Thursday, 23 July 1970 -- Rhein-Main AB, Stockholm, F8 - Barkarby

At 0430 -- yep, that early -- we got dressed and repacked in a scene that would be played out many times as we learned to live out of our suitcases. At 0645, we went over to the mess hall for our last American-style breakfast for about a month.

Back at the barracks luggage was loaded and we departed for the flight line. Our group, along with the guys going to Norway, would fly in a Norwegian Air Force C-130. The NAF was to drop us in Stockholm then the others would fly on to Oslo.

“OK, where is the air crew,” I wondered after standing around for two hours waiting. We had new places to go and big things to accomplish and the grumbling had started; in about five languages, too.

The plane’s name, painted on the fuselage, was “Odin” the Norse God of Thunder or something. Well, old “Odin” needed to toss a thunderbolt up someone’s butt for leaving us standing around like that. Good thing there wasn’t a war going on -- these Norwegian’s would have lost, and not known it -- still being in bed or eating breakfast...

There was, though, the chance to meet the entire contingent of Air Cadets that was to make up our happy family in Sweden. A total of twenty in our group; two from the Air Cadet League of Canada; six Air Cadets from Great Britain; two guys from some flying club in Switzerland and ten Civil Air Patrol members made up the group. We had two Escort Officers; 1LT Arne Stenlund, CAP and Flight Officer Gerrard Cochrane, RAF to keep us in line.

Finally, at 0930, we took off and after two hours and a time zone (jet-lag, again!) we landed at the Bromma Airport in Stockholm. As we off-loaded our luggage we were met by our Swedish escort Officers and the local TV, radio, and newspaper. I figured that it must have been a slow news day, but no, we were pretty big news, and didn’t realize it.

“Hey, I could get to like this...” I thought as we boarded a Royal Swedish Air Force (RSAF) bus, then drove through the countryside to F8, an air base in Barkarby, outside of Stockholm.

Sweden is a country about the size and with about the same population as California. It is bordered on the North by the Arctic Circle and Finland; on the West by Norway; the South by Denmark and to the East laid the Baltic Sea and the USSR. Russia, we learned, was only 60 seconds from Swedish soil by jet -- these people really lived “under the gun." Not being part of any defensive alliance, like NATO, they preferred their neutrality. Like the Swiss, they were ready to back it up with their military and had preparedness the like of which I had never seen.

Our drive through the Swedish countryside was pretty unremarkable; just gently rolling meadows, kind of like parts of the midwestern United States. As we approached the F8 air base I guess I was expecting a US-style air base, with huge hangers and vast concrete aprons all lit up like a shopping mall at Christmas. What I saw was deceptively simple.

Entering the base at a guard post one immediately saw that these folks were ready for the worst. A blockhouse covered the gate and then the main road wound up to some woods. It looked all the world like a country lane in the middle of a field; but with a few important exceptions. Each intersection had a camouflaged machine gun emplacement covering it. All of the barracks and support buildings were situated in what looked like a random fashion around a forest. The forest was all big trees that had been there forever. You would have to know it was there to really see the place from the air (or satellite)...

“Where are the airplanes?” I asked one of the Flyg-Pojkarna (Swedish Air Cadets).

He pointed to a hill in the distance, “In there." We learned later that the hangers were underground and the planes would taxi up curving ramps from below and then emerge from a cave mouth right onto the runway with afterburners blazing.

A late lunch was the first order of business and our first test of diplomacy in action. We had all been reminded in Washington that foreign food could be different. The ”IACE Guidebook” made it clear that “Etiquette and the spirit of adventure require that you at least taste everything.”

Well, the local delicacy there, served at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, is raw pickled herring. It was easily the foulest, fishy-est thing I have ever smelled, much less eaten. I choked down a small piece of it, and smiled but passed on a second helping. Some tea, a rykrisp-like bread, and some great cheese helped to settle things down.

At our barracks, which consisted of a large wing and a smaller one, separated by the latrine and a common area, we moved in.

