When I arrived in Holloman in March, 1967, it was in a quiet period. The last of the 366th TFW and its F-4s had departed for DaNang RVN, and the 49th TFW had not yet arrived from Spangdahlem, GE. But it was still a challenging air traffic environment. As the Air Force Missile Development Center, the base had almost every type aircraft assigned for testing, and a supporting Army Aviation unit had a number of Bell 47 
helicopters and U-8s. In addition, there was the 4758th DSES, with a squadron of F-100s and another of B-57s, with the 
mission of flying against NIKE air defense sites in the Western US. There were also BQM-34 drone launches on the airfield, the famous sled track, and high altitude balloon launches.
The runway layout was unusual, with the main runway (15/33) intersected by the approach end of 21/03, and bisected by 25/07. Operations on any of them intersected, and of course everyone wanted a different runway to reduce their taxi time.
The control tower was also an “approach control tower” with a position for non-radar approach control, one of the last non-radar approach controls around. There was an MPN-13 used for PARs only, since the surrounding terrain played havoc with the radar beyond 12 miles.
Checking in, the 1st shirt took me to barracks 330 (still there today) where I met my roommate for the next 2 1-2 years, Victor Colon-Rivera. Vic was asleep when I arrived, but raised his head long enough to ask “you got a car?”, and when I said yes, said “All right – let go to Juarez!”. And so my introduction to the life of an air traffic controller began.
Life as a three-level at Holloman was good – swing/afternoon/morning/mid shift schedule, then off two full days. The training program was in three parts, part one – local area knowledge, part 2 – equipment knowledge, and part 3 – operational knowledge. After a minimum of six months in training, you met a base-level board of Colonels who asked you questions and decided if you were ready to be a five-level. Sounded scary, but in reality the board was furnished the questions and you were given them also to prepare. After all, the comm squadron didn’t want to look bad in front of all those 0-6s.
My crew consisted of a seven-level, two five-levels, and a day floater. At least one of the five levels was approach control rated. A single supervisor-qualified controller could work the midshift without another controller as long as a three level (me) was there.
My career started off a bit rocky. On my first mid, the SSgt supervisor arrived in the tower, inflated his air mattress, said “I’ve got eight kids at home – wake me if anything happens”, and promptly fell asleep. All was quiet until about 2 AM when a local T-29 (twin-engine transport) checked in to approach control. I shook, yelled, and kicked my SSgt, but he wouldn’t wake up. I had no idea what to tell him, except that I knew if he cancelled IFR I could clear him to land. So the transmissions went like this:
“Holloman Approach, Air Force two-one-one-one-three inbound for the VOR Approach”
“Ah, Air Force two-one-one-one-three are you cancelling IFR?”
“Holloman, that’s a negative, two triple one three”
“Roger”
“Holloman, two triple one three is the VOR outbound”
“Air Force two triple one three are you cancelling IFR?”
“Two triple one three negative”
“Roger”
And so it went, through procedure turn final approach fix until:
“Holloman, two triple one three is three mile final. I’ll cancel IFR – can I land now?”
(With enthusiasm) “Air Force two triple one three, wind calm, cleared to land!”
Amazingly, the pilot never complained, and when I told my SSgt (after his solid six hours of sleep), he slapped my on the back and said “good job!”.
Harassing three-levels was an art form even back then. One day I watched as my fellow three level ran out of the GCA with a broom in hand, and after going about 10 yards stopped and began waving the broom high over his head. A head popped out of the van and gave him a thumbs up and pointed to another area. The broom waving was repeated until all 360 degrees around the GCA was covered. When my boss called and asked what was going on, the reply was “we’re just having the new three level check the MTI”.
My turn came one day when I received a call at local (unknowing to me, from another controller in the recorder room) from “Apple Charlie One” a Navy Vanguard, requesting a straight-in low approach. I had no idea what a Navy Vanguard was (it was a missile) so I told him to report a ten mile final. He responded with “ten miles”, so I told him to report three mile final, and got an immediate “three miles”, so I cleared him for a low approach, to which he replied “on the go”. Immediately everyone in the tower swiveled their heads down the runway and exclaimed “wow, did you see that? Man that’s a fast airplane – did you see that?” Of course I didn’t –but wouldn’t admit it so said, “yeah!”. That’s when everyone else fell on the floor laughing and I knew I’d been had. Had to give them points for creativity, though.
