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Y uu're alone in a darkened cockpit, hurtling through the night at 300 miles per hour All you have to do is land a 25-ton jet the size of a tennis court on a patch of moving deck space about the size of a small mobile home. If you're lucky, the sea will be calm and the deck won't be pitching up and down in the waves. There might even be a moon to show you where you're going. But likely as not, there'll be a thick cloud cover, and looking out the window will be as useless as trying to see the bottom of the mug through the black coffee you and your fellow pilots guzzle in the Ready Room between flights. And, just your luck, the ocean will probably be running high, bobbing the =ier up and down like a cork in a bathtub. Three miles out you should see the red "drop lights" on the rear of the carrier. That means you're at least lined up correctly with the ship's 700 precious feet of runway space. Being in the right place at the right time is not unimportant to you. The cost of landing too low is high: you fly your jet smack into the reinforced steel plates of the back of the carrier and they'll send people out to scrape you off in the moming. The cost of landing too high is missing the restraining cables that stop the plane, and having to "bolter"-to point your nose upward, swoop back around the carrier, and try the whole thing again. Some new pilots require a dozen attempts before they get it right. As if having to do it at all ~veren't bad enough, each landing is being watched, ana- lyzed and criticized by your peers, whose opinions you value, and by your superiors, whose opinions can affect your career. There are TV cameras bolted to the deck, and in the rec rooms below people stand around watch- ing your landings like segments of lt'tde IE"brld of Sportr, commenting on style and technique. Numerical scores are immediately posted for each pilot, so everyone knows where you stand even before you get to sit down, light up a cigarette and give the adren- aline some time to recede. Eaperts who measure such things-the doctors and psychologists who tape electrodes all over people to find out how frightened they are by different situations-agree that making a night landing on an aircraft carrier is the scariest thing a human being can do. And Lt. Cary "Dollar" Silvers, a 31-year-old, baby-faced Navy fighter pilot from Atlanta, agrees. "Making night landings is what I get paid to do," he says. "All the rest is fun." Right: Dollar Far• right: Fligbt gear 14 PHILIP bfORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 19RCi

he men and women who take this scary and risky business in stride are the elite members of T the Navy's fighting fraternity: the fighter pilots. It takes about three vears and costs S 1 million to train each of them to fly the F-14 Tomcat-the most expensive and sophisticated piece of machin- ery in any nation's military arsenal. "God's own sportscar," as one of them affection- ately-and respectfully-refers to the plane; "a Federally subsidized motorcycle," quips another. Commander Skip "Torch" Nelson sits in the VF-43 Squadron's Ready Room at the Oceana Naval Air Station in Virginia Beach, Virginia. (All pilots acquire nicknames dur- ing Aight training ehat replace their given names in conversation and become their radio call signals. At Oceana, VF-43 indudes Stork, Ribit, Flaps, Rex, Harpo, Boomer, Monkey, Wolf, Mad Dog, Bad Bob, just plain Bad, PJ and Peaches. Some of the names are fairly easy to figure out. The derivation of others is less clear and probably best left unexamined.) Torch, a handsome, muscular man of 41 who grew up in southern Florida, draws re- flectively on his cigarette and talks about the kind of people who become Navy pilots. "They're the last of the cowboys," he says. "Back in 1836, they would have been gun- fighters, squaring offagainst the bad guys. A century earlier, they would have been pirates. Even earlier, they would have been gladiators fighting in the arena amidst the sawdust, playing for the big chips, with no way to walk out unless you win." Torch is typical of the current generation of fighter pilots: self-possessed, smart and sur- prisingly articulate about themselves and their chosen career. The post-%F%orld War II generation of fighter and test pilot legends-men like Chuck Yeager-would rather have made night carrier landings blindfolded than talk about their work, much less about them- selves. They personified those qualities of courage and daring that author Tom Wolfe memorably described as The Right Stuff. They not only had it-they uerr it. And it would have been terminally uncooi for any of them to try to put it into words. But their successors today are the products of different situations and different times. They're all college-trained officers who share the same need to fly as those early pioneers, but who reflect the changes that have taken place in America. Commander Herbert "Snake" Burton, 41, studied veterinary medicine at Georgia Southern College. When he graduated in 1966 the Vietnam war was building up. "I wanted to do something to serve my country," he says, "so I went to OCS and got First, and foremost, they all love to fly. They love "flying the machine." They need to fly. They have to do it. Slim, pretty 30-year-old Lt. Linda "Peaches" Shaffer, one of the few female Navy pilots, wanted to fly as far back as she can remember. She grew up in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, and received a degree in Systems Science and Engineering from the University of Pennsylvania. After working as an en- gineer for Hughes Aircraft and taking private flying lessons, she