(Originally published in Airman magazine in June 2002)

In another time, they’d creak along huddled in hundreds of bulky wooden wagons filled with their effects. Through thick brown mud, over huge sand dunes and huddled for warmth in the cold, the wheels of this band of gypsies would roll along.  The words from a traditional gypsy song might best sum up their lives:

And their captain was a handsome man
He had a sword and what looked like a plan
But there was something wrong in his eyes
Bloodshot and bleary from too many nights

Eyes, minds and bodies are often weary because Air Force air control squadrons travel constantly. Global conflicts, exercises and training keep wheels moving from place to place. Home is the place where the equipment is stored. It’s a relative spot for those who can be deployed as many as 250 days each year.

Almost vanquished in the mid-1990s, air control squadrons in Europe and Korea are suddenly vital again. Deploying from locations around the world, they roll into place, hoist their radar and begin work. In doing so, they provide a piece of the airborne battlefield picture, meshing their data with that of the E-3 airborne warning and control system and E-8C joint surveillance target attack radar system. When all the puzzle pieces come together, theater commanders see the complete battlefield from top to bottom.

In another role, a 50-year-old U.S. air control unit camped on Iceland’s tundra provides that nation’s only air warning capability. Coupled with American F-15s prowling Iceland’s shoreline, air controllers have caught Soviet Bear bombers and more.

Most assigned to these military gypsy caravans understand the nature of the business. There are three to four deployments each year, some 100 days or longer. That means frequent time away from home. But Staff Sgt. Dee Yates, an operator for more than 12 years, enjoys her nomadic life.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she said. “It’s what I joined the Air Force for.”

The gypsy soul

Airmen from Spangdahlem Air Base’s 606th Air Control Squadron in Germany know the refrain all too well:

I see the war and peace
I see the death and birth
I see all the bloodshed
For I have a gypsy soul

From its roots in Texas, the squadron’s three-hour notice to deploy to Pusan, Korea, in 1950, its movement around Bitburg, Basdahl and Dobraberg, Germany, in the 1980s and its eventual settlement at Spangdahlem, the squadron knows the rigors of war.

It spent six months in Italy during Operation Deny Flight controlling 9,600 refueling missions in 1996. It sent 88 vehicles, 800 short tons and 100 troops to Italy for Operation Allied Force in 1999. The 1,600 miles traveled completed what squadron members boast was the longest overland convoy in Air Force history. It sent another 113 troops to Kuwait for Air Expeditionary Force 9 and Operation Southern Watch in 2000. There, controllers tracked more than 3,500 aircraft and controlled 2,400 refueling missions.

Capt. Russ Hayes, who carries one of the squadron’s swords and has the plan, said in addition to the gypsy mentality engrained on everyone’s minds, the squadron offers value to senior leadership.

“An AWACS can’t fly for forever,” he said. “We’re a 24-hour operation. We’re cheap, and we work well with the Army’s missile units.”

Hayes’ unit employs an array of equipment, including the AN-FPS-117 radar and AN/GPA-123 beacon antenna. The sensors coupled with others give the unit greater coverage than most small city airports. The radar works well, Hayes said, through multifaceted conditions, including inconsistent terrain, heavy rain, migrating birds, glaciers and chaff.

There are also several trucks and small trailers filled with computer equipment. Smoky, pungent smelling diesel generators power the unit while thin fiber optic cable connects it all and sends the data to headquarters.
Unfortunately, with a Godzilla-sized infrared/radar “footprint,” Hayes and his fellow gypsies are a ripe target for enemy bombers and guns. Sometimes, that means taking cover from enemy bombs and shooting.

“Our infrared signature is huge,” he said. “Although we have certain countermeasures, no one is a stranger to bunker dives.”

Although his two years served is miniscule compared to many of the squadron’s gypsies, Hayes is well aware of the toll time away can take. He said he and the other squadron leaders take great care in working with airmen, spouses and children to understand and cope with the lifestyle.