Learning to be a tower controller in the late 60s was a different animal than today No BRITE, no headsets, no standard arrival procedures, and at Holloman, no airport traffic area or control zone since it sat inside restricted airspace. The typical recovery was “Holloman Tower, Karat 11, land one F-100”. But after five months I was ready to meet the board for my five-level, and taking pity on my nervousness, the Colonels approved my upgrade, and a month later, I was issued my first CTO.
Life was good for a young five-level. There were hunting excursions almost weekly, softball during the summer, and 
basketball during the winter. One of my favorite places was Dog Canyon, an imposing canyon full of history and a place to look for Apache and US Calvary artifacts. Today it’s a state park with restricted access a visitor center and campground. 
And there were lots of parties. It was a time in the Air Force when people were closer, and each week another get together was hosted by a controller. We weren’t paid as much as today and the facilities were shoddy, but we managed to enjoy ourselves as much or more as airman do today.
I think that for almost everyone, the memories of the first group you work with in your career remain the fondest. 
My roommate Vic was a great friend and we had great times together both on and off duty. On one occasion, we managed to convince the Security Police guarding the Thunderbirds that as controllers we could walk up to the aircraft to inspect them.
One of the great guys to work for was MSgt Ray Gordon, here with the rest of my crew, Vic and Sam Anaya.
Things changed in the summer of 1968 when 72 C-141 sorties arrived over the course of a week bringing in the men and women of the 49th TFW. With the arrival of the wing’s 72 F-4s, the base became a hotbed of activity. A hundred or so cheap mobile home were hauled in and set up near the city airport (still there today) as base housing ran out of space. For us, the traffic was both a challenge and an awakening, as we tripled the traffic count overnight. There were too many jets for the ramp, and F-4s were parked on the taxiway as you can see in this picture from the base open house in 1969.
The inevitable day came when the chief controller called me to tell be I’d received an assignment – to the 1st MOB at Clark AB, Philippines. Having heard the horror stories of the traffic at DaNang AB, RVN from returning controllers, and being seven-feet tall and bulletproof at the age of 22, I requested a swap. I got a call later that same day and was told that any idiot that actually wanted to go to DaNang could count of getting the assignment, and so in July 1969 I said goodbye to Holloman and headed home for a month’s leave before heading to Viet Nam.
San Antonio in September is hot – high 80s at least, mostly 90s, and humid. On arrival, it was just like the movies – lots of screaming, yelling (them) and whining and crying (us). We were formed up into a ragged rectangle and marched (sorta) to our new homes – four bunk beds to a room with a common latrine. Over the next few weeks we marched, cleaned, organized, marched, went to classes, fired the M-16, marched, and slowly became Airman. Some memories:
The base had a “red flag” system; when the flag was flown (temperatures over 90 degrees), no physical training was allowed. Not wanting to impact our molding into combat-ready killers, our Drill Instructor (DI) would have us form up in the basement and do our PT there. 
Our DI was the template for all DIs. He looked like R. Lee Ermey, the Drill Instructor in “Full Metal Jacket”. Except leaner and more weathered, and with a diabolical sense of humor. On one occasion, we were late forming up in the morning. After lunch, instead of marching, we were told to go to bed, and do everything we would do at night. We folded clothes, organized, cleaned, and jumped under the sheet and wool blanket (remember, it was 90+ degrees) and waited. 
Suddenly he started banging trash can lids together which was our signal to form up. We jumped out of bed, made the bed, dressed, and formed up. But not in time apparently, as he screamed at us the “You ladies apparently didn’t get your beauty sleep, go back to bed!” So we repeated the ritual. Again. And again. After five tries we apparently had it right, or he was tired of banging together trash can lids, because he let us go on to our next class.
Finally came the day when we would receive our career field assignments. I stood smugly as names and jobs were read off to stunned airman (Strategic Air Command Aerospace Protective Coating Specialist = painter), patiently waiting for my name and the announcement that I was going to be a Med Tech. I knew there must have been some mistake when my name and “air traffic control specialist” was called. What? What the hell is an air traffic controller? I couldn’t believe it! But, I explained to the DI, my recruiter said it was a lock! “Don’t worry if you don’t like it”, my DI said with a smile, “most everybody washes out or commits suicide”. And that’s how I became an air traffic controller…..
