Stag Bars
Author: Steve Ladd
C’MON, Let’s Go to the Stag Bar
While we’re waiting patiently (or not) for Amazon.com to send you the book that you ordered, let’s take a step back in time–to a much more enjoyable place.
I don’t know how things are done now, but in the good ol’ days—‘60s to ‘90s—there was a single event that brought a demanding week of flying into perspective for fighter pilots around the globe. That event was known as ‘Happy Hour’ and it commenced at every officers club I ever visited around 5:00 o’clock on Friday afternoon. Happy Hours ranged from ‘good’ to ‘colossal’ depending on many factors: the size of the club; types of aircraft stationed at the base; age and experience of the participants—I could go on and on, but instead, I’m going to focus on the paragon of Friday night Fighter Pilot civilization—Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada—the Home of the Fighter Pilot.
Nellis has always been much more than a busy fighter base. It’s a busy crossroads that attracts that most inveterate of creatures—the common fighter jock. As the weekend approached, aircrews looking for a colorful couple days away from home would take advantage of the once-tolerant cross-country programs to conduct ‘navigation training flights’ which just happened to terminate 12 short miles north of Las Vegas—Nellis Air Force Base. Additionally, Nellis hosts a number of world class training exercises: Red Flag, an air-to-air combat exercise for pilots, and Green Flag, a ground combat joint close air support training exercise (called Air Warrior when I was running it in the ‘90s). These are two of the most focused and complex flying scenarios on the planet and they are attended periodically by different units, each and every one of which is populated by fighter pilots. Air Force, Navy, Marines……..Brits, Germans, Scandinavians, Aussies, Kiwis and the rest. They all flock to Nellis to take advantage of the superb training environment. Being fighter pilots, they have much in common and one of these commonalities is the weekly lemming-like trek to the Officer’s Club bar on Friday evening.
The main O’Club bar at Nellis was spacious, comfortable, sophisticated and, on a Friday night, totally ignored by the throngs of thirsty aviators who gathered to celebrate just about anything. These legions strolled right past the long elegant bar and across the highly polished dance floor to a much smaller dimly-lit area hidden away in the far corner of the larger room. This forerunner to the man cave was known simply as the Stag Bar. I’d like to give you a proper description, but neither I, nor I suspect anyone else ever ventured into this den of iniquity during the day or when it was lit up. Nevertheless, on Friday night, the Stag Bar was Mecca.
Through the gloom, you could see it was decorated in ‘early Great War’: sandbags stacked here and there; parachute canopies suspended from the ceiling, mix ‘n match furniture of various shades and vintages scattered around a much smaller dance floor which fronted a small bar which was modest, but very well stocked. No one seemed to care about the lack of aesthetics.
Friday Happy Hour heralded the arrival of dozens of aviators, virtually all of whom wore the distinctive flying suit (or bag). These would not be clean and pressed—indeed, they will have been worn all day, flown in and, at best only a day or two since being washed. In summer, with flight line temperatures soaring over 110 degrees a Stag Bar reveler needed great skill to position himself upwind of his companions.
NO ONE wore a hat—indeed, a small sign hung next to a large brass bell over the bar: ‘He who enters covered here; will buy the bar a round of cheer’. For the unwitting Lieutenant or careless senior officer, ignoring this notice could prove to be a very expensive blunder. Once Happy Hour got rolling, there were masses of thirsty aviators cramming the place and all were keen of eye—identifying an offending hat far across the room and defying the laws of gravity to reach and ring the brass bell before the wrongdoer could recover. At that point, righteous authority, peer pressure or sheer ridicule was employed to separate the offender from his hard earned cash and replenish dozens of empty glasses.
There was a juke box in the Stag Bar, but once the evening was in full swing, it proved utterly useless as drowning out the surrounding cacophony was a non-starter. Much of the din was self-generated. Well-oiled fighter pilots are renowned for their singing-not the quality but the volume. Musical selections are irreverent and far from polite. Google ‘Sally in the Alley,’ ‘Mary Ann Burns, the Queen of all the Acrobats’, or ‘My Name is Sammy Small (F*** ’em all’)for a representative sample. There were multiple layers of fighter pilots bellied up to the bar and aside from enjoying the reduced-price drinks, a number of extracurricular events were taking place. Liars’ Dice and similar games of chance flourished—some reaching astronomical stakes. Management was relatively free from Political Correctness and there were a number of diversions in place. At the lower end of the spectrum were harmless amusements that, in today’s Air Force would undoubtedly result in dire consequences: For example, the bartender would conceal the contents of popular bottles—Scotch, Bourbon, Rum, Gin, and Vodka by wrapping the bottle in tinfoil. As long as there was ‘liquor in the jar’ when he poured the drink was on the house but he who ordered the last measure had to replace the bottle and it started all over again.
At the other end of the ‘naughty’ spectrum was everyone’s favorite: The Friday Night Strippers. If you can imagine it, these young ladies were provided, legally, by club management. They were well paid (and well tipped) conducted their performances with varying levels of gusto, and when they were done, departed to huge demonstrations of appreciation. Over time, the forces of ‘woke,’ political correctness and the might of the Officers’ Wives’ Club relegated this relatively harmless activity to oblivion along with the games of chance and probably an awful lot of the enjoying of reduced price drinks.
As the name implies, the Stag Bar was there for the guys. There was no formal prohibition for the ladies and indeed, my wife Elaine accompanied me into the den of iniquity once or twice. She was as close to ‘one of the boys’ as a lady could be; didn’t turn her nose up at the shenanigans she witnessed (not even the Strippers) but despite her best efforts, I’m afraid she only achieved a ‘tolerated’ status—and even that was an important sign of acceptance.
In the good ol’ days, the Stag Bar was our refuge and our stronghold. It was dark, noisy, crowded, and malodorous, but it was ours and we loved it dearly with all its obvious flaws. It’s been a long time since I spent a Friday evening in an Officers’ Club and I hope some of the spirit and camaraderie we found in that murky, dingy little watering hole has survived the onslaught of ‘progress.’
Cheers and check 6