Punk's War

by Ward Carroll

  “Damn,” Punk exclaimed. “It’s the fucking president.”

  The president guided the skipper into the loving arms of the long-suffering Mrs. Soup Campbell and their two teenaged daughters, and the camera focused on the family’s tearful group hug.

  The president moved the few steps to a podium and began to address the throng. “Today is a great day,” he said, voice echoing dramatically through the public address system. “Today is a day where America shows the world what it’s made of—what we’re made of. Commander Campbell is a perfect example of that.” The president paused with a broad smile until the round of enthusiastic applause and cheers died down. “Our freedom doesn’t come easy. It’s a gift given to us by people like the man standing next to me. So please join me in welcoming home a patriot for whom sacrifice is a way of life: Commander Alexander Campbell.”

  Another roar erupted from the crowd as the president threw his arms around the skipper in an exuberant bear hug. He pushed away, held the commander at arms’ length, and studied him with his pat expression of national gratitude. The skipper wiped tears from his eyes. The president yielded the podium with a gesture and took a half-step back.

  “Wow . . .” the skipper said emotionally as he leaned over the microphone. “I certainly didn’t expect this sort of reception.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t,” Smoke muttered from across the planet as the thousands of well-wishers on the screen let out another cheer.

  The skipper stood silently for a few moments, unsure of what to say, and just before the mood shifted from uplifting to awkward, he lamely offered, “God bless America!” The crowd erupted again, and the band took the CO’s cue and began to play “God Bless America.” The president ushered the Campbells the short distance to the limo and gave one last wave to the supporters before climbing in behind the family. The camera followed the official procession away from the flight line through a sea of arms, heads, balloons, banners, and doves.

  “Oh my God,” Spud announced in a state of wide-eyed denial. “Soup Campbell is an American hero.”

  EPILOGUE

  Although it was still spring on the calendar, summer had come early to Virginia Beach, and a slight breeze blowing across the runways and through the open doors of the hangar was the only thing that kept the heat of early evening from dominating the awards ceremony. The large audience fanned themselves with their programs and shifted in their seats to stay cool as the Chief of Naval Operations made his way across the dais down the line of officers facing him at rigid attention dressed in their choker whites. Smoke, Spud, Turtle, Fuzzy, Gucci, Brick, and Bird stood wearing their new medals, highlighted by the orange glow of the setting sun as it disappeared behind the tree line across the field. The four-star moved in front of Punk, and the adjutant at the foot of the stage read the lieutenant’s citation to the crowd:

  The President of the United States takes great pride in awarding the Distinguished Flying Cross with Combat V to Lieutenant Richard J. Reichert, United States Navy, for services as set forth in the following citation:

  As the pilot of an F-14 Tomcat, Lieutenant Reichert demonstrated extreme courage and aviation prowess after his wingman was shot down during an Operation Southern Watch mission over Southern Iraq. With the help of his radar intercept officer, Lieutenant Commander O’Leary, and with little regard for his own safety, Lieutenant Reichert executed numerous bombing runs on Iraqi positions, neutralizing assets that threatened the capture of Lieutenant (junior grade) Paul Francis, one of two downed American airmen. Once he had expended all of his bombs, Lieutenant Reichert continued to pin the enemy down with strafing runs employing the Tomcat’s gun. Even as enemy fire intensified, Lieutenant Reichert made multiple attacks, keeping the Iraqis from capturing Lieutenant (junior grade) Francis and effecting his eventual rescue by a Joint Task Force-Southwest Asia Combat Search and Rescue Team. Lieutenant Reichert’s selfless dedication to duty reflected great credit upon himself, and his actions were in keeping with the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service.

  The crowd applauded enthusiastically as the CNO pinned the medal to Punk’s chest. The two of them shook, held the pose for the official photographer, and then shook some more as the admiral gave the lieutenant some heartfelt words of praise. The CNO then moved to the podium.

  “This is just incredible,” the admiral gushed. “How about one more round of applause for these brave men before you?” The gathering complied with the CNO’s request and offered another round of applause. “I’ll match these officers against any who’ve come before them. I mean that. Now before we end the ceremony, I have some special news.” The admiral studied the line of officers on the stage. “Would Lieutenant Commander Stackhouse and Lieutenant Commander O’Leary please step forward?”

  Spud and Smoke glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes, exchanged subtle shrugs, and then simultaneously paced off a step. “I’m fresh from Washington where the command screen board finished up earlier this afternoon,” the admiral continued. “I have in my hands the results of this board.” He held several sheets of paper above his head. “I ordered the president of the board not to release these results until I returned from this ceremony because I wanted to make sure you good folks were the first to get the news.” With a sly smile and a scan across the rows of people before him, the four-star paused to heighten the drama of the moment, like a celebrity presenter might do at the Academy Awards. “I’m pleased to announce Lieutenant Commander ‘Smoke’ Stackhouse and Lieutenant Commander ‘Spud’ O’Leary have been selected for squadron command. Congratulations, gentlemen.” The crowd roared as Smoke and Spud’s expressions of disbelief changed to irrepressible grins. The two carrier roommates shook hands, and although that display didn’t fully capture the feelings between them, they left it at that.

