Tuesday, 28 July 1970 -- F5-Ljungbyhed, F17- Kallinge, Baltic Sea:

0730 came early, but everyone turned-to for breakfast. After came a briefing on the flight school and a tour of the hangers and aircraft. A visit to a nearby city and its famous Olympic-sized pool rounded out the morning. The afternoon schedule called for flights in some SK60 jet trainers, but the weather was bad. Instead, some RSAF movies of their aircraft in action were scheduled at the Flight School.

At about 1500, we were bussed over to F17 in Kallinge, home to an attack fighter wing. After a reception at the Base Commander's house we were, again, farmed out to private hospitality. McDonald and I partnered up again, met a young man named Peter, got our luggage and left for his house. I didn't know it, of course, but it was to be the best private visit of the trip.

I wasn't sure what to expect, maybe another nice house in the suburbs, but was surprised when we pulled up at a boat launch. Peter explained that we'd be staying at his family's cottage on a small island in the Baltic Sea and we shoved off in a whaleboat.

Sweden's southeastern coastline is formed from many islands and inlets - an archipelago - and Peter's cottage was on an island about a half mile out into the Baltic Sea. The island was really nice and cottages dotted the leeward side of the island. The view out over the bay was terrific. John and I wrestled our luggage up to a small cottage near Peter's. We went back down to the boat and motored around to the Baltic side of the island. Peter pointed out several large gun emplacements carved into high cliff walls that protected the various entrances to the bay -- it looked like something out of "The Guns of Navarone".

About a half-hour of fishing netted us two pike (I caught one!) and we returned to Peter's place. We visited a bit then Peter retired to the kitchen to cook some chicken for dinner. I pulled up a chair by the picture window and sipped some wine while a fantastic sunset faded over the bay and music played in the background; it was sublime...

After a dinner of chicken, bread, cheese and more wine, we visited for a while then John and I went down to our cottage. It consisted of a covered gallery overlooking the bay, a main room with kitchen nook, two small bedrooms and a small bathroom. It was compact, functional, and rustic, all at once...

Before turning in for the night, I walked onto the porch and leaned on the railing. The stars were out, lights danced on the water and laughter floated up from a nearby cottage. Right then, I was ready to defect to Sweden!!

Wednesday, 29 July 1970 -- Private Hospitality, Karlskroner

After breakfast in Peter's cottage we boated back to the mainland. He drove us to a nearby town where we joined the rest of the group. Our bus took us to the southern city of Karlskroner, home of the Swedish Navy's museum.

The Swedish Navy, we learned, is kind of a beefed-up Coast Guard. They put a heavy emphasis on anti-sub warfare and are constantly sparring with the Soviets, who use the Swedish coastline for practice. An anti-convoy mission, with a few subs of their own, rounded out the Swedish capability. The museum also had numerous exhibits and intricately handcrafted models of various ships, ancient and modern.

The local press caught up with us and posed us up outside of the museum for a picture that ran in the next day's paper. Our hosts saw that we all got a copy as a souvenir, one of many thoughtful touches.

At a nearby pier, a fishing boat waited and we headed out into the foggy Baltic to some small, obscure island for lunch. The island was interesting in that it was apparently being fortified as a submarine base. One theory was that the island was somehow being hollowed out and the subs would enter only by submerging first and then popping up inside. I don't know about all that, but we WERE "asked" to leave our cameras behind and not to stray off the path to the mess hall.

I did walk over to what looked like a small excavation and it was an eye opener. The excavation was a gun emplacement covering the pier we landed on and the adjacent beach. There was some kind of passageway on the back wall. The passageway, all underground, led back toward the center of the island. Looking back in that direction you couldn't tell that anything was there. All they had to do is drop the roof on the emplacement and rebury it and it would be invisible. These folks really liked to dig-in!!!

After lunch, our fishing boat headed out again into the Baltic; this time for some fishing. It was foggy and drizzling and after a few attempts to catch something most of us went below. We did, though, try to spark some interest by pitching in on a pooled bet. The first guy to catch a fish would collect. Well, the winner was one of the Swedish boat crew who won thirty Kroner, doubtless a tidy sum to him!! Good thing we weren't fishing for a living; only three fish were caught.

After the fishing trip, John and I were picked up by Peter and we went to his father's home for dinner. On the way Peter picked up his girlfriend. Dinner was the pike we'd caught the previous day. After, we returned to our cottage on the island, ate ice cream and visited until bedtime. John and I returned to our picturesque little cottage and Peter and his girlfriend stayed at his.

Thursday, 30 July 1970 -- Ronneyby, Royal Swedish Gliding Academy

Peter's father met us at the mainland boat launch and drove us to the F17 base in Kallinge. We met our bus and were driven to Ronneby, picking up Cadets along the way. A tour of a local trade exhibit and a nearby glass factory was the first order of business.

Sweden is well known for its crystal and glassware and we could see why. The factory was actually run by people of Italian descent and they were true artisans. This factory specialized in producing intricate glass figurines, all made by hand. They also sold hand-blown decanter sets, glasses, decorative vases, and bowls.

