Tail of the Storm

by Alan Cockrell

  Our officers regularly roomed and socialized with enlisted men. All were on a first nameeven a nicknamebasis. Such an admission would send an active career officer reeling in horror, but that kind of relationship worked for us. Together with our active duty counterparts, we were chalking up an unprecedented track record of safety and reliability. Our success was proof enough. Still, every fresh face in the cockpit presented a new twist to life. And sometimes a new challenge.

  More black airmen, including several pilots, had followed Brady's trail. They established a record of reliability, competency, and leadership. But even more profound personnel changes were taking place, changes that required severe adaptations. Some of the entries in my logbook are marked with a star to indicate that something unusual or worth remembering happened. A double star entry had initiated an abrupt change in my attitude the year before.

  It was an eastbound Atlantic oceanic crossing. The autopilot was doing an admirable job, allowing us to relax and settle in for the high seas cruise segment. I was studying a navigation chart when I heard it. The half whisper, half cry of the flight engineer's astonished voice electrified the interphone.

  "Dear. . GOD!"

  I looked up from the chart and over at Milo, not sure who had uttered the sobering remark. He was peeling away his Ray Bans and peering behind him, disbelief written across his face. I careened about, as well, and looked back. Four sets of eyes were agog, fixed upon the object in the middle of the flight deck floor.

  A crumpled flight suit was lying there, the olive green Nomex material piled on itself; patches and zippers showing here and there. Then all our heads lifted up to the top bunk on the aft bulkhead, whence the zoom bag had been tossed. The drawn blackout curtains were bulging and pulsating with movement from within, as if a solitary struggle were in progress.

  Then our eyebrows arched higher as a brassiere was flung from beneath the curtains and fell onto the flight suit. We stared incredulously at the growing heap and flinched again as more female undergarments plopped onto the pile. Various imprecations and utterings of disbelief issued from our lips into the plane's interphone system. The loadmasters inevitably arrived to check out the strange exclamations from the flight deck. For the next hour we wondered and laughed, speculated and bet, eyes periodically cutting back toward the bunk. Would she ask for the garments to be handed back up when the nap was over? Would we comply? A loadmaster paced the flight deck, threatening to fling the curtains back and teach this teaser a lesson.

  But we forbade him; much was at stake here. We didn't know this person very well. And we were puzzled and confused by this striking sign of change in our preserved world of engines, wings, and throttles.

  Bob Moore smiled and slowly shook his head. Once a farmer, he had grown milo, among other crops; I had coined his nickname. His face and thinning hair were as red as his Mississippi Delta dirt. His warm smile was genuine and contagious. He didn't talk much, and his humor was subtle. I liked him because he and I were so much alike and because he reminded me greatly of my brother, Steve. Over the years, while we flew together in the Guard, Milo was a banker and, early on, a lending officer to farmers, while I was a geologist with an oil company. Later, discontented with the corporate world, he turned to farming, much as I turned to consulting. Then both his business and mine had crumbled. Together we felt the pain and frustration as our once-needed, noble, and respected professions were trampled underfoot by political ineptitude, wild swings in markets, and the ruthless struggles of power and greed. Together, Milo and I blew off the old persuasions and threw caution to the wind; what did we have to lose? In abrupt, upheaving, heart-ripping midlife changeovers, we became airline pilots. Milo went to the silver birds, I to the Friendly Skies. But brothers we remained.

  Finally the curtains began to ruffle. Fingers appeared, then the sleepy, green-eyed she-pilot, hair bedraggled, appeared, smiled, and extended an arm outward, asking for the garments.

  But no, no, no was, of course, the answer. We cut eyes toward one another and chuckled; the time was at hand to turn the gag back upon her. We were so clever. "No, ma'm, you'll have to come down for them yourself." Snicker, guffaw.

  She pleaded with us, and still we refused. Then she questioned our decency and sense of humor, all the while clutching the curtain around her neck. She was exasperated; her gag had gone afoul.