  Biff pushed away from the main bar at the officers club and waded through the mass of guests at the reception until he reached the more relaxed atmosphere of the back bar. He pulled up a chair and joined Punk seated at one of the quiet tables in the comfortable room. The big pilot reached into a back pocket of his tight white trousers and removed a folded sheet of paper, which he fanned in front of him like a small flag. “I got it.”

  “What?”

  “My acceptance letter. I’ve been hired.”

  “Which airline?”

  “Delta.”

  “Damn right, boy. Congratulations.” Punk rose and shook Biff’s hand across the table.

  “Are you here alone?” Biff asked.

  “I guess,” Punk replied. “So much for my celebration.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” Biff advised with a hearty laugh. “You can always take the CNO to dinner. Plus, there are plenty of boomerang girls left around this reception.” The big pilot tossed his head slightly to the left a couple of times and continued to speak in a theatrical whisper. “In fact, don’t look now, but I think your single status has been noticed.”

  Punk nonchalantly worked his scan across the room behind him and, in the process, awkwardly locked eyes with a high-speed blond leaning against the bar. “Goddam it, Biff,” he said as he faced his squadronmate once again. “Don’t do that.”

  “I told you not to look,” Biff chided. “Man, I wish I was single again, not to mention a war hero.”

  “No, you don’t; trust me. It’s a long, cold journey out of the apartment once the panting stops.”

  Biff peeled the label from his beer bottle and pasted it on the surface of the table. “Pardon my curiosity, but have you heard from Jordan?”

  “No,” Punk returned. “To be honest I was halfway hoping she’d show up here since the ceremony had such a big build up on the local news and in the papers.”

  “Why don’t you call her?”

  “Because in her last letter she wrote that she’d call me.” Punk’s bold face failed to introduce the minor detail that he’d reached for the phone to call her countless times but something had always gone off in his head an
d kept him from going through with it.

  “I’ve heard about you fighter pilots and your pride,” Biff cracked before he took another swig and changed the subject. “So, Punk, you and I haven’t talked about it lately. What’s in your future?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you going to stay in or get out?” The big man flapped his acceptance letter in front of him again. “The industry is looking for pilots like you read about, and I know some people to talk to now . . .”

  “I appreciate that,” Punk said.

  Biff leaned in closer. “There are more of him out there, you know.”

  “Him?”

  “You know damn well who I mean,” Biff answered as he pointed to the far wall. “Him. Them. They’re out there—more Soups waiting to make your life a living hell. He’s not alone in this business. Just look at Beads.”

  “That’s harsh, Biff,” Punk said. “Beads wasn’t that bad.”

  “You didn’t work for him like I did. He’s shown all the traits so far. He just needs the power.” Biff rose from his chair. “Think about it. You’re coming up for orders later this year. Now is the perfect time to make the move.”

  “I’ll think about it, trust me,” Punk replied. “I’m not interested in making my life any more painful than it has to be.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “I won’t.”

  “All right.” Biff folded the letter and returned it to his pocket as he stood up. “I’ve gotta find the wife. She doesn’t really care for the club too much. She’s probably standing by the front desk ready to go. Plus, we’ve got a sitter on the meter for seven dollars an hour. Can you believe that? Seven dollars an hour? That’s really what we should do, Punk: Let’s all get out of the Navy and become baby sitters.” He offered a small wave and moved out of the back bar and back into the crowd at the reception.

  “Why isn’t the game on TV?” Scooter cried from an adjacent table. “Reggie,” he called to the bartender. “Can we get the game on?”

  “Which one?” the old fixture asked back.

  “The NBA finals, what else? Tonight’s the deciding game.”

  “All right, all right,” the white-hair curmudgeon mumbled as he fumbled with the remote he’d long ago ruled that only he could touch. “What channel?”

  “Seven, I think.”

  The bartender walked the channels down from 13 and, when he passed through 8, Punk noticed something. “Hold it, Reggie,” he called across the room. “Go back a few.”

  “Why?” Scooter protested as Reggie began climbing back through the channels.

  “I thought I saw something,” Punk explained while concentrating on the television. “Okay. Hold it there . . .” Commander Campbell appeared on the big screen before them dressed in his summer whites. The uniform’s black shoulder boards with three gold stripes on each were well defined against the crisp whiteness of the certified Navy twill, and his shiny Wings of Gold and four rows of ribbons over the left breast pocket were highlighted by the studio’s lighting. He was in the middle of a description of the events that led to his capture.

  “I noticed my radio was missing, and I knew I was in trouble. I had no way to communicate with American forces. I had to dig in and get tough.”

  “What did you feel at that point?” the host asked. “Desperation? Fear? What goes through your mind?”

  The skipper drew a deep breath and gazed above the host into the lights as if searching for inspiration. “All those things; all those things. But in the end, when every source of solace is shredded to bits, a man has to keep his head. He has to look down the barrel of a tough situation and say to himself: ‘I’m going to beat this.”’

  The host looked at the CO as if he were the wisest man he’d ever had on his show, nodded as one nods when offered truths from the mouths of great figures, and effused, “Yes . . .” before snapping himself out of the trance. “Let’s go to the phones. Robert from Indigo, go ahead with your question for Commander Campbell . . .”

