Fighter Pilot

by Christina Olds

  Our Transportation Corps captain burst out laughing as he left us. It dawned on us that we had been had. Fair enough. He proved himself to be a decent sort and we had been foolish to play games with him on his home turf. Tomorrow would take care of itself. Twenty tired bodies happily hit the hay.

  The next morning we were up well before six. Who could sleep? We were back home and raring to get cracking. Breakfast was a veritable feast: bacon, fresh eggs, sausage, good coffee, quarts of milk, as much as we could hold. I confess I missed the Hovis bread in England. It was great toasted and would have been wonderful with all that real butter and strawberry jam.

  “In-processing” was as expected: long lines, shuffling forward to the finance window, signing papers for some corporal, rolling up the sleeves for more shots. God, the army must have stockpiled serum against the needs of the next century! Then dropping the pants for a short-arm inspection, all to be endured, all routine, all army.

  I was getting impatient to learn what the commanding general had in store for me in those mysterious orders. Surely it was something important. I felt a little miffed that everyone else in my polyglot group seemed to know where he was headed. Not me. I got only blank stares when I tried to find out. Around two in the afternoon, I found myself standing before a chest-high counter with a bored-looking lieutenant wandering about behind it. Several enlisted aides sat at desks scattered about the room.

  The lieutenant finally noticed me. “Orders,” he barked, and tapped the countertop.

  This hadn’t started well. I glared at him as any good combat veteran with two rows of ribbons and major’s leaves on his shoulders should and growled, “You speaking to me, Lieutenant?”

  The lieutenant must have suffered from some misguided sense of power. “Orders!” he repeated, and tapped the counter again. This wasn’t getting me anywhere so I slapped a copy of my TWX under his nose. He glanced at it with a sneer of contempt, pushed it back at me, and said, “OK, Major, what’s this supposed to be? Where are your orders?”

  “I don’t know!” I snapped. “Those are my orders. I didn’t write the goddamn thing but it got me here all right. Now where’s this general I’m supposed to see?”

  “The general?” he repeated.

  “Look at the damned paper, Lieutenant! What’s it say? Read it!” I didn’t mean to shout, but this twerp had really pissed me off.

  “I can’t accept that piece of paper,” he said. “It’s not proper. Orders have to be validated. Any officer knows that. I ought to ask for your identification. Nobody comes here claiming something like that as orders. Where are your orders?” This lieutenant was quickly becoming a gold-plated son of a bitch. He was also getting damned close to a bloody nose.

  “Look, goddamn it, that piece of paper was good enough to make me leave my squadron, it got me on an airplane all the way here to this stupid office, and it’s going to be good enough to get me to whatever assignment your general has in mind. Now read it again and call the general, or somebody who’s got some brains, and find out where the hell I’m supposed to go.”

  “For one thing, Major, we don’t have a commanding general at Fort Hamilton. For another, you have no right to shout at me…”

  Lose my temper? Damned right I did. It was becoming as hard to get home as it had been to get to war in the first place.

  Just then a lieutenant colonel came out of a back office and stalked up to the counter, glaring at me. “What the hell’s going on out here? What’s the shouting about, Major?”

  Both the lieutenant and I started talking at once. It didn’t help my mood when the colonel told me to shut up and turned to the lieutenant. That SOB had long since surpassed my initial impression of him. Now I simply classified him as a world-class horse’s ass. In my mind, the lieutenant colonel fared no better when he turned to me and demanded my proper orders. I tried to be calm, knowing I wasn’t helping my case by resisting. These two bureaucrats had probably fought the entire war right here in Brooklyn, using the typewriter as a weapon, deriving great personal satisfaction from making life miserable for the hapless souls coming briefly under their jurisdiction. It suddenly occurred to me that I was experiencing a crystal-clear example of one of General Spaatz’s basic types. These two barely qualified as deadwood.

  “OK, Colonel, I apologize, but this man doubts these orders, and they’re the only orders I have. He won’t give me the time of day.”

  The colonel picked up the wire, read it, scratched his chin, and said, “Well, Major, I can’t fault Lieutenant Andrews. I’ve never seen anything like this either.”