“Let’s get some of our guys in this wing," I said to some of my CAP buddies, and immediately regretted the gaffe. The British Air Cadets started a chorus of disapproval about how the Yanks were segregating themselves -- with this IACE thing being all about international friendship, and on and on -- talk about touchy!! I went over to apologize and explain that the remark was directed to the one or two guys I knew. It didn’t work and I would have to remember to be more diplomatic...but we all went on to become terrific friends, except my buddy from the last chapter, of course, who somehow got on everyone’s nerves.

Anyway, we had to change to blazers and boarded for a bus tour around Stockholm, an ancient city, built on an archipelago of many islands. We crossed a lot of bridges and saw a lot of buildings, some as modern as tomorrow and some quite antique.

We passed the American Embassy that had (of course) a demonstration going on in front of it. The Swedes felt quite apologetic, but we assured them that America had demonstrations back home -- even riots -- all the time.

We did learn that Americans had a tarnished image in the eye of many Swedes. The Vietnam fiasco was still going full-throttle and was politically controversial everywhere. Beyond that, the only Americans that many Swedes saw were the various hippies, deserters, etc. that had fled to places like Canada or Sweden. These specimens generally freeloaded off of the social services while contributing little beyond an occasional outburst.

At 1900 it was back to the Bromma Airport for a welcoming banquet and ceremonial drinking sponsored by the Scandinavian Air Service (SAS). I got my first real exposure to REAL Swedish cuisine with a menu of Swedish steak, veggies, rice, beer, wine and multiple toasts with aquavit -- schnapps. Our hosts also passed around trays laden with various brands of cigarettes. I don’t recall what the dessert course was because we’d had several convivial toasts by then; each one demanding that you toss off a shot glass of aquavit.

“Whew, it sure is getting hot in here," I remember thinking, but it sure beat eating raw, pickled fish.

Later that night we reeled back at our barracks. At about 2200 the British, Swedish, Canadian and Swiss guys in our group all donned pajamas and went off to bed. Talk about civilized!! Ever the examples of American culture; we just sat around in our shorts, smoked and played poker until about midnight with that fake-looking Swedish money.

Friday, 24 July 1970 -- Stockholm

After reveille at 0630, I tried to shave; no easy task since our barracks only had cold water. Dressed in blazers, we went over to breakfast and to another test of diplomacy at the mess hall. Lining up behind our Swedish hosts, I’d learned not to take any chances. It was better to lay back and check out the chow before committing myself.

At first glance things looked OK; no bacon and eggs, SOS, pancakes or that kind of thing, but this WAS a different country, after all. There was a big metal pan of cornflakes, some pitchers of milk and cocoa, bread and marmalade and tea. Breakfast wasn’t the meal of the day here, that was obvious.

“Damn...” I was ready for a cup of coffee, but the tea would have to do caffeine-wise. Besides, what could be better than a bowl of some of those down-home corn flakes??

The Swedish guys each dished up some corn flakes and picked up a pitcher of milk.

'“Hey, wait a minute,”,' I thought as the “milk” poured out in chunks and clumps. 'That isn't milk! It's curds and whey!!!!'

I didn’t care WHAT the “IACE Guidebook” said about showing “Etiquette and a spirit of adventure....”. When it came to food, I wasn’t going to soak my corn flakes in soured milk! Tea and bread would have to do until something more edible appeared.

At 0830 our bus departed F8 for Stockholm. There a Royal Swedish Navy patrol boat awaited and we toured the network of islands that makes up the city and the Baltic coastline. Stockholm, we learned, is an ancient city dating back to, I think, the 1100’s. The numerous islands provide natural chokepoints making the defense of the city a sure thing. (Steve's memory is excellent. Stockholm was founded ca. 1252 by Birger Jarl as a fortified island defense outpost against Baltic pirates, commanding the transshipment route between the Baltic Sea and Lake Mälaren. - Ed.)

It was almost lunchtime when the boat moored at a dock near Stockholm’s City Hall. It was pretty neat to just pull up in our own “private” navy ship and hop out like we owned the place. Regular VIP’s, yessir!!

