Fighter Pilot

by Christina Olds

  After a while when the house was quiet around me, I went into our bedroom. Illuminated by light from the open bathroom, Ella was already a dark shape under the covers. I undressed, put my uniform over a chair, pulled on pajama bottoms, and went into the bathroom. It was a mess. Trash and dirty towels littered the floor; her makeup case contents were scattered over the counter into the sink. Pill bottles lay everywhere. What the hell was this? I went over to Ella’s side of the bed, sat down, and put my hand on her back, asking if she was all right. She flinched away, forcing through gritted teeth, “Don’t touch me.” She smelled of gin. “Just go away, Robin. Go! You’re taking us away from home again. You’re a selfish bastard. Everything I’ve done for you doesn’t matter! Go away, leave me alone!” She rolled over and pushed me away. The lamp on the nightstand crashed to the floor.

  I jumped up. “Stop! Just stop it!”

  Ella stumbled out of bed wildly and launched at me, hitting my chest with her fists, screaming, “Bastard, bastard, BASTARD!” I grabbed her wrists and held her flailing arms. She twisted and jerked, cursing me. I wrestled her back onto the bed and held her still.

  “Shhh, shh, Ella. It’s OK. It will all be OK.” I tried to calm her. She mumbled incoherently and then slowly stopped struggling. I pulled my head back and looked at her. Her eyes were closed and her face was turned away. What a sad homecoming.

  I walked out of the room and stood out in the hall for a moment, looking up the stairs. My poor daughters; I knew they had heard the fight. Over the years they had learned to stay hidden, pretending the next morning that nothing had happened but avoiding their mother’s angry hangover. All was quiet upstairs. I turned to go into the living room. I poured myself a scotch. Down the hall I heard the bedroom door being slammed and locked.

  I went to the door. From the other side she screamed, “Go away, just go away!” I leaned my head against the door and tears welled up. So this was how it was going to be. I had left my men for this. I had left the sweetness of Ruby for this. Why? In God’s name, why? I stumbled down the stairs to the family recreation room, found the sofa in a corner, sank down at one end, and buried my head in a pillow. I shivered uncontrollably. The totality of the past year’s bottled emotions took over. SAMs streaked by my vision; I saw and heard black flak, orange missile bursts, small-arms fire, the roar of engines, voices of men, “MiGs at six o’clock. Break! Break!” I curled into a ball and pulled the pillow over my face.

  Suddenly, gently, a hand on my shoulder. “Daddy? Daddy?”

  Oh God, no. Chris sat down beside me and put her arm around me. “Daddy, you’re shaking so hard. What’s wrong? Please tell me.” She drew a blanket over my shoulders. “Please, Daddy, don’t cry. Don’t cry.”

  I took a deep breath. My heart broke as I whispered sadly to my fifteen-year old child, “Your mother won’t let me in our bedroom.” Chris was quiet but her arm tightened around me. We sat silently. I forced my breathing to settle down, grateful for the warmth.

  After a few moments, my little girl said, “Daddy, I think you should leave Mother. Susie and I will go with you anywhere you want to go.” I was stunned by the grown-up, matter-of-fact voice. What had this child endured for the past year?

  “I can’t do that. I just can’t do that. We all have to stay together.”

  “Well, just please take us with you. I don’t want to stay in Washington. We don’t want to stay with Mother. We want to go to Colorado with you. I was so afraid you’d die in Vietnam. I went outside every night and looked at the sky knowing it was daytime where you were. I couldn’t imagine what you were doing. What was it like?”

  I don’t remember what I told her. We talked quietly for several minutes. I grew sleepy and leaned toward the arm of the sofa. “Thank you, Chris, honey. I’m going to go to sleep now. I’ll be fine. See you in the morning.”

  She hugged me tightly. “I love you, Daddy. I’m glad you’re home. Go to sleep now.” Then she stood up and pulled the blanket over me as I stretched out. Sleep was fitful, filled with nightmares. Christ, what a homecoming.