  “Look, sir, please just get hold of the general, like the orders say. He’ll know what this is all about.” I felt I was grasping at straws.

  “Major, I can’t call the general on this. You’ll just have to—”

  I interrupted. “Colonel, call the people in the Pentagon who sent the damned thing. My group adjutant in England said it came from Washington. Please call. This is getting ridiculous. Somebody wants me somewhere. I didn’t dream this up and I sure didn’t send myself to this place in Brooklyn. I’m sorry to cause a brouhaha, but—”

  It was the colonel’s turn to interrupt. “Major, let me put you straight. I’m not going to call Washington. You’re not going to see the general. Hell, we don’t even have a general here at Fort Hamilton. What you’re going to do is tell me where you want to go for forty-five days of R&R and we’ll tell you where to check in when that time is up. So where do you want to go?”

  “You mean I can choose anyplace?”

  “That’s right, and we’ll cut some proper orders to get you there!”

  I stared hard at him and said through gritted teeth, “Colonel, send me to Los Angeles. That’s as far away from this damned place as I can think of.”

  As it turned out later, the colonel at Fort Hamilton did me a big favor. The train trip back to Southern California was most pleasant.

  * * *

  The next thirty days passed quickly. I bought a 1939 Buick sedan, which was sort of a two-toned barnyard brown. I didn’t mind the color. I was proud of it and learned quickly how to compete, cadge, hoard, and trade gasoline ration coupons just like everyone else.

  I stayed with my aunt Kitty and uncle Phil. Being out of the military environment and part of a family was just what I needed to get my mind and body back to normal. Kitty played the piano for us in the evenings, and on the weekends I helped Phil around the yard. My stepmother, Nina, on the other hand, represented the high life. She had great fun dragging me to cocktail and dinner parties to show me off. It seemed as though she knew everyone who was anyone in Hollywood. During one evening with Nina I tried without success to strike up a conversation with a gorgeous young lady. She was leaning against a wall and just staring into space. I don’t think she even knew I was there. Somewhat unnerved, I asked Nina what the matter was with her.

  Nina laughed that throaty laugh of hers and said, “Robbie, you’re funny. Don’t you know who that is? That’s Judy Garland, and as usual, she’s stoned. Don’t take it personally.” Something new every day, I thought.

  One evening a short time later, I spotted a fellow West Point graduate at one of the parties. He’d been an upperclassman and one hell of a good lacrosse player. He was a full colonel and his name was K. O. Desert. I went over and introduced myself, happy to have a fellow military guy to talk to. It turned out K.O. was the commanding officer at the replacement depot at Santa Ana, near Long Beach. I knew I was supposed to report there when my forty-five-day R&R expired. I mentioned my run-in with the people at Fort Hamilton and how I happened to be there in Southern California.

  Colonel Desert asked if I had a copy of my TWX on me, and I dug it out of my wallet.

  He said, “Let me have this. I’ll give it back when you come down to the reppel-deppel (replacement depot) next month. Meanwhile, let me look into it. Where are you staying and what’s your telephone number?”

  The next morning he called me at Nina’s house. “How�
�d you like to be a football coach?”

  Football coach? Holy crap, what kind of joke was this? I was sort of stunned and didn’t know how to respond to him.

  Colonel Desert went on, “Your old coach, Red Blaik, wants you to be an assistant. You were supposed to have reported to West Point on the first of September. Since this is already the twenty-eighth it looks like you’re a little late. You have a car? Well, pack it and get down here to Santa Ana. Report to my office, and I’ll give you a priority run-through. You’ll be on your way by midafternoon tomorrow. How’s that?”

  “Hello, Robin. Are you still there, Robin?”

  “Yes, sir. I hear you. I’ll be there as soon as possible. And thanks … I think.”

  Well, at least that damned lieutenant colonel at Fort Hamilton had really done me a favor. If he had made my requested call to that nonexistent general, I would never have had my R&R in California. I packed quickly and said my good-byes Kitty, Phil, and Nina. I got myself to Santa Ana and through the order processing.

  It took four days driving the Buick across the country before I checked into a BOQ room in the lower floor of Cullum Hall at West Point.