realized that the military was the only way to achieve her ambition of flying the big planes and eventually being consid- ered for NASA's astronaut program. Commander Peter "Stork"Burggren As Peaches frankly expresses it, "Flying is the only thing I've ever felt driven to do." Lt. Marty "Flaps" Hile, 29, dreamed of flying while he grew up in the small town of Taylorville, Illinois. He got a private pilot's license when he was a teenager but small planes just whetted his appetite. He majored in mechanical engineering at Purdue, but, as he says, "I just became bored with everything else. I knew that the only thing I wanted to do was fly jets." Commander Peter "Stork" Burggren, the 42-year-old, tall, gray-haired Skipper of the UF-43 Squadron, combines rugged male-model looks with an easy sense of the authority of com- mand. "I was always turned on by the thought of flight," he says of his boyhood in Minnesota. "And since I started flying there's never been a day when I didn't wake up thinking, 'This is great!. " Lt. Bob "Bad Bob" Brauer, a 29-year-old Annapolis grad- uate who grew up in Kansas City, sounds almost poetic when he talks about the experience of flying. "The planes are pretty and fast," he says. "It's a real sen- sual thing: you're up there on a beautiful blue day, looking down through the douds at the whitecaps on the surface of the water, watching the dolphins jumping. You're on your own, away from all the roads and rules and structures. It's just you and this beautiful world and this phenomenal machine. And then you fire the afterburners and they catapult you up 30,000 feet in a minute with a big kick in the pants. It's an incredible physical rush. And it makes up for all the lousy rainy nights with lightning cracking the sky open while you're trying to find that one spot of light on the carrier somewhere down there before you run out of fuel," One junior officer waiting for an assignment to flight school describes his motivation simply and dearly. "I llke to go fast," he says. "I mean, really fast." • PHIllP MORRIS MAGAZ17dE/SUMMER 1986 15

i : my wings. In those days we were pretty cocky. Our attitude was, 'Show me where the war is, I want to kick ass and take names'." Within a few years, however, many young men in college were protesting against the war and trying to figure out how they could avoid serving their country. "It was pretty bad in the late '60s and early '70s," Torch recalls, "You almost looked for signs saying 'Sailors and dogs keep off the grass.' But that's almost completely changed in the last few years." Of the 29-person VF-43 Squadron at Oce- ana today, only Snake and Lt. Commander Jerry "Ribit" Merritt have actually flown in combat. "The new people are different, there's no doubt," Snake says. "Today they come in for better reasons. They're more dedicated to aca- demics and to having careers. They're re- quired to do more to get through training because the machines themselves are more demanding and more sophisticated," The pilots still do everything within their power to maintain their long-standing and thoroughly justified reputation for wild Gving and boisterous conduct. The faint-heaned are well-advised to avoid the mid-week pilot par- ties at the Miramar Naval Air Station near San Diego. At their very best, they combine the more extravagantly anti-social elements of Animal House and Friday the 13th. But even Dollar has felt the winds of change at his back. "For the first few years, everybody's a rowdy hot dog. But people tend to mature. They get married and have kids. They think about what they do. The intensity and pres- sure still generate a lot of steam and that has to be blown off, but basically you've got some serious people doing a serious job." Even the nature of the intense competition that underlies the camaraderie has changed. It used to be that the best flier was the best man. Today, the pilots compete to score the highest on evaluation sheets that cover everything from management skills and leadership, to speaking and writing ability. Some pursue graduate degrees in their spare time, T wo overhead screens dominate the small, highly air-condi- tioned room with an eerie, flickering green light. Loud- speakers squawk scraps of pi- lot-controller dialogue. The right-hand screen is filled with columns of numbers that change dizzily every second: speeds, angles, altitude, G-forces, rates of climb and descent. The other screen shows, with pencil-line computer graphics, the view from inside the cockpit of an F-14 Tomcat. "You've got a bogey {MIG] at your high 6 o'clock," a voice crackles. The man at the keyboard terminal types in 16 PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1986 The Tactical Air Crew Training Simulator (TACTS) can visualize actual mock dogfights Lt. Commander Chuck "Turps" Turpin conducts one of the morning briefings in VF-43's Fma