  In the morning I retrieved my uniform by going through the unlocked patio door to the bedroom. Ella was sound asleep, an ashtray full of cigarettes on the bed, an empty glass marked by lipstick on its side on the carpet. She would sleep for hours. I hastily showered and shaved. God, I looked like shit. The girls were in the kitchen having breakfast before school. Susie handed me a piece of toast and a plate of scrambled eggs. I hugged the girls before heading outside.

  An official car stood waiting for me in front of the house. We drove to the White House. I felt increasing apprehension at the prospect of meeting Rostow. Surely a man in his position had far more important things to do than waste his time on a troublesome fighter pilot who had mouthed off to the president. Maybe I’d be able to just mumble an apology and be dismissed; more likely, I’d sit and take my ass chewing first.

  Mr. Rostow certainly seemed cordial. He shook my hand, nodded toward a chair, and asked how I liked my coffee. There was a moment of awkward silence as we looked at each other. Then he chuckled. “I imagine we’re both wondering why you’re here, Colonel. Just what did you say to the boss to have him set up this meeting?”

  Oh boy, the ball was in my court. Surely the man knew why I was there, maybe had even been given a transcript of my outburst. My fleeting image of official Washington waiting in the neutral corner wasn’t at all reassuring. Well, I’d asked for it. “Sir, I seem to have rather stupidly taken issue with the president’s explanation of what we’re doing in Southeast Asia.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Sir, he told me we were there to keep the North Vietnamese away from the South Vietnamese so the South Vietnamese could exercise their own form of democracy. That’s as close as I can recall his exact words.”

  “And what did you find so objectionable about that?”

  I gulped. Just how deep was I going to dig myself into the hole? “Sir, there’s nothing wrong with that objective, only the way we’re going about it. We are not destroying the enemy’s will or determination. You know I don’t appreciate all the nuances of global politics and the subtleties of international relations, but to me and many of my friends, it’s simple. The North is implacable. Those people have fully demonstrated their intentions. They are fighting a war to gain control of the whole of Vietnam. If it is our goal to stop them, then we must destroy their ability to fight, not just deter them, and to do that we must deny access to the harbor at Haiphong, destroy the bridges along the Chinese border, the ones we haven’t been allowed to hit, bottle up their troops in South Vietnam, wipe out their supply dumps and sanctuaries in Cambodia, and level their seat of government in Hanoi.”

  Rostow was floored. “You mean mine the harbors? That’s an act of war! That’ll bring down the Chinese. We don’t want another Korea, Colonel!”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I can’t believe the Chinese will react—”

  “But they’re fellow Communists.”

  “Please, sir, hear me out. I don’t think communism means a thing to the Indochinese, or even very much to the Chinese. It’s a form of legalized control used to impose the will of the few on the many. What do tribesmen in the mountains and farmers in the rice paddies anywhere in South or North Vietnam gain by communism? For that matter, what do any of the common people gain? The Southeast Asians have existed for centuries controlled and ruled by despots in one form or another. Do you recall the legend of the two Vietnamese princesses who got together an army and drove the Chinese out of their country, and that wasn’t for the first time? That was five or six centuries ago. The Vietnamese, the Chinese, the Koreans, and the Japanese have all hated one another for hundreds of years. I’ll wager they will for centuries to come.”

  Rostow didn’t respond to my little history lesson but brought the discussion back to the present. We spent a good deal of time arguing the pros and cons of more direct action against the North. He was deeply concerned that anything more
than we were already doing would broaden the conflict beyond control. I knew I was in way over my head and kept thinking there had to be more going on deep down: agreements, understandings, international protocols, linkages, domestic politics I couldn’t possibly understand. I only wanted to get the hell out of there and hoped Rostow would forgive me for taking up his time. He finally shook my hand and wished me well.

  On October 5 a cartoon appeared in a New Orleans newspaper, then was copied in a few papers around the country. It showed me holding smelling salts under the nose of a fainting figure labeled “Official Vietnam Line” held up by LBJ. The caption on the drawing read, “It’s Simple—The Way to End the War Is to Win It!” Later, the artist would send me the original drawing, and it served well over the years to remind me of my chronic infection with the malady known as foot-in-mouth disease. This is a particularly virulent infection leaving the zealous, but sometimes misguided, warrior with many scars and bruises. A sadder, hopefully wiser, fighter pilot slowly learned to (mostly) leave those things unto Washington that were Washington’s.