  “Yeah . . . hello,” the telephone-modulated voice said. “This is Robert from Indigo . . . hello?”

  “Yes, Robert, we’ve got you,” the host said. “Go ahead with your question.”

  “Yes, thank you. First off, I’d like to say I’m a big fan of your show. I watch every night.”

  “Thank you, sir. Your question, please.”

  “Before I ask my question, I’d like to tell Commander Campbell that I’ve seen him speak on TV several different times, and I want to say that he’s given me new hope in the American way. I served in the Army for a few years, and since then I had become convinced that this country couldn’t produce heroes any more. I now know that I was wrong.”

  Soup responded with a blush and a shy smile. “Actually, I’m no different than any other hardworking member of the military out there serving the nation every day.”

  “I hope that’s not true,” Punk muttered.

  “I was wondering . . . do you have any political aspirations?” the caller asked. “I’ll hang up to hear the answer. Thank you both.”

  “That’s a good question, commander,” the host observed. “What’s in your future? The country could always use another good leader.”

  “Well,” the skipper replied as he smoothed the front of his thick hair, now more brown than gray. “I’ve got a lot more work left to do in the Navy. I’ve recently been selected for promotion to captain, and I’ve been told I should expect to be assigned as an air wing commander soon.”

  “Excuse me for my lack of military knowledge, but those are both good things, right?”

  “Very good . . . very good.”

  “All right, folks, the book is called Flight to Glory, and we’re dedicating the full hour to the author, Commander Alexander Campbell. We’ll be right back with more insights from this modern-day American hero, and we’ll be taking a lot more of your calls after this break, so stay tuned.”

  “I’m going to be sick,” Scooter screamed. “I swear I’m going to lose my lunch on your table if you don’t turn away from this, Reggie.” He shouted over to Punk, “Can we watch the game now, or are you going to keep scratching your fingernails on the chalkboard here?”

  Punk got up from the table. “Turn to the game, Reggie. I’m sorry we had to see that.” He shuffled by the bar, through the smoked glass doors into the night and strolled across the expansive wooden deck until he bellied up to the rail ringing the edge of it on the far side. With a sigh, he leaned against his elbows and looked down at the medal on his chest. He dropped one hand and fingered the bronze-colored propeller dangling from the red, white, and blue ribbon.

  “Anybody need a fresh beer out here?” the executive officer asked, surprising Punk as he stepped across the deck. “Mind if I join you?”

  “No, not at all, XO,” Punk said as he waved him in.

  “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” the XO said as he handed Punk one of the two bottles he had threaded between his fingers.

  “Sure is,” Punk said with a nod of thanks as he twisted the cap off the bottle. “Even the commanders might go flying on a night like this.”

  The commander chuckled. “This has been quite a day, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes it has,” Punk agreed. “Quite a day to go along with quite a year.” He took a swig and looked over at the commander. “I don’t know how you did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “Stayed sane . . . you know . . . through all of it. You and Soup are such different types of people.”

  “Maybe,” the commander allowed, “but he was the commanding officer, and I was the executive officer. That fact was—and remains—clearly defined. Trust me, two guys trying to be CO at the same time would’ve been worse.”

  “But how does he get away with it?”

  “What?”

  “It . . . the whole bogus program of his,” Punk said. “You saw him on TV. He’s been selected for captain
, and he’s going to be a CAG. He’s still the commanding officer of this squadron and he hasn’t even been here for three months. And now he’s out there being an American icon and pushing his book, fer crissake.”

  “That’s true. He will be a CAG. And when he holds that position, those below him will be his subordinates. And all the while, the Navy will keep going to sea. As for his fifteen minutes of fame, you have to understand that the public’s perception of our business is important. As ironic as it might be, Soup’s helping with that, and the Navy is naturally going to reward him for his efforts. Now, I’ve got my own opinion about the ethics of that situation, but that’s the way it is. If it means that Congress is willing to fund our follow-on aircraft programs because they think Soup Campbell is a great American, then I’ll live with it.”

  “He caused some good men to drop letters of resignation.”

  “That ebbs and flows,” the XO said just before he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a healthy slug. “I’m not sure a guy like Biff would’ve stayed in regardless of who his commanding officer was.” The XO allowed a short silence to hang between them. “Did I ever tell you my Leak Johnson story?”

  “No sir. I don’t think so.”

  “Leak Johnson was my first commanding officer. Actually, his call sign at the time was Tiny because he was a bit overweight. This guy was a real hateful bastard and was unanimously disliked by the boys in the ready room, but he did a masterful job of looking good to those above him in the chain of command. He was on his way and we were all convinced the system was flawed. He made captain, and because he had an engineering masters degree as well as a great record, he was put into the pipeline for command of a nuclear powered aircraft carrier. Now, if you get command of a nuke boat, chances are you’re going to be selected for admiral. Admiral Johnson. We couldn’t believe it. We all drafted our letters of resignation on principle alone.” The commander turned and took in the three-quarter moon shrouded by stars. “And then it happened.”

  “What?”