“The tempo of operations can be frustrating. We have a United States Air Forces in Europe commitment. We have a NATO commitment. We have our AEF commitment and others,” he said. “We can’t do any of it if we can’t deploy and train.”

Meanwhile, Hayes always looks forward to the next deployment.

“I work with the best bunch of folks in the world. I love being in the field with them,” he said.

Loki’s mischief in Iceland

For more than 50 years, it’s been the Air Force mission to watch the skies of Iceland, reminiscent of another familiar gypsy song verse:

I whiled away all the years of my youth
Tending my fields searching for the truth
Gazing past horizons to the west
Hoping I’d see them before my death

In contrast to their European and Korean counterparts, controllers who wander into Iceland’s 932nd Air Control Squadron at Keflavik Naval Air Station catch a break. The tempo has slowed since the Cold War. Not since 1999 has anyone seen a Russian aircraft or sent an F-15 to chase one.

Codenamed “Loki” — named for the Norse god of mischief — the squadron with 15 outstanding unit awards doesn’t deploy as often. That means Loki’s airmen have ample time to finish an education, spend time with their families or simply drink in the pleasures of an Icelandic tour.

However, there’s still work to be done. Despite a 75 percent annual turnover rate and a 60- to 75-day initial qualification for each new Airman, the squadron manages to keep the air sovereignty big picture focused for the North American Aerospace Defense Command and NATO.

Four radomes — one of which is only reachable by boat — are based on remote parts of the island. They create a blanket of coverage spreading more than 250,000 miles on Iceland and into the Atlantic Ocean and the North Sea. A central headquarters houses a secure bunker. Tech. Sgt. Ed Figueroa, an air surveillance technician, has ridden the air control squadron caravan around the world for 14 years. The single father with two children said Loki hasn’t laughed at his need for stability at a crucial point in his life.

“Keflavik has been a blessing. I have a routine. I can spend time with my kids and not have to worry about child care or other issues,” Figueroa said. “I still get a great sense of mission.”

To keep their edge, the controllers practice their skills almost daily with the island’s F-15 quartet. Exercises are usually filled with radio chatter, animated tracking screens and airmen striving to keep their edge on what Iceland’s 85th Group commander Col. Bruce Rember called “an absolutely vital mission.”

Maj. Dale Sinnott, Loki’s operations officer, said while the work differs from their Europe and Korea comrades, the leadership still keeps people on their toes.

“These are the best trained airmen in the career field,” he said. “Anyone here can sit in almost any other position and perform those functions. That’s a luxury we have — being able to train people in a number of different disciplines.”

The caravan rolls on

Admittedly, air control squadron leaders and supervisors have troubles keeping people. Spangdahlem’s Hayes said the travel schedule wears on some, and no amount of talking will keep them from retraining or leaving the service. There’s also an issue with equipment, some of which has been around since the Vietnam War.

“At the least, we want people to understand what they’ll get here,” he said. “We provide a good support structure for spouses, and we’re doing our best to upgrade the equipment. We’re doing as many things as we can to make this life livable.”

Three years as an air surveillance technician for Senior Airman Amber Hartline have given her a favorable impression so far. She’s one of Loki’s controllers and believes the mission is important, regardless of the venue.

“It makes me feel like I belong,” she said. “There’s so much to do, and we’re constantly busy. I’m part of a team.”
Time away from Spangdahlem gives Airman 1st Class Kevin Byers — one of those airmen Hayes will try to retain — an opportunity to study for promotion and read his Bible. Without Byars and the others who maintain the unit’s 35-year-old diesel generators, the unit would come to a standstill.

“It’s nice to have power,” Byars said. “Without power, you’re just camping.”

They still roll through mud, creak through the desert sand and find their way to places most people never go. But for more than 500 men and women in air control squadrons around the world, these words might sum up their careers and signal the start of another deployment:

Then one day they rumbled by
A gypsy caravan the color of the sky
Water sparkled as the wheels turned round
Across the river into the town.