  As I was beginning to feel that it had gone far enough, she began a desperate act. She detached the blackout curtain from its hooks and wrapped it about her. She then carefully lowered herself to the flight deck and ambled to the pile of clothes with only her bare arms, feet, and ankles showing from the makeshift smock. I thought I noticed a whimper and a tear. I felt bad. Then, as she stooped to pick up the clothes, the curtain parted.

  "LOOK AT THIS!!" the engineer sitting near her yelled. He reached inside the wrapping toward her leg and grabbed something. We all strained from our seats looking with curious and bulging eyes. He had grabbed a handful of olive green nomex material. SHE WAS WEARING A FLIGHT SUIT! The sleeves were cleverly rolled above her elbows, the legs in a similar fashion above her knees so that she looked naked beneath the curtain. The other clothes had been stashed in the upper bunk to set up the prank. She flung off the curtain and collapsed into the lower bunk, laughing uncontrollably

  We were no more than fish hanging on her stringershe, the happy and skillful angler. But now at least we knew something of this newcomer. She had ably staked out her territory among us, and for that we respected her.

  Such was my introduction to Ginny Thomas, the first female military pilot I'd ever known. She was from Alabama, and as the only two Bama graduates in a sea of Mississippians, we established a rapport pretty quickly But still, I wasn't sure about her. This was too new. She came from the active Air Force, a tanker pilot. She had a good reputation, having been decorated for saving a Navy fighter plane running low on fuel. But like the rest of us, she wasn't the career type and had turned to the best of both worlds: flying Uncle Sam's jets in the militia.

  And a bold move it was. The Mississippi Air Guard was a decadesold male bastion; a fortress of walls lined with haughty menme among themclosely cradling our guns of pride and watching with curiosity and skepticism as this maidenly newcomer rode in, bringing with her a profound change. But we quickly saw that she was not the type who wanted to prove something. Oh yes, this we expected; this we wanted. We were scrapping for a fight. Sacred boundaries had been spit across. We knew it was a hopeless battle, but we reveled in being the underdogs. We wanted to point and shake our arrogant heads, to jump on her case, to extol our superiority and magnify her weaknesses. And we did it sometimes with a cruel resolve. We strangely forgot about all the hard landings we had made when we saw her prang it. When she strayed above the glide slope, we sneered the sneer of self-deceived perfectionists. She went through hell and never tried to fight back, never dared us to knock the feminist chip off her shoulders, because there was no such chip. She just wanted to be one of us, to be accepted even as we ourselves wanted to be accepted by the group. We allowed this during the off-duty times, the layovers, the long drill weekends. But in the cockpit, for a longer time than should have been, we regarded her as something of an intruder and, subconsciously perhaps, a threat.

  I shed my zoom bag and crashed into the small German bed, utterly exhausted from the night crossing. I was well aware that I would sleep like a piece of granite porphyry for six hours only to stay awake all night until the 0600 takeoff. Then, before the mission would even have begun, the freshness would be depleted, and I'd be wasted again. Yes, on other occasions I had agonizingly forced myself to stay awake another six or eight hours, so that I could get a normal amount of sleep just prior to alert time. It's no good for me. I would just wrap up in the soft German comforter and cast off from reality. I'd drift away into blessed slumber and let sleep run its course. But there was a persistent rapping at the door.

  I staggered over and swung the door open. Miss Ginny stood there, wearing h
er touring clothes and a cheerful grin. She had sunglasses at the ready and camera shoulder-slung. She started to talk, but I preempted.

  "No, no. Go away." I started to close the door, but she threw her weight into it and resisted, pleading with me to forsake the gloomy room and accompany her into the German countryside. I replied that the very idea was insane, as I managed to force the door closed. Finally I pushed it to the latch and turned back for the bunk, but the rapping and pleading continued. Then they stopped but resumed on another door across the hallway. I snickered, knowing that Milo was then being accosted. I heard his door open as she implored him to come out.

  A few minutes passed, and I was roused again by the relentless rapping, and again I ambled to the door, resolved to put an end to it. But there, behind her, emerging from his room was the defeated Milo, donning his jacket and Raybans.

  "Come on out of there!" he shouted. "If I've got to do this, you're coming too."