some instructions and the screen flashes an- other set of images. Now two planes are dearly visible: the big F-14 below and a smaller enemy MIG above and just slightly behind. Within seconds the F-14 has fired its afterburners and jumped to the top of the screen. Executing an enormous arc, it comes down behind the MIG. Little dash-like lines spew from its nose, headed for the MIG's tail. The MIG falls toward the bottom of the screen. The figures on the right immediately include a new tabulation: a probable kill per- centage. It was 87 percent unlikely that in this situation, the enemy could have avoided be- ing blown to smithereens. This particular dogfight to the death be- tween a Navy F-14 and one of the smaller, more MIG-like foreign planes the Navy leases for training purposes, actually took place sev- eral months ago in the peaceful skies off the coast of North Carolina. Because it included some interesting battle situations, the com- puter tapes of this flight have been kept and shown over and over to the VF-43 pilots. The Tactical Air Crew Training simulator at Oceana is the state of this particular art. Each of the VF-43 Squadron's hops is re- corded by computers which can translate the information into three-dimensional visual im- ages. VF-43 is the Adversary Training Squadron-the pilots who fly the "MIGs" and run the enemy's "play book," so to speak, against Navy fighter pilots from all across the country. In addition to what the pilot saw from the cockpit, the computer can show what the engagement looked like from above, from below and from the side. Any moment can be frozen and dissected, or played back and al- tered. Watching the pilots pore intensely over every second of these tapes, examining them from every angle, punching in different in- structions to see how infinitesimal variations in speed or direction would have changed the outcome, you get a sense of the kind of fast thinking it takes to be a Navy flier. As Bad Bob puts it, "You cari t stammer and stutter through the thought process when you're dosing on an enemy plane at nine miles a minute. You have to be able to think several miles ahead of your airplane. You have to make very quick, correct decisions." As a result of this kind of mental training, fighter pilots develop an intense awareness of their environment. They know where they are, physically and psychologically, at all times. "Some people standing at a bar will reach out and accidentally knock over a can of beer," Torch explains. "But if a Navy aviator does that, no matter how drunk he may be, he'll stop and figure out how he misjudged the angle of what he was reaching for, and OUTOFCONTROJJ There are technical descriptions for what happens-clinical terms like "uncommanded motion" and "stalled wing and yaw." What they mean is that one minute you're flying along peacefully and the next minute your plane is tumbling crazily toward the ground at 22,000 feet per minute. You are Out of Control. Lt..Ylarty, "Flaps"Hi1e It will happen to most pilots only a handful of times dur- ing the course of their careers. But when it does, "It sure gets your attention," as Lt. Linda "Peaches" Shaffer grimly puts it. "Usually you can sense problems as they're developing, but every so often you get hit with an'I'11 go to church every Sun- day for the next lifetime if I ju.tt get out of this one' kind of cri- sis. That's where our training comes in." Lt. Shaffer is one of three instructors at the Out of Control Spin School at the Oceana Naval Air Station. Lt. Martin "Flaps" Hile is another instructor. "We try to teach people to keep ca1m, to neutralize the problem and to analyze the situation," he explains. "The first thing we tell them is: 'recage your eyeballr'-in other words, when every- thing is going crazy around you, slow down and relax and pick up as much useful information as your instruments will give you and get your brain thinking again. That isn't easy to do when one minute you're being pushed back in your seat by the force of gravity and the next minute you're floating up against your harness while every second the horizon is going by in a different direction." The day-long program is popularly referred to as "A Short Course in Practical Bleeding." The head of the Out of Control School is Lt. Commander Herbert "Snake" Burton, a man who has seen a good number of spins in his time, including a few during his more than 300 combat missions over Vietnam. "A good pilot will fly right to the limit of the envelope without exceeding it," he says. "Fighter pilots always fly right at the edge, so we rehearse possible situations to help them act instantly and correctly. Our success is in the numbers: since the Out of Control syllabus was started, the numbers of ina- dents are down and we haven't lost a pilot or a plane through an out of control situation. We save money and we save lives. That's very important and very satisfying." • PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1980 17 1 11 I

t 1 TOPGII When American F-4 Phantom jets first started dogfights with the enemy in the skies over Vietnam, the results were disas- trous. The big, sophisticated, clumsy American planes were being creamed by the smaller, simpler, faster Soviet-built MIGs. For every two enemy aircraft we shot down, we lost one plane of our own-a deadly 2-to-1 ratio. In Korea, the ratio had been a more successful 17 to 1, and World War II, it had been 15 to 1. Something dearly had to be done. A group of air combat experts got together at the Miramar Naval Air Station near San Diego, and started to rethink our entire approach to war in the air. This was the beginning of the Top Gun School (named for an annual fighter pIlot com- petition) which is now probably the toughest and most presti- gious military outfit in America. When the air war was resumed in Viemam early in 1972, it was clear that Top Gun's lessons had been well learned: the kill ratio dimbed to 12 to 1. Top Gun graduates claim the only air kills since the Viemam war: in 1981 two F-14s from the carrier USS Nimitz shot down two Libyan SU-22 jets over the Gulf of Sidra. Top Gunners also led the April 1986 bombing raid on the Libyan capital of Tripoli. One of the hottest movies of this summer is Top Gun, made with the cooperation of the Navy Department, and based on the training at the Miramar school. Tom Cruise stars how he knocked over that can of beer." The best pilots also share the urge, the desire, the need to push their experience