  * * *

  It was less than 50 yards from my dorm to the West Point officers’ mess. How could anyone get in trouble in such a short distance? It was seven in the morning on a beautiful, crisp October day. After the long drive from California and a good night’s sleep, I was looking forward to a hearty breakfast before reporting in. But here came trouble. I could sense it. The tall, skinny colonel coming my way had an evil look and his gaze was fastened on me. What was the problem? Since I seemed to be the only moving object in sight, I had to assume the colonel had me in mind.

  I snapped him my best salute and continued on my way. I didn’t get very far.

  “You, man! Halt!” he bellowed behind me.

  Good grief. I hadn’t been shouted at like that since plebe year. Did I look like a cadet? Is this the way everyone still acts at this damned place? I certainly hoped not as I turned around, saluted again for good measure, and stood at relaxed attention, if there is such a posture.

  Now what the hell? I wondered. My salute had been crisp, and my “Good morning, sir” had had the appropriate degree of deferential respect. I looked at him and saw a pair of beady eyes on either side of a hawk’s nose. His lips were two thin pursed lines radiating tiny wrinkles. His hat must have had an iron grommet in it. Never had I seen anything looking more like a cloth-covered manhole lid. His blouse fit like a glove, marred only by two ribbons, the Administrator’s Commendation Award and the American Defense Ribbon. He also wore a Sam Browne belt, something I hadn’t seen since childhood at Langley Field.

  The man glared at me as I stood there on the sidewalk. He was making me feel foolish and I was getting annoyed.

  “What’s your name? Are you stationed here? What’s your job? Where did you come from?”

  He paused and I attempted to enlighten him, “The name is Olds, sir.”

  “Let me tell you, mister,” he expounded, “this is West Point. I don’t know where you’ve been, but we do things differently around here.”

  I thought to myself, Hell, I know where I am, but “mister”? Even this old stick of a ground pounder with his stove-lid hat and his two little ribbons ought to be able to see the major’s leaves on my shoulders. I had to agree that things were certainly done differently here if his treatment of me was any indication. I didn’t like being hazed. My annoyance deepened.

  “Sir?” I asked somewhat churlishly.

  The colonel started in, jabbing a long bony finger for emphasis, “That object on your head is the most disreputable piece of military headgear it has ever been my misfortune to see. It is an absolute disgrace. You need a haircut. Your shirt collar is frayed. There are spots on that rag that’s supposed to be a tie. Your blouse isn’t pressed and your trousers look like they have never been cleaned. As for those shoes, I can’t imagine where you got them—they’re nonregulation and they’re covered with grease.”

  He seemed to be warming up, and I found myself rather fascinated with his critique. To the colonel and to West Point, these matters were very important. I knew I had no excuses. I knew, from his standpoint, he was right on all counts.

  What bothered me was: This was the only garrison hat I had ever owned. It had never had a grommet in it. It took me damned near six months of combat to get it to look right. I hadn’t seen a barber for two weeks. The last one had been the head bopper in the barbershop at the Beverly Hills Hotel. For ten bucks he hadn’t been about to give me a GI cut, but I sure smelled good afterward. I knew the collar was frayed. Yours would be, too, if it had been subjected to the soap used at the base laundry in England. Well, the tie was at least close to the color it was supposed to be, even if it was knit. I thought it was kind of sporty when I saw it on a rack at Harrods in London. As for the spots, to tell the truth, I really hadn’t noticed. Give the old colonel top marks for an eagle eye. My blouse and trousers were the best I had. Too many dips in 100-octane avgas after particularly grueling trips to London. And, no, we didn’t have dry-cleaning facilities at RAF Wattisham. My shoes? Now that really hurt. How long could a man walk around with holes under his metatarsals? With no cobblers handy in England, you bought the closest thing to regulation you could find, regulation shoes being something no decent person would want to wear around the base. I was fond of my Wellingtons, but had been really pissed at myself when I spilled some aircraft hydraulic fluid on them. They never could take a shine after that.

  These thoughts didn’t prevent me from hearing the old stick announce that he was the post adjutant, that I was to report to his office at 1500 hours properly attired for an army officer stationed at West Point, and that whatever future I thought I might have as an officer in the United States Army would abruptly terminate should I be even thirty seconds late.