  I conceded and made ready, while she found a more willing companion in Jerrell, a loadmaster, who had slept during the crossing. The four of us hopped a train bound for Heidelberg. We followed and watched in ignorance as she conversed in fluent German with the local citizens. She had done her share of the flying last night, yet she snapped pictures, talked incessantly, and ran up castle stairways with the energy of a child. But there among the mountains and castles, we forgot for a while about the fatigue, and we became a little less concerned about the new face standing next to us on the fortress walls.

  The last we heard, Ginny had been assigned to George Fondren's crew, along with our second female pilot, Mary. That would be an interesting combination. One of our guys says he'd like to be a little gremlin hiding behind a switch in that cockpit, listening to the master bullshitter and the quick-witted she-pilots. But I suspect George is more subdued these days. The times are indeed a'changingand George and I are having a hard time keeping up.

  Eleven.

  My Kind of Fliers

  We wait in front of the billeting office at "0-dark thirty" for the crew bus that will take us to our 162-ton chariot. A chilled wind is blowing, and low ragged clouds are racing overhead. I never thought Spain could have such lousy winter weather. We shiver with the dampness and anticipate the fatigue of the twenty-hour mission ahead.

  The dreaded sound of the crew bus diesel engine grows, and headlights appear in the mist. Another cursed bag drag is at hand. We drain our styrofoam coffee cups and with burnt-out moans begin to pick up the B-4 bags, the duffel bags, the chemical warfare bags, the pubs kits, the mission kit, and the coolers. As the bus parks, we see that it contains an inbound crew. The lights inside come on, and simultaneous shouts arise from within the bus and from among us.

  "It's one of our crews!"

  These were always welcome words, and when we heard them, our spirits bolted upright. With renewed energy we greeted our old comrades from the Deep South. We slapped backs, shook hands, and horseplayed like shut-in brothers.

  "How long ya'll been out?"

  "Left the house yesterday. How 'bout ya'll?"

  "Sixteen days and goin' back downrange today."

  "Shee-it."

  I look around for the pilots and spot the aircraft commander. It's Pink Floyd! The all-American kid next door; the red-haired and temperamental yet abundantly friendly Pink. Beneath his youthful face he hides a great self-confidence and a bit of an ego, which is expected and acceptable. I followed his fast progress from the day he showed up as a raw second lieutenant. He progressed quickly to a captain, then aircraft commander, and soon became an instructor.

  Shortly after joining us, he found a real job and became an insurance adjuster. He made pretty good money and proclaimed it a great job. But it was easy to read the discontent in his unassuming face. The truth was that he was hungry to fly professionally, and just prior to the callup he had landed a lucrative job flying for Federal Express.

  Seeing Pink I always remember the Greenwood air show, where we were both once big stars. It was one of those rare occasions when we could show off a little and have some fun. He was a new jet jock with an ardor for center stage, but the spotlight focused more sharply on him than he anticipated. It was the result of a simple slip-up; he wasn't even responsible for itif he is to be believedbut in the Mississippi Air Guard the teasers will hose you down when you blunder. I would have my turn at the hose.

  I had just transitioned from C-130s to C-141s and had checked out as an aircraft commander, which is the equivalent of captain in the airline world. Pink was fresh out of pilot training and more recently the C-141 copilot school at Altus Air Force Base.

  One Sunday afternoon I reported for a proficiency training mission that was scheduled to go out to Oklahoma and back. Pink was already at the base and had vigorously completed the flight planning and paperwork. With thinly veiled excitement he informed me that an air show was under way in Greenwood, his hometown. He knew the air show coordinator and had arranged for us to make a brief appearance, before we winged it for Oklahoma. Pink had okayed it with the supervisor of flying. Everything was arranged. We would appear at precisely 1:30 P.M.