right to the limit. Each aircraft has its own particu- lar "envelope": the Gmits within which it can operate. Most people are content to live their lives within the envelopes of their own experi- ences. But fighter pilots have to go further, higher, faster: they have to push the edge of the envelope. "It's actually an addiction," one of them says. "You have to do it, you have to have it. When you do, you're euphoric. When you don't, you suffer withdrawal." The problem, of course, is that if you push the edge of the envelope too far, you may not be able to get back inside in time. Outside the envelope, the plane flies you instead of the other way around. So it's flying that fine line between experience and excess that provides the deadly underpinning of excitement that motivates and inspires the great pilots. T n the Ready Room at VF-43 NAS Oceana, there's a phone booth with a working pay phone inside it. The booth was a_gift from a fleet fighter Two liquids Navy coffee and jet fuel. A Top Gun pilot told actor Tom Cruise that there were only four things worth being in life: an actor, a rock star, President of the United States and a jet fighter pilot. with Kelly McGillis. The film's producers are the dynamic Hollywood duo of Don Bruckheimer and Jeny Simpson, whose earlier hits indude Flashdance and Beverly Hills Cop. A survey of fighter pilots at Oceana who have seen the film produces high marks. The spectacular flying scenes are rated as accurate and true to life. The romance is rated as mushy. Tom Cruise is rated as excellent. Kelly McGillis is rated as Out of Control. 9 ilots depend on: squadron that got suckered by VF-43 A slow speed flight is like a knife fight in a pilots into a classic maneuver called a Phone phone booth Booth. So they presented an actual phone booth as a classy tribute. The walls of the MIGr, sex, and rock 'n' roll booth have been inscribed with graffiti by various hands: It's better to have turned and died than never to have turned at all A MIG at your 6:00 is better than no MIG at all Speed is life 18 PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1986 The Ready Room has the look of being used by people who are busy doing other things: the wom linoleum floor; the big um always filled with fresh hot coffee; the mug rack with each pilot's nickname printed above the pegs, next to the stacks of styro- foam cups that everybody actually uses; the chalky blackboard for the briefings before and debriefings after each "hop"; the magazine rack with neatly labeled slots for everything from Aviation Week to Soviet Press Review. Groups of pilots stand around in their green flight suits and black boots, talking quietly and intensely, their arms and hands creating complicated arcs of flight as they describe events that have just taken place miles above this room. On the last hop one of the men was given a fright by a plane he didn't notice flying right beneath him. He's smiling at the ribbing he's raking-"Tally-ho!" his colleagues say as they clap him on the shoulder-but it's dear that he's embarrassed. Observing the scene, a pilot comments, "That's one of the great things about this business: it's self-regulating. At the end of each day you know whether you're the hero or the goat. There are no gray areas. And if you screw up today, you can go back up tomorrow and dean the slate." A newly-commissioned young officer, ea- gerly waiting for his orders to report to Navy flight training at Pensacola, stands looking around the Ready Room. Not so much in awe as if simply stating an obvious truth, the young officer says, "This is where the heroes of the '80s are, man. Right here." • t

OVERTAXED 4 NOTEBOOK D.C. GROUP BATTLES CORPORATE FREELOADERS Because any changes to tax laws are certain to affect American con.rumerr, we at Philip Morris Magazine will continue to follow the issues of taxation and tax re- form. We recently paid a visit to the Offices of Citizens for Tax Jurtice, an organization working for fair distribution of the federal tax burden. By now, everybody knows that many profitable companies in America pay little or no income tax. But few pcople realize that in order to make up for the companies that get off scot-free, others must shoulder the bulk of the nation's corporate tax bur- den. In other words, when it comes to federal income taxes all corporations are not created equal. Although many compa- nies-induding Philip Morris U.S.A-pay their fair share of income taxes and more, some of the nation's industrial giants continue to reap the benefits of tax code loopholes. "We have a tax system that seems to reward some compa- nies and penalize others," says David Wilhelm, executive direc- tor of Citizens for Tax Justice (CTJ), a Washington, D.C. or- ganization that reports on the companies that do and don't pay taxes. Wilhelm compares, for exam- ple, the radically different figures for Philip Morris and Boeing, the well-known aerospace firm based in Seattle. Between the years 1981 and 1984, according to CTJ figures, Philip Morris paid nearly S 1.5 billion (nearly one-third of its net income) in federal income taxes. During the same four-year period, CTJ re- ports, Boeing not only avoided income taxes entirely on its 52.1 billion in profits-it actually re- ceived 5285 million in tax re- Robert Mcln,~yre (left) and David Wilhelm of Citizen.r for Tax Jurtice funds. So according to CTJ, while Philip Morris was pouring money into federal coffers, Boeing was taking money right back out. The news is no better for the tobacco industry as a whole. In its 1981-84 study of 275 com- panies in 25 different industries, CTJ found that tobacco compa- nies devoted the highest