Kallepache and the Danger Men

When I was assigned to set up equipment at the air base in Esfahan, friends recommended a restaurant called the Feed House, known for serving excellent Kallepache.

There was a group of very strong men in Esfahan called “Danger Men,” by the people of Esfahan. These guys swung objects that looked like giant bowling pins around with their hands and they did it as a group, combining slow, artistic movements with ancient Iranian music. It was like a dance. I had seen them on television, performing for the Shah. They would practice in the very early hours of the morning. Turns out they also breakfasted regularly at The Feed House, and they all ate Kallepache.

The first day I went there for breakfast, they all stared at me, but no one spoke. The second day, they were much more friendly. On the third day, it was like old home week. Suddenly, it was like I was an old friend. They all stood up and insisted that I be served the best part of the head of the sheep (Kallepache is made from the head and feet of a sheep). The server complied. Actually, it was very good. From that time on, they all stood up when I came in. Now I was their buddy. It was a very good feeling. There was no danger for me at that place. No one ever saw my gun, even though it was always with me. If they knew that, people would have stayed away from me and I would have missed out on this beautiful experience. Iranian people are very friendly and respectful to people who they think deserve it. These strong men thought that I deserved respect.

The Iranian people that worked with me at the various electronic equipment stations knew I was having breakfast at the Feed House. Something had changed. Now, when I came near them, they would move towards a wall and put their backs to the wall. I noticed it and after a while, I asked a close friend why they were doing this. Reluctantly he explained: it was well-known that people who ate Kallepache for breakfast became more agressive and — well, let’s just leave it at that.

Kallepache – a favorite dish from Iran, made from sheep’s head and feet.

Another bit of info to add to the cultural differences all around me.

Zehbel: The Clever One

(written by Barbara, Mike’s editor)
Mike Roman asked me to come down to the FAA facility at Philadelphia International Airport to get a better sense of what he described in his book Zehbel: The Clever One (now out and selling well on Amazon and other online book distributors). He explained primary and secondary radar, pulses, signals, glide slopes, mega hertz, pulse rate frequency — why changing PRF also changed coverage — something obvious, but new to me, two-way mile measures, elevation, orientation of antennae, IOS, Category 3 localizers, ASR, ASDI (the small radar on top of the control tower, detecting movement on the runway), the IFR room underneath the control tower, etc.  He and a friend from the FAA took me up into the control tower to observe the activity there, keeping an eye on my new friend, ASDI. Then, back down to the IFR room, to discover the new radar screens, showing every airplane across the country, with the ability to identify each one by simply hovering over that plane on the screen. Naturally, we talked about 9/11. The technicians there concluded it could happen again, but it would be much more difficult now, with better surveillance, locked cockpits, and tighter security.

I was even treated to a wild ride across several runways in a company vehicle, to see the radar towers, plane de-icing equipment and note the identifying markers on each runway, up close. It was a wonderful tour of airport surveillance and the dedicated FAA staff that keeps everyone on course.

To my untutored brain, of course, the whole thing was best represented as a dance. Pulses signaling back and forth, each partner (hopefully) remembering their part in the dance and observing proper decorum.

Then I remember that Mike used to go up in a helicopter, in those pre-computer days, back in the 70’s, and make photographic maps, survey for RADAR placement, and design the equipment to keep an Iranian military airport, being used by the USAF, running safely. The equipment needed for complicated maneuvers now carried out by scores of FAA personnel, relieving each other in one shift after another, was often designed and built by one man, training a staff with little to no education in radar, electronics, communication,  with limited capability to comprehend the tasks at hand. That was one clever man, indeed.

Radar Tower, Philadelphia Int’l. Airport

Pakistan 1966

Pakistan 1966

In 1966 I was working for the Federal Aviation Administration in West Virginia. I was offered an assignment in Pakistan, installing a new type of Distance Measuring Equipment.  The pay was good, and we needed the money, so I took it.