(Originally published October 2002 by Airman magazine)

Forget the mission. Everyone talks about Iceland’s weather. It’s like some Shakespearean character inspiring defiance, tragedy and romance in one sitting.

Winds rage across the Reykjanes peninsula’s black pumice-crusted skin providing commercial airline passengers landing there the rush of a first-time bungee jump. Cold’s teeth clamp down on cheeks, eyes, noses and lips. Thick snow drifts blow through like the playwright’s fictional armies storming a castle, eager to claim victory on just one unguarded victim.

It sinks fishing boats. It musters Marines to form human chains for “kid-catching duty” so school-aged children getting off the bus won’t blow away. It whips car doors past their limits, creating “The Keflavik Crunch.”

Staff Sgt. Melissa Melger, a personnel troop assigned to the tenant 85th Group at Keflavik Naval Air Station, Iceland, knows the character of the weather well.

“You haven’t seen weather until you’ve been to Iceland,” she said.

The 650 or so airmen at Keflavik laugh at it. Most get used to the sun shining 24 hours a day, contrasted six months later with no sunlight for weeks on end. But the weather is always at the top of conversation, especially during winter.

Group Command Chief Master Sgt. Dan Kuester said there’s no gradual acclimation.

“We welcomed the Hawaii Air National Guard for a rotation. They were like, ‘What the heck is going on?’ ” the chief said. “It’s not Hawaii. Your lifestyle will change.”

Not always welcomed
Americans and their technological toys have not always been welcomed in Iceland. The United Kingdom originally set up camp without Icelandic permission. Then came the United States. When the British needed troops for battle, both governments insisted the United States should provide the island’s protection.

After receiving approval from the Icelandic prime minister, President Franklin D. Roosevelt sent in the Navy. He addressed the Icelandic occupation issue July 7, 1941.

“The United States cannot permit the occupation by Germany of strategic outposts in the Atlantic to be used as air or naval bases for eventual attack against the Western Hemisphere,” the president said.

After the war, however, the United States broke a contract and didn’t withdraw its troops. Instead it asked for and was refused permanent military bases. The two governments later reached a compromise in 1946 spawning Keflavik and a seven-year lease. Eventually, Iceland joined NATO in 1949. During the Korean War, the United States received permission to station troops in Iceland, this time under a NATO umbrella.

Hunting grounds
Keflavik is coupled with Keflavik International Airport. The naval station — home to the joint-billeted Iceland Defense Force — is a stone’s throw from the Arctic Circle, wedged between Greenland and the invaluable, oil-rich storehouses beneath the North Sea.

These were once-fertile hunting grounds. American pilots sent here flew P-38s, P-40s, F-89s, F-102s, F-15s, F-16s and other aircraft in search of one of the Cold War’s top prizes — a silver hulking Russian turboprop-driven bear bomber. From 1962 to 1973, the Iceland Defense Force intercepted more than 1,000 Russian aircraft. In the mid-1980s, Iceland intercepted more than 170 aircraft each year.

Like any good hunt, 90 percent of the time spent is waiting until “Loki” spots the bear. Loki — the Norse god of mischief and the call sign for the 932nd Air Control Squadron — has watched 250,000 square miles of airspace in and around Iceland for 50 years [See “Band of Gypsies,” August 2002]. A pair of New Orleans-based F-15 pilots made the most recent Bear catch in 1999.

Maj. Dave Sinnott, Loki’s operations officer, said the key to air defense is keeping his team alert.

“The greatest challenge is keeping everyone on their toes,” he said. “That’s why we run so many exercises.”

F-15 Eagle-driving hunters from around the world deploy with the 85th Group for three months. To sharpen the edge, aircrews fly regularly with Norwegian and other foreign services. But even the best hunts are spoiled by the weather, according to Capt. Mike Morgan, an F-15 pilot assigned with the group.

He said the greatest danger is a slippery runway. The nearest “divert” runway — where an aircraft would go if it couldn’t land at Keflavik — is in Scotland. Diversion usually means calling out “the tanker,” the sole KC-135 available for the task. Unfortunately, if the weather’s bad, the bloated, fuel-filled tanker can’t get airborne either. No gas means aircraft become large metal weights that can plummet helplessly into the ocean.