percent- age of their profits-36 per- cent-to federal taxes. Aerospace companies averaged just 4.4 per- cent, while the average for all in- dustries was 15 percent_ Textile companies, by com- parison, paid an average of 33.5 percent of their profits in tax, according to CTJ figures, while food companies paid 21 percent, electrical companies paid nearly 12 percent, chemical companies 6 percent and telecommunica- tions companies 2 percent. The ten financial-service companies surveyed by CTJ-induding banks and investment firms- received tax refunds of S 139 million, reducing their tax rate to an astounding 2.9 percent! Wilhelm blames the tobacco industry's excessive tax burden on a "crazy quilt" system of tax loopholes, or "tax incentives," as they've often known. According to CTJ, a federal program of corporate tax breaks was insti- tuted in 1981, with the idea that tax relief would stimulate investment and employment. There are two problems with the program, according to CTJ. First, certain industries (such as aerospace and telec.ommunica- tions) have been more able to take advantage of these breaks than others (such as the tobacco, food and textile indusrries). Worse, the tax breaks have not, according to CTJ, actually achieved their intended goals. ' "There's no reason to believe that companies that pay nothing are any more efficient than com- panies that pay a lot," Wilhelm says. As a matter of fact, he claims, "we have evidence to the contrary. " Wilhelm says many compa- nies have received huge tax breaks over the past four years, yet actually laid off workers and invested less in their operations. During the years Boeing re- ceived tax ref-unds of $285 rnil- lion, CTJ reports, the company cut capital spending by 38 per- cent and reduced its workforce by 18 percent. The Whirlpool Corp., on the other hand, paid over 42 percent of its income in federal taxes over the same pe- riod, according to CTJ reports, yet increased investment by '6 percent and employment by 5 percent. According to CTJ, the 44 companies that paid no income taxes at all between 1981 and 1984 actually invested less and laid off more workers than the 43 companies that paid the most tax during the same pe- riod. Clearly, under current tax law, the corporate tax burden is not distributed fairly or effectively. But what can be done? CTJ is rallying for a revision of the tax system that will eliminate the loopholes, and return the tax system to one where everybody pays their fair share of the tax burden. The organization has drawn support from a broad range of groups, including the AFL-CIO, the League of Women Voters, the National Council of Senior Citizens, the American Federation of Teachers and Philip Morris U.S.A. According to Robert Mcln- tyre, CTJ's director of federal tax policy, several of the tax reform proposals currently before Con- gress would be a step in the right direction. The reform pro- posals "would raise substantial new revenues from corporations that are not paying their fair share," McIntyre says. Ideally, Mclnryre says, this would mean at least some tax relief not only for the individ- uals, but also for the corpora- tions, that are now bearing too large a part of the federal rax burden. ~ ~ PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1986 19

IN THE NEWS WEINBERGER KILLS CIGARETTE BAN IN MILITARY COMMISSARIES Defense Secretary Caspar Wein- berger recently stymied the at- tempts of pipe-smoking Chief Pentagon Physician Dr. William Mayer to prohibit cigarette sales in commissaries or, failing a to- tal ban, to raise sharply the commissary price of cigarettes in order to discourage the use of tobacco by military personnel. Veterans' organizations joined PM USA and others in the to- bacco industry in a successful fight against the proposals. Eventually, Weinberger con- cluded that a sales ban "would constitute the beginning of a bad precedent" because "other products which some people might consider offensive or un- desirable" might also become the target of similar bans. Wein- berger also noted that a ban would cause members of the military, retired veterans and their families to lose "an old, es- tablished and valued portion of military compensation." At the same time, the Secre- tary of Defense has issued a comprehensive anti-smoking di- rective. Dissemination of information on smoking is a central element of Weinberger's plan. He said, "I have conduded that we should give the education plan a reasonable chance to persuade people of their own free will to decrease or elimin.ate their own smoking." The Defense Secretary's deci- sion to focus on education was praised by The Tobacco Insti- tute. The cigarette manufactur- ers' trade association has consis- tently supported education programs that preserve freedom of choice and has criticized pro- posals that call for complete bans, In ;11ay 1945 a soldier tells the home town folks about his experiences overseas. In October 1969 a member of the 3rd Brigade of the 9th Division takes out time for a smoke near Saigon. 20 PHIUP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1986 HEALTH SECRETARY BACKS FREE CHOICE Parting ways with the American Medical Association over bans of cigarette advertising is Dr. Otis R. Bowen, Secretary of the U.S. Department of Health and Hu- man Services. Bowen says he cannot support the AMA ad ban proposal because it has not been determined that advertis- ing promotes smoking among youth. This spring, Bowen told re- porters that the role of govem ment is to provide the public with medical information about smoking. He said, however, that Dr. Otis R. Bowen he supports the "freedom of in- dividuals to do what they want to do."