The visit started with a first-hand demonstration of the glass-blowers art. The artisan pulled a taffy-like glob of glowing, molten glass from the furnace onto the end of a long metal tube. He then began to blow with a mighty effort, his cheeks puffing out like oranges. Shortly, a bubble appeared from the glob of glass, which he shaped into a decanter-like bottle. A bit more shaping with various tools and he cut the bottle off of the tube. At the end of our tour we came back by the bottle he'd made. Though it wasn't glowing, he lit a cigarette off of the bottle (without touching it to the glass) to show us how hot it still was. I was sure impressed and didn't need a further sales pitch. I bought a nice decanter for my Mom and some little figurines as gifts.

After the glass works a small boat took us for a trip down some canals that wind through the area. It carried us on to a larger excursion boat that took us out into the Baltic to an island casino for lunch. The casino area was closed -- probably a good thing, too, since my funds were tight enough -- but we took some neat pictures by the roulette tables, etc.

Returning to F17 that afternoon, an RSAF C-47 transport flew us on to Alleberg, a city in south-central Sweden. Stepping off the plane, we were greeted by the local press, who got some shots of us unloading our luggage bucket-brigade style, and some others of us just standing around looking photogenic (and, maybe, a bit lost) in our various uniforms.

We were packed off to the Royal Swedish Gliding Academy located on a plateau that overlooked the city of Falkoping. No sooner than we landed in our open-bay barracks then it was time to get ready for a banquet, this time sponsored by the City, and we ate, listened to music, visited and danced until after midnight.

It was an occasion like this that would bring out the best (or worst) in our group. Usually, we would produce a spokesman who would acknowledge our host's gracious hospitality. I've mentioned Stephen Gunner who was hard to beat with his cultured British accent and excellent command of the language. If an interpreter was called for, then one of our Swedish Air Cadet buddies, Per or Gunnar, would step right in. We were getting this international ambassador thing down pat.

We had a couple of the British guys who, judging by their Cockney-like accents came from a more boisterous background. One day they started whistling at the local girls, then riding on the roof of our bus singing drinking ditties. I don't know who said what to whom, but a little later they were all very low-key. We, too, had our opportunities in the form of our resident alcoholic, Andy, but more about that later.

However, at midnight in Falkoping, after a bus trip, a plane trip, and a hurry-up appearance at an official banquet, nothing looked better than our humble barracks building at the gliding school and I hit the rack...

Friday, 31 July 1970 -- Falkoping, Royal Swedish Gliding Academy

Early (as usual) the next day our bus took us for a visit of the local sights. At a monastery, we learned that the majority of Swedes are Lutheran. The building itself was hand-hewn stone with massive flying arches inside and complete with intricate stained glass windows. It was easy to be awed by the age, symbolism and devotion it took to build it.

Lunch was courtesy of the local Rotary and the rest of the afternoon was billed as free time. We spent our time in the city's picturesque downtown, which had been converted into kind of an open-air mall. I was impressed at how clean the city was, their high quality of everyday life was evident everywhere.

After supper at the Gliding Academy, a few of us decided to try climbing down the face of our plateau. The plateau was ringed, it seemed, with an ocean of wheat fields. In the middle of one field stood some stone ruins that we hiked over to. Couldn't really tell what they had been, a building of some kind, but bigger than a house; and it was pretty overgrown. The climb back up to the school was something more of a chore than the climb down, due to the altitude. In any case, it capped off the day...

Saturday, 1 August 1970 -- Royal Swedish Gliding Academy

Today, we crowded out to the flight line with its grass strip for a day of gliding; something most of us had never done.

The two-man gliders were impressively light but sturdy. They were towed aloft by a bi-plane that looked like something out a World War I movie, but quite serviceable. The glider would be pushed by 5 or 6 guys out onto the grass strip. A helper supported each wing tip while the others pushed it along on its' centerline landing wheels. Support and balance was important in this phase; drop a wing on the ground and the glider would probably spin around like a top and toss us all off in every direction. No, we didn't try that; we wanted to leave a good impression. We also wanted to get up in the air...

Once lined up, the pilot and passenger would get aboard and button up the canopy. The ground crew would check the towline -- a steel cable -- for proper attachment and wing-walkers on both sides would hold the wings level with the ground. The bi-plane would then ease up ahead and take up the slack. Finally, the bi-plane would apply power and start off. The wing-walkers would become "wing-runners" for a short distance until the glider gathered some lift. Then -- WHOOSH -- it was up in the air like a big toy!!

At the appropriate altitude and location, the glider pilot would reach down, lift a lever, releasing the towline; then you were on your own.

My flight lasted about 31 minutes. The sudden lift-off gave you the same feeling as an elevator going way up, then up some more. More impressive, though, was the lack of sound; just the rushing of air. The pilot dipped and soared on the air currents that swirled around our plateau. Finally, we swooped down for a landing and came to rest as gently as a bird on a perch.

I spent most the afternoon with the other guys helping the line crew. A couple of us did check out for a while, though, and take a nap; all the late nights and early mornings were taking a toll.

Later in the afternoon, the gliders were secured into the hanger. The evening featured a dinner/dance enlivened by some local girls who were invited, no doubt, for a close look at the foreigners. Later, some of the guys went with them down to a disco in town, but the majority of us just opted for bed -- not party-poopers, just pooped.