandhills. This was an area West of El Paso and was mostly just that: sand hills. In this area, just at the point where the Southern Pacific Railroad turned Southwest to make its journey to San Diego through the Gadsden Purchase, there was a railroad siding where the SP kept a few empty boxcars.

Anapra was a wide spot in the old road between El Paso and Las Cruces, NM. This siding is near that village and seems to have picked up its name by that proximity. It was then a village of a hundred or so souls, but there is a race track out there now and is probably a lot bigger than it was.

There, also, were five houses that the railroad built for the section gang for that section of the SP. The section foreman and four gandy dancers had lived there with their families, and it was their job, years before, to maintain the track. However, by that time, section gangs were a thing of the past and four of the houses were empty and abandoned.

The Professor can't remember now who inhabited the one house there but he had a rifle and the Tonk broke in and stole the rifle along with a box of ammunition. This area was west of Monument One and there was nothing but a three-strand barbwire fence along the border. Wets would walk across the border and come up and sleep in the empty boxcars or hide in the brush until the train came along and then jump in for a ride to Arizona or California.

In this case Pneumonia and Center-Fire were cutting sign along the railroad track when they saw a footprint coming from the border. They stopped; Pneumonia got out, and Center-Fire was to continue on and make a big circle.

The tracks led Pneumonia toward the one house the Tonk had broken into but the Tonk had gone out the back way and was behind another house. He saw Pneumonia and began firing at him with the stolen rifle.

Pneumonia made for the first obstacle between him and the Tonk, and that happened to be a skinny telegraph pole. Pneumonia was a big man and he tried to shrink to about half his size to fit behind the pole while the Tonk was banging away at him.

The Tonk ran on behind a boxcar and Pneumonia ran to the near side of the same car. From there Pneumonia dropped down on his knees and he could the legs of the Tonk on the other side, at least that part of his legs below the boxcar. Pneumonia took aim and shot him in the leg, just at the shin. The Tonk began hopping around and, when he stopped, Pneumonia shot him in the other leg.

While he was telling it, a light went off in The Professor's head. We all carried S&W .357 Magnum revolvers and The Professor was wondering why the Tonk still had legs when it dawned on him.

The Professor pointed his finger at Pneumonia and said, "you had wadcutters in your revolver, didn't you?"

He got a sheepish grin on his face and said yes. The Professor said, "You were going out there to shoot rabbits, wern't you?" He admitted the same. That explained it. Wadcutters were bullets for shooting paper targets on the pistol range and had about half the powder of regular ball ammo and about a third of the powder of a .357 charge.

Pneumonia continued his narrative. When the wet dropped to the ground, Pneumonia ran around the end of the boxcar and pumped a bullet into the guy's gut. Now some thirty bullets had been fired and Center-Fire had heard none of them. Nothing. He was still driving happily around out there looking for tracks, carefree as a lark.

Center-Fire had dreams of a big shoot-out where he would fast-draw and kill as many bad guys as Dirty Harry. He had many fantasies, all involving shoot-outs, and he often would share them with us. He carried a Colt .44 caliber revolver and loaded his own cartridges. He managed to increase the velocity of these hand-loads higher than the .357s by putting tin in the lead when he cast his bullets. He always loaded up with hollow points. He was in the middle of one of these fantasies when all this happened, we figure, and reality was never as interesting as his dreams.

Pneumonia disarmed the Tonk and began firing into the air. Finally, Center-Fire responded. When he got back Pneumonia had the Tonk and the Tonk was crying and carrying on something fearful. Center-Fire was shocked and disappointed. He had missed the big shoot-out!

They loaded the Tonk up and took him to Thomasen General, put a hold on him, and came to station one.

What should he do, Pneumonia asked. Go make an I-213 on him, The Professor said, while he writes out the narrative on this story. The Professor concocted a logical story by weaving a few wisps of the truth among a vast skein of bumbling ineptitude and made it sound as if the wadcutters had been ball ammo that just grazed his shins. Pneumonia's part in this incident became heroic. The Professor polished it until it fairly reeked of verisimilitude and turned it over to Pneumonia for his report. Pneumonia rounded up Center-Fire and rehearsed the whole scene for half an hour.

They all were kinda hoping that the Tonk wouldn't live over the shot in his gut and the story would just die. However, the doctors dived right in, operated right away, and saved the guy. They had a secure ward over there where they put him and he couldn't get away.

After the Tonk recovered at taxpayer expense the district office prosecuted him. He drew a sentence but The Professor can't remember how much. A formal deportation of the tonk followed. Nobody at sector across the street ever referred to this event. If the chief knew anything he must have decided to leave this one alone.

Pneumonia was neither rewarded nor punished. The Professor's part in it was never discovered. The deception was never uncovered. Center-Fire later began to tell his part in this incident. He told it just the way The Professor wrote it. The event faded away just as all the other questionable (and sometime hilarious) incidents at El Paso did. It was the best possible ending for bizarre tale that could have been disastrous.

This Is A Caltrop


There are many like it, but it is my caltrop. In fact, before I was introduced to the innovative genius of caltrops, I (and a good number of Journeyman Agents) carried bricks.

The first time I witnessed a brick in use was just after I graduated from the Academy. I had been assigned to Joe as a supervising/training Agent for a two week period of 4P to 12MN shift. One evening, Joe and I were driving from Point A to Point B when a call came over the radio that someone had just "run the port" in a van with no windows.

Since we were fairly nearby, Joe instructed me to pull off into the desert and away from the road. He wanted to wait for the van and I could tell that he was really hungry to catch it and see what was inside. My mind raced. Dope? People? Both? I was stoked and so was Joe.

Sure enough, the van topped a rise in our direction and I started the Ramcharger. As soon as the van was close, I inched-out toward the hard surface road. Just after the van passed, I stomped it and we were off. I lighted-up the reds. He didn't stop. I flashed the headlingts and sounded the horn (our desert vehicles didn't have sirens). He still didn't stop.

Joe instructed me to pull along side of the van. I did what I was told. When we were even with him, Joe leaned out the passenger window and yelled at the guy to pull over. The driver flipped Joe off and simply kept looking straight ahead.

It was then that Joe instructed me to pull forward enough so that Joe would be even with the van's front bumper. In the time it had taken me to do that, Joe had reached into his trique bag on the floor and extracted a brick. He threw it out his window. The brick impacted the van's windshield at about eighty miles an hour and the whole affair spiderwebbed. The van finally stopped and we were able to find the drugs that the driver desperately tried to keep us from finding.

A few months later, some of us were talking with another Agent from a Sector farther to our West. This guy had been a New York City police officer before he had gone to the Border Patrol Academy. He told us about caltrops and how he believed them to be much more effective than bricks. After giving it some thought, we had to agree with him.

Naturally no Chief Patrol Agent will ever want to know that his Agents carry them. He will probably also never admit that he carried them when he worked the Line.