Free Viper Pilot: A Memoir of Air Combat by Dan Hampton Page B

the end. I’d used the Tinto to wash down and disinfect the candied snake, locust poppers, and half a dozen other Spanish treats that had been shoved in my face. But near the end my guide refilled the bouda bag and handed me something on a stick.
    “You gotta try this.”
    There was some snickering from the crowd.
    “Whaddacallit?” I burped back.
    “Kinda like a Spanish . . . corndog. Yeah . . . a corndog.”
    More snickers.
    Well, it was dark and I’d figured out pretty quick not to look closely at the things I was eating. Besides, this was the last stop and I thought I’d made it. Feeling cocky, I swallowed some Tinto to numb my one remaining taste bud, closed my eyes, and took a bite of something crunchy.
    I remember briefly feeling quite proud. Whatever I was eating wasn’t too bad and then I’d be finished. The two other lieutenants were already on their hands and knees, getting a better view of the thousand-year-old gutter. Everyone else was chuckling, since they’d been in the same situation at some point in their careers.
    “Howizzit?” someone asked.
    I nodded, now an expert on all Spanish snack food, and replied with total confidence, “Good. How ’bout another?”
    More chortling.
    Just then I felt something wedged between my teeth and stopped chewing long enough to pull it out. I burped again and then made the mistake of holding it up against the faint light.
    For a long, nasty moment I stared at the thing as my Tinto-soaked brain processed.
    “Whatchagot?” someone asked innocently.
    It was a foot.
    Actually, it was a curved bird’s claw, complete with little talons. So the alley spun and the stars blurred. I felt the awful burning rush of all that Tinto, and the candied hummingbird I’d just eaten, come shooting up through my nose, mouth, and out of my ears. I joined the other lieutenants on the ground and everyone roared with satisfaction.
    No one beats the Tubes.
    Now, this particular ritual ends in a ceremony simply known as the “Naming.” This is where fighter pilots get awarded those cool-sounding nicknames, or call signs, you hear about in the movies. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be “Maverick” or “Iceman” or “Thor.” Right?
    Right.
    The reality is a bit different. There are some manly, warlike call signs, of course. I’ve known Slash, Magic, Crusher, Bruiser, and Storm’n. Even Ghost, Spook, and Zing aren’t too bad. Usually call signs are given for something noteworthy, and not necessarily good, that a pilot has done. Or maybe the guy is just an asshole—“JRay,” “Barney,” and “Moses” are prime examples of that.
    “Slider” is usually given for landing gear-up; “Scratch,” you guessed it, for scratching the belly of the aircraft on a low level or dinging the speed brakes on the runway; “Boomer” for inadvertently breaking the sound barrier and every window within a five-mile radius. The possibilities are endless.
    “Toto”—for accidentally shutting the engine down (throttle on, throttle off—get it?). I even knew a “Bubbles,” who’d ejected over the Atlantic Ocean. Anything, including personal traits or physical appearance, is fair game. So we have “Opies” and “Wookies” and even a “DDong” (short for “Donkey Dong”). I’m sure his mother would be proud.
    There are a few rules with this. First, and most important, if you’ve carried a call sign into combat, then you can never be renamed—it’s yours for life. Second, if you’ve managed to keep the same call sign while flying in three different theaters (like Europe, the Far East, etc.) then it’s yours to keep. Third, and most common, if you really hate a call sign then it’s probably also yours for life.
    I was named Two Dogs in loose reference to an old joke about how American Indians name their children. (“Why do you ask, Two Dogs Fucking in the Night?”) You see, I suntan to a deep reddish brown and my nose is beaked, so it kind of made sense in the Tinto