The following tale is true to the best of my recollection. Women hate this story, and tend to lump it into the pile of other sophomoric stupid #%&*$# that fighter pilots do that make women think (or at least say publicly ) that we are "Pigs"
Ok. The set-up:
Shaw AFB, Sumpter SC. Summer of '91. July. Africa-hot and cripplingly humid. There I was, a newly-minted F-16 driver, fresh out of RTU, arriving for his FIRST DAY at his first operational F-16 squadron.
The story-
I arrived in SC the day prior to my official report date. My brother was living in Columbia SC at the time, so it was a no-brainier to hang out with him for the night. That was my first mistake. We pushed it up like rock stars.
So when I show up for day one as the 19th Fighter Squadrons FNG (#%&*$# new guy) I was pretty hung over.. Sweating beer in the hot South Carolina sun.. Mouth tasting like ash tray.. Sweaty butt crack..clad in flame proof nomex and feeling like ass.. Might puke at any moment.
I was smart enough to get an in-processing checklist, and planned on eventually going down the list that day and doing all the "first day" #%&*$# that the USAF loves, but first, I needed someone to give me a vector. I needed to find my buds from RTU who had beaten me to Shaw by about a week. Have them give me the lay of the land and a little mutual support. That was my second mistake.
Now Shaw AFB had been flattened by hurricane Hugo, so all of the squadrons were living out of a cluster of double-wide trailers interconnected by a series of wooden decks- and it was pretty low rent. I was in search of two of my RTU classmates..I knew where they were- any new guy in a fighter squadron who's been there for a few days is easy to find- all the FNG's are in "the vault".
It's the FNG's job to get up to speed on the squadrons mission as rapidly as possible, and the vault is where all the classified info the FNG's need to learn/study is kept, and it is maintained by the intel troops. Most squadrons have a room that looks like a no- #%&*$# bank vault, with the big crazy door and all that..but all of the buildings at Shaw were trashed in the hurricane, so finding what was being used as a temporary vault in a trailer was proving problematic for the young, all dick- no forehead fighter pilot that I was that day.
So an enlisted guy goes walking by and I grab him. "Hey, I'm Lt. Fleischmann..FNG.. Where is the vault?"
"oh hey sir- welcome to Shaw.. Follow me- I'll take you there"
So he leads me into a trailer.. And holy #%&*$# it is hot and muggy in there.. The A/C is cranked but not doing well. We walk to the end of this trailer to a room.. A windowless little room That was the temporary vault.. And this place is packed: overflowing with classified.. 5lbs of #%&*$# in a 2 pound bag.. Files on the floor.. File cabinets with important #%&*$# stacked on top..crap everywhere. So small you'd have to step outside to change your mind.. And there in the middle of this little room, is a leather couch with three dudes sitting shoulder to shoulder, studying the 3-1 classified threat manuals... One of the dudes was one of the guys I was looking for: RTU classmate RB Gibbons.
"Hey RB"
"Holy #%&*$# Pete you made it! Welcome to Shaw buddy!" RB says from the comfort of the couch.
Now, remember.. I was pretty hung over..and the whole time I had been wandering around...I could feel a pretty big beer fart welling up inside of me.. Knocking at the back door.. Teasing- no; taunting me to be released. And I'm not sure why, but in that moment I crafted an innocent enough plan.
I looked at RB and said "hey RB. Pull my finger man" (third mistake)
"Sure"
So RB leans forward and gives my index finger a tug-
And then it happened. I released the nastiest, hottest, most diabolical beer fart in the history of beer farts. A funk so heinous that woodland creatures were startled for miles. That hot little room was instantly filled with an egg/anthrax mix that could kill a goat. Immediately people started to gag and bail out of the room..horrified by the airburst..and as they rushed past me to get out the door they were all laughing hysterically..which was weird- because it was funny, but it wasn't THAT funny: something else was going on that I wasn't aware of.
Then I got hit. Slammed actually in the back of the head by something hard that dropped me to my knees. Now everyone is howling in laughter.. And I look up from the floor..dazed.. To see a chick in BDU's with Captains rank on her collar, swinging a metal 3 ring binder.. And she's gonna hit me again:
"YOU'RE A #%&*$# PIG!!!"
And she smashes me again across the side of my head and bloodies my ear. Holy #%&*$#.
She.. I found out moments later, was Sarah- our Intel officer. And she had been in the room the whole time.. But I didn't see her, because she was on her hands and knees spreading out some folders on the floor. I walked right past her- never saw her- had my back to her. And when I let that fart go, my ass was INCHES away from this poor girls face. My God, I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy.
And RB- that dick- he saw the whole thing set up behind me- And had no problem pulling my finger, knowing that Sarah was going to get a shotgun blast with both barrels.
So the doofer book came out immediately and I had a call sign..and I'd only been in the squadron for 5 minutes. "Hi- I'm the new guy. How do you like me so far?"
So by like 1600 I finally get around to meeting the squadron Commander. I walk up to his office. The door is open and there he is, sitting behind his desk.. Reading glasses on his nose, and he's reading something. I go to knock on the door frame and report in, but before I can, without looking up, he says "don't bother. I've already heard about you. Get the #%&*$# out. Try again tomorrow Lieutenant"
Sarah never forgave me BTW.
And now you know the rest of the story.
Pig


In all my years I've never seen the like. It has to be more than a hundred sea miles and he brings us up on his tail. That's seamanship, Mr. Pullings. My God, that's seamanship!