“The weather is a huge factor,” Morgan said. “It puts us in a bind if we have to divert.”

While the Eagles patrol the island and the humanitarian rescue team saves lives [See “Above Icy Waters,” July 2001], the assign-ment’s best secret may be hidden away in its education center. Iceland serves as a safe harbor to complete work on associate’s and bachelor’s degrees.

Airman 1st Class Joshua Highley, one of Loki’s scope watchers, has extended his stay twice to further his education. Why not, he said, given the ample resources and opportunities the assignment provides.

“When you’re assigned to Mountain Home [Air Force Base, Idaho], or Hill [Air Force Base, Utah], you’re pretty mobile. You won’t get the same kind of time you have in Iceland to finish a degree,” he said. “I came here for the break.”

Icelandic culture
Iceland displays some radical cultural differences with its temporary American inhabitants. This is, after all, a country nine centuries America’s senior with roots in Viking lore.

Iceland was settled by Nordic people in the 9th century. Tradition says the first permanent settler was Ingólfur Arnarson, a Norwegian Viking who made his home where Reykjavík now stands. Icelanders still speak the language of the Vikings, although modern Icelandic has undergone changes of pronunciation and vocabulary.

Iceland also upholds another Norse tradition — using patronymics rather than surnames. An Icelander’s Christian name is followed by his or her father’s name and the suffix -son or -dóttir. For example, Gu rún Pétursdóttir is Gu rún, daughter of Pétur. Members of a family can therefore have many different “surnames.” Iceland is the only Western culture still doing this.

Service culture
While Icelanders and Americans have cultural differences, there are similar chasms between the Air Force and Navy. No one makes any bones about the uphill climb it can be on both sides. One Air Force senior noncommissioned officer said resolving the services’ differences “can be like gouging your own eyes out with pencils.” A Navy master chief petty officer agreed.

The rift is evident even as you walk into the Keflavik Naval Air Station headquarters building, which is split down the middle. Each side is distinctly service oriented.

Despite the differences, several of Keflavik’s command-level leaders, including Col. Bruce Rember, 85th Group commander, said issues about use of money, facilities, resources and time often reach mutual and amiable conclusions.

Rember cited a Zoomie vs. Squid incident involving liquid oxygen carts. Recently, the perception of some bluesuit maintenance troops — who had three liquid oxygen carts — was that the Navy maintainers — who had one cart — weren’t taking care of their equipment. So, they shouldn’t ask to use what the Air Force has available.

“Most of this was hearsay,” he said. “It turns out folks simply weren’t talking to one another.”

Eventually, the airmen invited the sailors for some maintenance training and face-to-face conversation. It worked. Both sides gained a deeper understanding of a once tension-filled issue. Rember said this kind of outreach will be how both sides of the headquarters hallway work together to keep the operation running smoothly.

“It’s a very collaborative effort between us and the Navy,” the colonel said. “There’s probably not always one practical approach to every situation. You have to know the right touch points. However, I think we’ve started to create the right environment now.”

Back to the weather
Cultural differences aside, everyone returns back to the common point of reference — the weather. Rember’s first F-15 flight involved making a landing in ferocious crosswinds and referring to emergency checklists. Another had him on a one-hour loiter over Keflavik while a freak snow storm blew through.

“The weather,” he said, “is probably the first thing people talk about.”

Iceland’s weather can bring harrowing experiences and leave rich memories. But its gruff character, Kuester said, isn’t strong enough to wear on the psyche of the airmen pulling the tour.

“We’re pretty careful about watching how the weather affects people’s behavior,” the chief said. “You can get cabin fever pretty quickly. As long as the sun’s out, you should get outside.”

Melger summed up her Iceland assignment experience by comparing it to the weather.

“The job is easy compared to the weather,” she said.

(Story by Tech. Sgt. Jason Tudor;photos by Master Sgt. John E. Lasky