  It sounded fun to me, so I briefed the crew on what we would do at the show. We would approach from the south, make a low slow pass overhead with the gear and flaps down, generating a lot of crowd-pleasing noise and smoke. Then we would "clean up" the jet, retracting the flaps and gear, and return to the airport from the north at high speed. We would pull the nose up from a low approach and roll the

  beast toward the crowd so that they could see the top profile. After this "pass-in-review" maneuver, we would climb out at maximum power, bathing the airport in thunder. Chief Master Sergeant Charlie Watson and his student engineer scrutinized the plan with concern, but I assured them that we could do it safely if we all stayed alert and did not exceed certain parameters. Pink was beside himself with excitement.

  Chief Master Sergeant Charlie Watson

  At 1:25 we contacted the show coordinator and were informed that an aerobatic act was ending and we were cleared to come in. Peering out of his window like Kilroy as we passed, Pink was stunned at the size of the crowd and the variety of show planes parked on the field. This was truly a big event for his hometown. The pass-in-review maneuver went as planned and as we climbed out toward Oklahoma, satisfied that the crowd had been amply impressed, the happy Pink remarked that he would get a copy of the videotape of the show.

  Curiously, weeks went by, but my promised copy of the tape was never produced. I kept reminding Pink, but he conveniently kept forgetting. Finally, after incessant cajoling, he gave me the copy.

  It was beautiful beyond expectation. The deep southern drawl of the narrator, Jim Burris, could clearly be heard, his booming voice echoing and reverberating across the airport on the public address system. As we approached on the high-speed pass, the experienced Jim anticipated the maneuver and warned the crowd.

  "This is your camera pass, folks. Have your cameras ready."

  As the image of our Starlifter passed in a graceful, turning arch and started its climb-out, applause could be heard, and Jim's voice boomed again in tribute to the town's native son.

  "Beautiful! Beautiful pass. There he goes folks, Greenwood's very own Lieutenant David Floyd, the aircraft commander. Don't you know his daddy's proud!"

  Dave would return and do the show again in a couple of years, this time as the aircraft commander indeed, and again he would do the town proud.

  I have never let him forget that. But maybe I won't press it this morning. He looks burnt out. I can see it in his eyes. In a little while Dave and his crew will be in the bunks we so reluctantly left, and we'll be in the seats they gladly vacated.

  C-141B Starlifter

  Another trip downrange faces us like a relentless taskmaster. We will throw our backs again into the harnesses, but our pyramid seems to have no taper. We've built it higher than any other, but still there is no end in sight.

  After a long hiatus, we find ourselves comi
ng back through TJ again. With Zaragoza to pull away some of the traffic, TJ has settled down a bit. The Wild West atmosphere is long gone. Our pistols are now checked with the security police armory before we leave the flight line. Thankfully, we're down to only two to a room.

  The base services officer has finally recognized that some crewdogs, like jet engines, must spool down. She has ordered the erection of a beer tent on the lawn in front of the billeting office. The activity under it has waned with the cooling of the weather, but the "inbounds" still congregate under it before turning in. Last night there was some sort of a fracas out there. A lieutenant is walking around this morning with a great shiner under his eye, delivered, reportedly, by a sergeant from our unit.

  Weather forecasts and flight plans in hand, we leave the operations room and start for the bus, but ahead is a face that rejuvenates me. I was hoping I would cross paths with him, and now there he is, looking like he's back in Jackson, weathering out another dull drill weekend. He leans against the wall in the hallway of the command post facility, hands buried in the pockets of his flight jacket, gazing passively but not unkindly at the antlike activity around him. He nods at familiar faces and waits, like a neglected but patient puppy, for a passerby to linger for a bit of flying talk.

  The epitome of a dashing aviator he's not. He wears his hair and his mustache a bit too long for Uncle Sam's austere taste. He always seems to have a five o'clock shadow. And it seems to me that he wears a flight suit a couple sizes too large. His appearance is deceiving to those who think great pilots ought to look like square-jawed, steely-eyed Steve Canyons. He cares not and in fact enjoys the illusion. He doesn't talk a lot and isn't inclined to discuss abstract or philosophical things. Born in an aviation family, endowed with an innate talent for flying, and possessed of a passion for the wing, Tom Wallace is my kind of flier. He's the quiet, confident type who knows he's good but doesn't try to convince the world of it.