Sunday, 2 August 1970 -- F7 - Satenas

This Sunday was a 'day off'. No tours, receptions, banquets, or other official stuff -- nothing. There was travel scheduled that afternoon, but we killed the morning just sleeping-in, repacking clothes and souvenirs, writing postcards and similar housekeeping.

After being in country now for about two weeks laundry was becoming quite a challenge. The daily schedule didn't really permit a lot of free time. Besides, where would you ask for a laundromat? The blazers were getting a little wilted and selections of fresh clothing were getting thin, it wouldn't be many more days before things would be getting ripe. My dirty clothes went into plastic bags, first rolling them to reduce wrinkles and to save space. These "padded" my shoes, souvenirs, etc.

Our private hospitality hosts laundered some things and there was some professional cleaning done once or twice. That turned out to be a bit dicey because we were on the move so much. On one occasion we ended up in one city with our laundry in another. An RSAF courier had to bring them to us. THAT was some expensive laundry -- although it was all complimentary to us.

After a very late breakfast we embarked on about a five-hour bus trip from the Gliding Academy to the F7 air base. F7 was an attack fighter base located in Satenas near Trollhaten, in the southwest part of the country.

Saab JAS-35 Drakken

No, the closest thing to room service was a cardboard box of room-temperature sodas for sale - honor system - on each floor. Well, who said that international diplomacy was to be without sacrifice?

Dressed in coat and tie, that evening's dinner turned into a pleasant surprise. At the F7 airbase our bus wound up a long, curving driveway to a stately mansion. "Hey, this place looks like a country club," I thought. This was where the officers hung out; it was the beginning of one of the most elegant parts of the trip.

The base was situated on what appeared to be a plantation. The driveway was gravel and lined by massive old trees. Change the climate a bit and throw in a few cotton fields and you could be back in ante-bellum Louisiana.

We walked across an acre of porch and past some columns that would have been at home at the Acropolis. Proceeding through an ornate door with leaded-glass sidelights and into a hallway with gleaming wood floors, we were greeted and guided into the dining room.

The tables covered with snowy white linen, china service and crystal goblets. There was enough heavy silverware at each place setting for a small family. It was all a formal dinner setting right out of Emily Post. Topping it off were place cards with each person's name and homeland at each seat.

It was pretty clear that this place was no mere mess hall.

White-jacketed mess boys served the food, one course at a time. I really don't remember the menu; I was too taken by the elegance. They could've served peanut butter sandwiches and still impressed everyone.

It was on an occasion like this that the braver of the Americans would try to master the Continental style of eating. This involves holding the fork in your left hand and the knife in your right as you eat; just the reverse of what we'd been taught at home.

To cut a piece of meat, for example, we "Yanks" would switch the knife to the right hand; hold the meat down with the fork in the left and saw off a piece. Then the fork and knife would switch hands and we'd spear and eat the piece of meat with the fork back in our right. Some thought our switching utensils back and forth and holding the fork shovel-like was pretty provincial. "Looks like you Yanks just shovel it in," observed one Brit. After observing everyone else's style, most of us agreed, and decided to try something new.

Our hosts and everyone else would simply hold the knife in the right, the fork in the left (but with the curved side up and tines pointed down). That's where they would stay. None of this switching and shoveling business. Thus, food was speared and eaten as it was cut or the knife was used to push food toward the fork.

Hard to describe, but it had a practical elegance to it. With a little experience one could even master mashed potatoes and peas without embarrassment. It was just another of those little cultural differences.

After dinner we 'retired' - this wasn't the kind of place where you simply "went" anywhere - to the Officer's lounge upstairs. It featured a wood paneled smoking room and sitting area with a huge and ornate billiards table. This was no USAF 'O-Club' with jukebox, 25-cent beer and 50-cent pool. This was true billiards - no pockets. An enlisted mess boy busily served up drinks to order, while RSAF Officers in dress uniforms sat in leather wing-backed chairs, smoked and chatted.

After visiting with our hosts, some played cards, and a few of us were exposed to the finer points of billiards by our British cousins until after midnight. Later, we 'retired' to our hotel....

Monday, 3 August 1970 -- F7 -- Satenas

Saab JAS-37 Viggen

In an auditorium a briefing of the pilots was going on. They were going out to maneuver against some nearby Army units. They were practicing some sort of sector defense against an armored brigade. Other pilots treated put on an air show of some older prop-driven trainers. The morning was capped off with a tour of the control tower.

At that point, though, there had been plenty of airplanes, ramps, towers and static displays on the schedule. It was all a little ho-hum. By the time we returned to the Officer's Club we were itching to try something new and exciting. We weren't to be disappointed....

The base letter carrier and the base Officer of the Day both made the mistake of parking some nifty little Mo-ped motor bikes by the Club. We pounced on these and spent the rest of the afternoon trying some maneuvers of our own, zipping around the drive and exploring the base. When they ran out of gas we carefully parked them were we'd found them, just knowing that NO ONE would ever suspect us...

Dinner that evening was the usual coat and tie affair, complete with band and a social afterward. I and several others returned to the billiards room to try to figure out the intricacies of the game. Maybe, we hoped, we could beat those Limeys (and win back some of our 'Kroner'). Some of us did -- I didn't -- and as I walked back to my room and inventoried my dwindling stack of Swedish currency I vowed to keep my sports betting impulses in check.