P M NOTEBOOK ! t ; PEOPLE FIREFIGHTER TAKES DISMISSAL OVER SMOKING TO COURT OKLAHOMA CITY-As a boy, Greg Grusendorf rode his bike to his father's fire station here, and soon decided firemen were "Number One." By junior high, he knew there was noth- ing else he'd rather do than be part of that proud department. Today, the outcome of a suit in a federal appeals court about his being a smoker stands be- tween him and his realization of that dream. The story begins shortly after Greg turned 21, when he started to prepare for the depart- ment's physical and written ex- ams. The first time around, Greg failed. Undaunted, he be- gan preparing for the next round of tests by working out to build up strength, and studying books on fire service. But while Greg planned and worked for his future, the fire department began something new itself. A policy was insti- tuted in 1984 to require rookie firefighters to be nonsmokers both on and off the job during their first year of employment. Interestingly, the city also tried to make the smoking ban part of the collective bargaining agreement for all firefighters- nearly half of whom smoke- but the union stoutly refused to budge on the issue. But because rookies cannot join the union until their one- year probationary period is com- pleted-and technically are not union members-city fathers were able to force nonsmoking restrictions on the new recruits. Although Greg had enjoyed cig- arettes for several years, he felt nothing so minor would stand in the way of his dream, so he quit smoking. Greg sailed through the next series of written and physical tests, placing in the top five per- ~ Former fireman Glen Brusendorf is suirtg for his rights. cent of 500 applicants last fall. On November 30, 1984, he be- gan classes at the Oklahoma City fire training center, along with 25 other rookies. Just two weeks later, how- ever, Greg found himself stand- ing before department officials stripped of his job without ex- planation or inquiry, and sum- marily escorted out the back door. His crime? Being observed smoking a cigarette while off- duty at a local Dairy Queen and later admitting his action when questioned by superiors. "In the rookie classes, there's lots of pressure," Greg explains. "I hadn't done any real book work since high school. The smoking ban only applied to rookies, so you'd see the other firemen smoking around the training center. ... Still, when I was in rookie school, well, I hadn't been that happy in a long time," he adds, his soft Sooner twang catching with emotion. On December 14, while rid- ing to lunch off-duty in a car with three other trainees, Greg was offered a cigarette by one of the other rookies. He lit up, joining his fellow rookie, then entered the ice cream store, extinguishing his smoke. But he was observed by a district fire chief, who reported the incident. Apparently, the district chief had not known which rookie was smoking, so the entire rookie lunch group was rounded up and told if the smoker did not speak up, they would all be disciplined-whatever that meant. Greg raised his hand. Si- lently, he was taken off to head- quarters, where he received his dismissal papers on the spot, no questions asked, "I knew I'd goofed, but I fig- ured I could tell my story. I did expect to be disciplined," Greg says, more dismayed than bitter. "I thought it would be Gke the military .., if you were caught, they'd probably have you wash trucks or something. But they definitely made an ex- ample of me. I'd seen other city employees disciplined at my old job but it was nothing like this." The U.S. District Court re- cently dismissed Greg's case, nil- ing that Greg had voluntarily accepted employment with fiill knowledge that he would be re- quired not to smoke at any time during his probationary pe-riod. But the court did not address Greg's claim that the agreement violated his right to privacy and constituted unwarranted govem ment intrusion. The case is on appeal to the Tenth Circuit Court in Denver, where Greg may have a better chance to provide details of the case. "The real question here is how far the government can go in legislating what people do on their own time," Greg's attor- ney, Steven 1`r1. Angel points out. "It's at odds with jurispru- dence to force a waiver of con- ducting your lifestyle in a lawful manner. "If you're prevented from smoking, is the next step to reg- ulate how you conduct your homelife? They could conceiv- ably look at drinking, your diet, even your sex life," Angel says. While the law suit winds through the courts, Greg has tried to put the pieces of his life back together. Greg now works as a truck driver and route sales- man for a beer distributor. The hours are long and the money is better than rookie's pay, but Greg admits it's a job rather than a career. The fire department in Nor- man, a neighboring town, held tests not long ago, and while Greg placed eighth out of close to 300 applicants, during the in- terview he was singled out as the rookie fired for smoking. "This firing will be a black mark against me anywhere I go," Greg sighs. If he wins his case, however, Greg is prepared to return to the fire department. "I know it would be different," he says. "But I'd still go back." 1 PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE; SUMMER 1986 21