  The next three weeks were spent packing for the move, giving more interviews, and participating in more meetings at the Pentagon, including a full-scale debriefing in front of the Joint Chiefs. I kept my mustache just for that meeting, then shaved that night. I managed to get some time sailing alone on Chesapeake Bay. Ella went without speaking directly to me for several days but accompanied me to many social events and cocktail parties. Somehow, I was able to work around her to get things organized at the house. Chris and Susie moved their homework into my den and we spent cozy evenings together. Their fall semester was well under way. Since Ella wouldn’t let them transfer into the public high school on base, it was arranged for the girls to become boarding students at Holton-Arms in Maryland until the house was settled at the Air Force Academy. They’d transfer to the Colorado Springs School for Girls after Christmas.

  The last week of October I set out west, driving alone in my Jaguar Mark IV, which had been shipped from Bentwaters. Ella would follow in November with a driver in our Plymouth station wagon. I also had a little right-hand-drive Mini Cooper S being delivered to Denver by train. Ella finally relented sullenly to the move. She knew leaving D.C. was inevitable for the sake of our girls. She was without a doubt the most reluctant air force wife imaginable. Within the social structure of the military, her attitude and lack of support would doom any future chance of a highly visible post on the Joint Chiefs. I preferred to think of it as being saved from that fate. By the time I drove through Kansas into Colorado, my mind was clear and ready for the challenge ahead. Pikes Peak appeared in the distance, welcoming me to a place that would become home for the rest of my life.

  21

  The Academy

  My arrival at the Air Force Academy wasn’t as memorable as my chewing out when I first returned to West Point. Having recalled the experience, I was wearing a brand-new AF blue uniform; my hair was cut, my face was shaven, and my shoes were shined on October 30 when I drove through USAFA’s north gate.

  A wise person in the Pentagon had decided that my predecessor, Brigadier General “Ted” Seith, and I should overlap by two to three weeks. I didn’t exactly agree with that. Maybe Ted didn’t either, but we had played football together at West Point, so it wasn’t a problem. I wanted to lurk about for a while, learn the base, get a feel for what went on behind the scenes at the academy. The setting was spectacular: dramatically austere glass-and-aluminum buildings spoke of newness, of difference, of being a symbol of the air force’s eyes to the sky and the infinity of space beyond. The Chapel’s unique roofline said it all: no ivy-covered walls here, no sir.

  My office door was closed when I arrived. The secretary looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. At first glance inside, I saw the long paper sign on the back wall. In huge painted letters: FUCKING SHIT HOT! I quickly closed the door behind me. Someone had also put four red MiG stars on my chair. These were good signs. Would it be easier to fly this desk than an F-4?

  The first day was spent being led around the base always accompanied by a junior officer. No way I’d be able to get away and explore on my own; too bad. It was easy to tell the place was pretty buttoned-up. It made me suspicious. A lot of hoopla was going on concurrent with my arrival building up to the homecoming football game against Army on November 4. It made it a bit easier to hide along the edges and watch. General Seith planned to introduce me to the Cadet Wing at a noon meal formation before the game. I chuckled as we entered Mitchell Hall between rows of cadets at attention wearing fake mustaches. Walking behind Ted I stared fiercely into the eyes of several cadets. These guys were already my kids. Above the banquet level on the staff tower he announced, “Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce your new commandant of cadets, Colonel Robin Olds.”

  I stepped forward to the railing, looked at the four thousand mustachioed faces, controlled my urge to smile, and said sternly, “If you don’t beat Army tomorrow you haven’t got a hair on your asses! I didn’t want this job, but as long as I’m here, I’ll do my best to enjoy it. I’m sure we’ll get along just fine!” And I gave the whole group a quick one-finger salute. That brought down the house. For the rest of my time at the academy, that middle-digit salute was a shared joke among us. Over the years people asked me why I did it. Hell, it just seemed the right thing to do at the time. I was a fighter pilot; they’d better get used to it.