The City Hall was a large building resembling a cathedral, complete with formal gardens and fountains. Though it looked quite old, it was actually fairly new; the architecture was designed to blend in with the older buildings around it. A tour of the building led to a luncheon as guests of the City.

From there, we hopped back on “our” patrol boat and visited a site where archeologists were restoring a 17th-century warship the “Wasa”. It sank on its maiden voyage and became encased in mud on the bottom. Between the mud and the cold water a lot was preserved. The scientists now had the whole ship in a special hanger-like room. The ship was continuously sprayed with a water-based preservative. They carefully removed the mud and pieced the ship back together. The project was to take years, maybe a decade...

Back to F8 at about 1600 for dinner, then three others and myself were alerted to pack up for the weekend. One feature of IACE was that you could expect to spend at least a couple of weekends as guests with local families in their homes. You’d get the chance to appreciate their culture and share a bit of yours. An RSAF staff car brought us to a hotel in Stockholm; we’d fly out the next morning.

The hotel was the local equivalent of a YMCA. The room had a lavatory and mirror, but the baths and restrooms were down the hall in the European custom. It was clean and comfortable, though. It was still daylight -- and would be until about 2200 -- so we decided to take in the sights. We ended up at the local Grona Lund “Tivoli” (amusement park), rode some rides and played some games of skill.

While wandering around, I spotted a marquee and posters touting what appeared to be a magic show (Heck, I couldn’t read Swedish!!!). For seven Kroner -- about a buck forty -- I bought a ticket, walked in and sat down. Yep, there was a magic show all right -- it lasted for all of about fifteen minutes. It was sandwiched in-between two remarkable strip-tease shows. Guess they needed the intermission to let the steam out of the room!!!

Judging by the way their clothing disappeared maybe the dancers were magicians, too. Well, I’d heard that Sweden was a very liberated country. This was sure a far cry from Ponchartrain Beach back home!!!

It was so impressive that I talked my buddies into coming back with me for the second show. They did and my reputation rose considerably.

Later, the guys and I separated and I learned an important lesson. When traveling abroad be sure to have a pocket notebook and take notes!! I should’ve written down the name of our hotel, its’ address, and the bus number we’d taken to the Tivoli. Maybe made a little map, too. The language barrier is really a challenge but very easy to underestimate. All Swedish street names meant nothing to me and I had absolutely no way of asking for directions.

Oh sure, many Swedes speak English; but how do you ask for directions to a place you can’t even pronounce, much less remember the spelling of?? The bus system was, likewise, a meaningless maze. Talk about a dose of culture shock.

I grabbed a phone book and, of course, couldn’t make out any information of value. Place a call to the hotel?? No way!! If I’d lucked out and got the right number -- what would I say (in English) that would make any sense to anyone there?? Take directions in Swedish?? Forget it!!! I’d never felt so helpless and panicky....

Anyway, I tore out the name of a hotel that looked familiar and hailed a passing “Polis”. After a bit of sign language, the local cops -- only too happy to help out yet another dumb tourist -- cheerfully opened the door of their car and waved me aboard. My smiling hosts then drove through an old part of town and pulled up at a run-down hotel I’d never seen before. A few friendly gestures indicated that it was time to hop out at “my” hotel -- and that maybe a tip wasn’t out of the question either; who knows...

“What the hell is this?”, I thought, totally confused. After another round of sign language the cops gave up and we ended up at their precinct station. I was probably getting on their nerves or maybe they were just late for a raw, pickled herring break or something. With an early flight to catch, though, I had to get to the hotel.

Well, they woke up a police officer that spoke passable English (sure as hell better than my Swedish) and figured out where I really belonged. I finally got to the room at about 0100 and hit the sack. A last recollection that night was waking up to daylight streaming in at about 0300 -- had something to do with being close to the Arctic Circle, I think. Then, remembering we had to get up at 0500 to catch a plane, I buried my head in the blankets.