When I landed at Karachi Airport in September of ’66, I was overwhelmed by the high humidity and a strange, foul smell. I had no idea what that smell was, but I soon got used to it. After checking in with the American Embassy, my first stop was Civil Aviation at Karachi Airport.  The Head Engineer’s name was Nacie. He was my guide and escort. Nacie and I soon became good friends. He came to understand my sense of urgency. The assignment was expected to take six months, but I was very good at my job and wanted to get back to my wife and four little girls. I completed the project in three months. The Pakistanis were delighted with their new equipment, and I couldn’t wait to get back home again.

He Saved My Life

In 1969 we were setting up a TACAN (Tactical Air Navigation) at Tabriz, near the Iraqi border. Essentially, we were working in a war zone, as trouble was brewing between Iran and Iraq.The Imperial Iranian Air Force (IIAF) fighter planes were there, sitting on the runway all day long, loaded with armament. Sometimes, they would take off. When they returned, the armament was gone. I didn’t know exactly what was going on. That was not a good feeling, I thought. On the other hand, maybe it was better that way. I knew a lot of the pilots; I would wave to them and they would wave back. The pilots were from all over the country, from other bases. Our work location was on the side of the runway near touchdown. All of this entertainment was free.

The commander of the Air Force Strike Group came over to see how things were going and asked how much longer it would take. He told me how grateful he was that we were setting up the TACAN. The commander’s name was Lieutenant Colonel  (LC) Amir Hosein Rabii. He would later become commander of the IIAF. He was a very friendly person and from that day on, we became close friends.
One night, I heard a lot of noise outside. A great many vehicles were speeding by, one after another, but it was too dark to see exactly what was going on. I could see trucks and artillery pieces. “What’s happening?” I wondered aloud. I left late but was back before the sun rose. Then, when the sun rose, I saw what it was all about. There were about two hundred artillery pieces in a line. Then it all started. They opened up. The shells were hitting in the mountains that partly surrounded the base. What a sight! The mountains were coming down. The noise from the guns was fracturing to the ears and body. My body was constantly shaking and vibrating. So was the ground. Something was happening. No matter what it was, I had my work to do.
By the fifth day, almost all of the essential work had been completed. The FAA people left but I had to stay until everything was completed. The Flight Check aircraft soon arrived and were ready to go. Flight Check was finished very quickly and the TACAN passed with flying colors. The aircraft landed and I took a jeep over to the tarmac to say good bye and thank the Flight Check people for their work. That turned out to be a very bad mistake. As I left the aircraft and headed for the jeep, I heard a loud shout.
My nightmare had begun. I found myself standing in front of a machine gun nest. There was one machine gun and eight riflemen. They were shouting at me and all guns were pointing at me. They sounded angry and crazy. I couldn’t understand what they were saying.
I shouted in Farsi, “I’m an American.” That didn’t seem to matter. Unknown to me at the time, they did not speak Farsi. They were less than fifty yards from me. I could see everything that was going on and it was not nice. They were ready to fire. My 9MM was strapped to my chest but that was of no use to me now. I was out in the open. It would be all over for me in a second if I had done something.
“Why does it have to end like this?” I asked myself. After all of the work that I had done for them, it didn’t seem right. I started to pray and I had the feeling that my soul was rising out of my body. I guess I didn’t want to feel the bullets hit my body. “My poor wife and kids,” I thought, “They will lose their daddy.”
A blue jeep was approaching. The gunners turned the guns towards the jeep. The jeep was driven by LC Rabii. He must have been warned by the pilots. Most of them knew me and were constantly sitting in their planes near the runway, ready to go. When he reached me, he asked what was happening. I told him. He said, “stay where you are.” I had no intention of moving. He talked to them for a few minutes.
“They are speaking Turkish,” LC Rabii said, “They want to shoot me too.” Now what! I couldn’t imagine them wanting to shoot a Lieutenant Colonel in a flight suit, but they were Conscripts and not too smart. After a few more minutes of talking to the soldiers, he said, “Go like hell, Michael!” I asked “Are you sure?” He responded “Go now!” So I did. He saved my life that day.