CllRIOSTT~ES: THE RIGHT SNUS Quickly now, w'hat's a "foom~" When was the last time you had some really good "snus"? If you faltered on any of your answers, take heart, for you can now consult the new English language edition of Ernst Voges' Tobacco Encyclopedia, recently re- leased by Tobacco Journal Inter- national (Mainz, Germany, 467 pages, $50). Inside this hefty, well-bound volume is the knowledge that a foom is the "thick, round mouthpiece of a Middle-Eastem water pipe," that fidibus is a "rolling paper strip used for lighting pipes in the Romantic era," and that snus is a type of "course- grained, highly moist snuff ' fa- vored in Scandinavia. Even a quick glance at the Tobacco Encyclopedia yields a de- lightful handful of facts. During the 16th and 17th centuries, for example, smokers used a red-hot glowing coal of juniper to light their pipes. Alfred Dunhill in- vented the sandblast pipe. Ground-up figs are added to many chewing tobaccos for fla- vor. The first machine capable of producing 1,000 cigarettes per hour was not invented until 1927. And so on. In addition to the exhaus- tively cross-referenced 360-page encyclopedia which makes up the bulk of the book, over 100 pages of scholarly artides are ap- pended to shed light on such topics as the history of tobacco, ~ its cultivation and manufacture into tobacco products, the chem- istry istry of the leaf, and its taxation. ~ It's all here in a single book, from "Aargua" (the center of ~ the Swiss cigar industry), to zware" (a specific type of dark, ~ fine-cut Dutch tobacco), exhaus- z tively researched and finely illus- o trated with some 31 color plates dotted throughout. ~ -Roderick Graham Smoking in the White House was for many years very much a gentleman's privilege. From the early 19th century until the early 1930s, every state dinner concluded with the Presi- dent leading other male guests into the "smoking room"-usu- Franklin D. Roosevelt ally the Green Room, the mas- culine equivalent of the ladies' Red Room-for political con- versation, liqueurs and a good stogie. The history of the President and tobacco, in fact, is a long and colorful one, dating back to the first Administration. At his Mount Vernon home and plan- tation, after all, George Wash- ington rasied tobacco as the main cash crop, not unlike thou- sands of small farm families to- day. James Madison was evi- dently the first President to Gerald R. Ford AN EXECUTIVE PRIVILEGE regularly smoke the "see-gar," as cigars were known back then, and continued to do so until his death in 1836 at age 85. General Andrew Jackson, elected President in 1826, smoked cigars and pipes and chewed tobacco. Jackson pre- ferred smoking from long- stemmed white day pipes while relaxing with his family in front of a fire, reading out loud or discussing the day's events. Jackson loved to chew tobacco so much that his Tennessee es- tate, the Hermitage, was deco- rated with brass spittoons. Evidently, Jackson's example of chewing tobacco caught on with the wild westemers who invaded the White House dur- ing his first Inauguration. Dur- ing a brawl that erupted among the backwoodsmen supporters of "Old Hickory" at the inaugural festivities, china was smashed, ladies fainted and the White House sofas and rugs became stained with tobacco. Another U.S. General who became President, Zachary Tay- lor, was a regular smoker. "Old Rough and Ready" Taylor re- laxed with his cigars in the pres- ence of male companions such as his son-in-law, Jefferson Davis, John F. Kenned}, who later became the President of the Confederacy. Taylor's ci- gars were said to bother his wife Margaret, however, and the President respected her by putting them out whenever she entered the room. No other President was more closely associated with cigars than Ulysses S. Grant. In fact, when he ran for President in 1868, his relish for tobacco was immortalized by the song "A' Smoking His Cigar." Even dur- ing the final moments of the Civil War, as Grant approached the courthouse at Appomattox to accept Lee's surrender, the scruffy little General was seen clenching his cigar. Nearly every political cartoon from his public life portrayed him with the ever- present stogie. Warren G. Harding, Presi- dent during the early 1920s, was like Andrew Jackson in his use of tobacco in several ways. He was the first President to smoke cigarettes and evidently the last to chew tobacco, but with both he was put to task by his imperious wife Florence, whom he nicknamed-not too kindly-"The Duchess." When Harding got to the White House, she forbade the =No { 22 PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1986 2040235372