  I don’t know how Seith kept up the pace. We must have gone to five or six parties that Friday night alone. He put in a fifteen- or twenty-minute appearance at each one. I couldn’t believe it; this was my new duty? I accompanied him to the AF-Army game and it proved to be a real schizophrenic experience for me. I was rooting for USAFA of course, but the Black Knights brought back some great memories for this old tackle. I couldn’t help silently cheering when Army edged AF 10–7 in a hard-fought battle. The Cadet Corps seemed a bit less involved in the game than I was. Where was the esprit de corps? Something was wrong.

  Over the following days, I spent a lot of time in my office learning the responsibilities of the three main entities constituting the academy staff underneath the superintendent: The dean educated the cadets, the director of athletics challenged them physically, and the commandant tried his best to make officers out of them. I was to be responsible for all cadet activities related to discipline, military training, and daily routine outside the classroom. I also ran the personnel, supply, and operations functions to support the cadets. It sounded to me like I’d be a super-duper den mother and base commander.

  What was amiss didn’t take long to figure out. Ted tried to impress upon me what a bunch of bastards were in the faculty. His predecessors, Sewell, Strong, Stillman, and Sullivan (why did they all start with S?) had fought an ongoing battle with the dean of faculty, Brigadier General Robert F. McDermott. Old McD had been in place since the establishment of the academy in 1954. He became permanent dean of faculty in 1959. As head of all academic programs he had the military equivalent of tenure, which offered him absolute power to challenge traditions in military education. He had introduced about thirty academic majors to the Air Force Academy and brought a degree of flexibility to curriculum requirements, but his lock on the place created contention among the three domains of academics, the commandant, and athletics. The goals of the three different branches were not exactly mutually supportive, particularly considering the egos involved. Life on the various staffs had devolved into a possessive fight for time in the individual cadet’s daily schedule. Each section of the triumvirate was trying to do its best to fulfill what it knew for a certainty was the most important phase in the development of these future officers. It was a mess.

  Before departing, Ted gave me a stack of folders about three feet high to prove his point. They were staff studies I was supposed to read: detailed research on the time, motion, hours, and availability of a cadet, statistics on how many hours were spent in one department versus another. I agreed I would devote myself to
these exhaustive reports but knew it was the furthest thing from my mind. These folks took themselves very seriously. I saw the academy as a shining silver jewel nestled up against the mountains, operating in its own little vacuum, seething in the juices of ivory tower academia. The whole thrust of the academy was to give kids a college degree. They’d had twelve Rhodes scholars over the years, a remarkable achievement, but how much did that contribute to the United States Air Force? I wasn’t mocking the academic side, just seriously worried about the balance and the product. When Ted left my office, I called in the secretary and asked her to file those documents as valuable records of the early development of the academy. Then I called the dean to make an appointment for a courtesy call. I banked on the fact that we’d been cadets at West Point a year apart.

  McDermott’s office was bigger and better appointed than the one I occupied. I grinned, thinking how much that must have eaten at my predecessors. Well, I wasn’t going to fight the dean; it was obviously a lost cause to begin with, and I don’t like fighting lost causes, no matter how much I believe in the loser’s side. McD was clearly in the driver’s seat. Fighting him would only upset everyone: the faculty, the cadets, and poor old Superintendent Moorman, who had to buffer the whole mess. Fighting was illogical and nonproductive. Lick ’em or join ’em.

  After preliminaries I came right out and said to McD, “Look, I haven’t any intention of arguing and fighting over cadet time. We’re in this together. I’ll use what my guys have to the best of our ability, but I want and need your help.” That got his attention. “Mac, I don’t have time to make sure the cadets attend their classes each day. My staff is required to do that, but since it’s your major concern, I expect your teachers to let me know if a kid skips class. I’ll take care of the discipline end of it. That’s for starters. Please understand, I consider it our mutual responsibility to graduate these cadets with the basic qualities, training, and drive our air force needs.”