  I have to confess he got my attention. So much for football coaching this fine day. And so much for any importance I may have mistakenly attached to my recent activities fighting Germans. This was the REAL world.

  The clothing sales store had a magnificent line of Lauterstein uniforms, plus shirts, ties, hats, and even shoes and socks. Fortunately, the post tailor shop wasn’t too busy to handle some quick alteration. I appeared at the adjutant’s office in the administration tower at precisely 1459, hoping neither he nor his secretary had seen me lurking outside the door with my watch under my nose. I passed muster without much else being said.

  No one in Colonel Earl “Red” Blaik’s coaching domain seemed to be interested or asked any questions about why I was so late on my first day or even why my “first” day was a month later than it should have been. I was assigned a corner desk in a back room, told to study a fistful of cards with Xs, Os, and arrows (confusing stuff for a simple former tackle), and informed that the B squad met at the south end of the practice field at 3:30. Obviously I was not intended to have anything to do with the varsity, at least not today. Fair enough. I didn’t know what the hell I was supposed to be doing anyway, but I was determined to learn.

  It turned out I was about as low on the coaching totem pole as a man could get. In this rarefied atmosphere of big-time collegiate football, military rank had nothing to do with the pecking order on the staff. Position determined authority. Colonel Blaik himself had come to the Point as a reserve officer and had not put on the uniform until after Pearl Harbor. Many of his civilian assistants had been commissioned at the same time, including some of the lowly B squad coaches. I worked for them now but I bitterly resented being treated like a gofer by some squirt wearing a first lieutenant’s silver bars.

  In the long run, there was much about the job that was interesting and fun. I enjoyed being at practice with the scrubs, I had plenty of time for myself, the football games were great, and I loved the flying I was able to do as a scout and recruiter. Once I became used to the idea, life at West Point as an assistant football coach was pretty good. I tried to take the job
seriously, but felt myself at a dead loss with nothing to give these wonderful young guys they hadn’t already picked up from Colonel Blaik’s regular staff. Besides, I was assigned to the B squad, the junior varsity at most colleges. These youngsters were out there beating their brains out because they loved the game and not for any other reason. When I called them youngsters, I was taking advantage of the fact that I was a major and they were cadets. We got along just fine, and in many cases our ages were the same. I ran with them, helped them learn the plays of next week’s adversary so they could scrimmage against the varsity on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and generally tried to find something useful to do.

  My real contribution seemed to be scouting, which I mixed with flying as I traveled to other venues. I sat in the stadiums with stacks of index cards, plotting the plays being used by teams we would meet in the future. My job was to keep track of what two or three individuals did on each series of downs, both offensive and defensive. The cards had Xs and Os for the opposing sides. I would watch what my guys did and plot their blocking or defensive moves on my card. God help me if I got behind. I confess I sometimes lost track and had to mark down what I would have done if I’d been down there playing, not what actually happened. No one on the varsity staff ever caught my bloopers.

  What grated was the treatment by many junior officers on the coaching staff. “Olds, take this list down to equipment and bring up such-and such.” This from some guy who had been hired by the colonel and given a wartime commission as a captain. He was no more a captain than I was a general, but the order of rank in the football office was based on what you coached and how long you had been there. After several missions from the fifth floor to the basement and back, I finally told one of those fellows to stuff it. If he wanted a runner, hire one.

  They weren’t all bad. Some were a real pleasure to work with. Andy Gustafson, Av Daniels, and Stu Holcum were all folks for whom I felt the deepest respect. Av had coached me when I was playing and there was a bond between us. My favorite was Herman Hickman, who coached the guards. Herman was about 5' 8", a yard wide, and must have weighed a good 240 pounds. He had played for the pros a bit after college but I forget where. He told me tales of the pro days before World War II, when he and his teammates had to drive their own cars between games with their football uniforms stashed in the trunk. In the shower room after practice, Herman would recite the classics, everything from Shakespeare to Byron. I never met another man in my life who was so well read and who could perform those classics with such total recall and feeling. He and I got along famously.