. President to chew tobacco. "The Duchess says it isn't dignified to chew," moaned Harding to his poker-playing cronies, who were known as "The Ohio Gang." But Harding finally found a way around the Duchess' admonish- ings: he carried a cigarette in his jacket, crumbled it and chewed quickly whenever the Duchess left the room. He also smoked pipes and cigars when she went g shopping. l Ca vin Coolidge occasionally smoked a pipe, but also enjoyed the high-qualiry Havana cigars ~ that friends often gave him. "Si- lent lent Cal" used one-cent cigarholders for his seventy-five- cent cigars. On the other hand, Herbert Hoover puffed only on the biggest, strongest, finest and most expensive cigars, often while his wife served out-of-sea- son, rare tropical fruit at dinner. Franklin Delano Roosevelt's cigarette and elegant cigarette- holder became as closely associ- ated with him as the cigar was with Grant. Political cartoonists often featured FDR's cigarette- holder, clenched between his teeth, chin set. FDR's cigarette was part of a profile that be- came a symbol of his age. More recently, Presidents have used a variety of tobacco prod- ucts. John F. Kennedy loved smoking cigars with his father and associates, and Lyndon B. Johnson occasionally smoked cigarettes. Gerald R. Ford's fondness for the pipe became so well-known that early in his Ad- ministration a flood of pipes streamed into the White House as gifts. Today, while President Rea- gan himself does not smoke, the civilized pastime of smoking survives at the White House. Cigarettes are provided to guests at state dinners, and to foreign dignitaries fond of American to- bacco. -Carl Sferrazza OUT OF PLACE When a group of English anti- smoking activists got together for a strategy session this winter, they unwittingly paid tribute to one of history's greatest-and most resolute-smokers. The group met at Churchill College in Cambridge, England, an in- stitution named after former English Prime Minister Winston Churchill, Churchill, who lived to the ripe old age of 92, was rarely seen without a cigar in his mouth. The man was so closely associated with his cigar, in fact, that today many cigar manufac- turers produce a style known as a "Churchill"- ; ~ Churchill with a "Cburchill' usually around seven inches long, similar to those favored by 1 ` Sir Winston himself. OVERSEAS BRITISH SMOKERS BREAK FREE Readers who have been follow- ing the tremendous growth of PUFFS, the Georgia-based smokers' rights group, will be glad to learn that similar efforts are underway overseas. FOREST (Freedom Organisation for the Right to Enjoy Smoking To- bacco), a London-based mem- bership group, has been ausad- ing for the rights of Great Britain's 17 million smokers since 1981. "We wouldn't mind if no one smoked, or if 90 percent of the adult population smoked," says FOREST's director, Stephen Eyres. "What we mind about is the personal freedom of mature people." Eyres, a 38-year-old econo- mist and former political candi- dare, sees the fight for smokers' rights as the struggle for funda- mental individual liberties. The organization has been active in fighting total bans of smoking smoking day, FOREST coun- tered with a "national busy-bodies week." While FOREST always rec- ommends good manners on the part of both smokers and non- smokers, the organization's monthly membership publica- tion has recently adopted a slightly more aggressive stance. This spring, the publication's name was changed from Stay Free to Break Free, and it now features the sort of spunky news reporting, spirited editorials and attention-grabbing headlines that one often finds in English tabloids. "We have started to build up an alternative voice for personal choice and liberty," says Eyres, who himself enjoys cigarettes only on occasion. "We are fight- ing the nanny-state view of soci- ery-that the State has the right to Limit the individual's freedom to lead his own life." a w, YES, IT'S A &-~=u CHALLENGE -TO SMOKERS'= -_ RIGHTS The front page of a recent issue of FOREST's colorful newspaper Break Free, in public places, as well as in- creased taxation of tobacco prod- ucts. When proposals surfaced to ban smoking on buses and subways a few years back, FOR- EST polled the public and found overwhelming support for the status quo. When the anti- smoking lobby organized a non- PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1986 23