"Valdosta area control, Trans-Caribbean Four Oh Two."
"Four Oh Two, Valdosta."
"Valdosta, will you close me out, please?"
There was a moment's pause, then: "Valdosta area control closes Trans-Caribbean Four Oh Two over Tallahassee at one zero thousand at three two past the hour." "Thank you, Valdosta," Lowell said. "Four Oh Two switching to Tallahassee approach control at this time."
He changed the transceiver and ADF frequencies again, but not to those utilized by Tallahassee.
He got the Laird omm.
Dah dab dah, dah dah dit dit, dit dah dit.
The international Morse code in his earphones spelled out OZR. Why the hell the Laird Omni didn't spell out dit dah dit dit, dit dah dit, dah dit dit, for LRD, as in Laird, or dit dah dit, dah dit dah, dit dah dit, for RKR, as in Rucker, was a mystery whose solution was known only to the FAA. The FAA assigned omni codes and persisted in using dah dah dah, dah dah dit dit, dit dah dit for OZark, which had never had an omnidirectional navigation aid, even before Fort Rucker.
He made a slight course correction, so that the needles were where they were supposed to be, and then went on the horn.
"Laird, Army Four Oh Two."
"Aircraft calling Laird, say again.
He was a bit far out, but what the hell.
"Laird, Army Four Oh Two," he said again.
"Four Oh Two, Laird. You are weak but readable."
"Four Oh Two, visual, seventy miles southeast at ten thousand. Estimate Laird in twenty minutes."
"Understand seven zero southeast, one zero thousand, two zero minutes." "Affirmative," Lowell said. "Laird, Code Eleven. Capacity eight.
Confirm."
"Understand Code Eleven, capacity eight."
"Affirmative."
"Capacity is eight? Confirm?"
"Affirmative, capacity is eight."
He had just announced that he had personnel aboard requiring medical attention, including transport by ambulance. He had, he thought, just given the boys in the tower and for that matter the boys in the hospital, and probably even Major General Paul T. Jiggs something to liven up an otherwise dull day.
One of the hush-hush airplanes will land in twenty minutes, and requires ambulances for eight people!
They would probably be just a little disappointed when he landed and they learned that what he had aboard was just one wounded man (a Cubano had surprised hell out of a Green Beret hand-to-hand combat instructor by stabbing the Beret in the groin with a bayonet the instructor had planned to take away from him with skill and elan) and seven others, including five Rucker pilots, suffering from semi terminal cases of the running shits.
Lowell reached over his head again and adjusted the trim control, a four-inch diameter wheel. The nose of the Gooneybird dropped just perceptibly.
He turned to the man in the copilot's seat.
"Almost home," Lowell said.
The man in the copilot's seat was not an aviator. He was a
Green Beret sergeant first class, an instructor in radio communication.
He was riding in the right seat because there were no pilots available, and Lowell thought that if needed, the sergeant could be pressed into service to work the radios.
He had not been needed. It had been a long, slow, uneventful flight.
In addition to the eight passengers in the compartment of the
Gooney-bird were a number of crates (Lowell had taken off considerably over the specified maximum gross weight). These crates contained items of equipment which, having been sent by a very circuitous route to Nicaragua, had not worked when they arrived there.
There was a good deal fucked up in this operation, fuckups which sorely tried the patience of the Action Officer, one
Sanford T. Felter. Felter had been nearly as furious about the failure to properly treat the water, which had laid low eighty five Americans and several hundred Cubanos, as he had been to learn that the medicine on hand to deal with this unfortunate contingency was out of date and useless.
But not as furious as he had been when the Gooney-bird delivering' fresh medicine had landed at Nicaragua with Major Craig W. Lowell at the controls.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he had snapped. "I told you you were not to come down here."
"Somebody, Little Man, had to drive the airplane."
"You are Category I, goddamn it!" Sandy had fumed, genuinely angry.
Category I was that small list of persons who had knowledge of the entire operation. Category I personnel were not to be placed in a position where they might fall into the wrong hands, and thus compromise the security of the operation.
"Sandy," Lowell had tried to reason, "there was nobody else available to fly it. I had two choices: delay shipment from thirty-six to forty-eight hours (and you wanted this stuff immediately) or come down here myself."
He was tempted to add, but didn't, that his presence was proof positive of his noble self-sacrifice in the name of duty: Cynthia Thomas, just back from London, had suggested that she was free to spend a few days with him. He was at the humiliating point with her where he was willing to settle for a couple of days; anywhere, anytime, at her pleasure.
"You should have waited however long it took," Felter said, coldly furious.
"Forgive me, Generalissimo, I have erred," Lowell said.
"It's more than an error, Major Lowell," Felter said, his voice as cold as Lowell had ever heard it. "It's direct disobedience of an order."
"Forgive me, Colonel Felter," Lowell said, "you won't be able to make that stick. It may be an error of judgment, but I was responding to an emergency situation to the best of my ability."
"This is an order," Felter said. "I will try to phrase it so that even you cannot misunderstand or misinterpret it. You will not leave the airfield. You will get whatever sleep you feel you need, you will service that aircraft, and you will immediately return to Fort Rucker.
You are never to come here again unless I expressly order you to do so.
I hope, Craig, for your sake, that you understand how serious I am about this." "Yes, sir," Lowell said.
Felter had glowered at him and stalked off, and he had not seen him again.
Lowell had napped for a sweat-soaked four hours on a blanket spread out under the wing. He had been bitten awake by a swarm of insects, feasting at his crotch and armpits. He had stripped and sprayed himself with a stinging DDT aerosol bomb, and then gone to Base Ops, a tent, and announced he was ready to go back.
The surgeon had met him there, asking that he take as many people as he could in addition to the priority cargo and the two priority passengers: the Green Beret radio sergeant and the sergeant stabbed by the Cubano.
"I think the priority; Doctor, would be my pilots," Lowell said. "The sooner I can get them cured of the GIs, the sooner they can be back at work." The surgeon had thought that over and nodded agreement. Tim COLONELS
Thirty minutes later, a thousand pounds over max gross, Lowell had finally managed to get the Gooney-bird airborne. He had cleared the rain forest at the end of the runway by no more than twenty feet, and it had been a long time before he had been able to pick up either airspeed or altitude.
The Gooney-bird did not have the range to fly over the Gulf of Mexico directly to the States. There had been two options: flying up the coast and refueling at least once in Mexico, or going the long way (which would, it was hoped, make the Gooney-bird flights much less suspicious and conspicuous).
The long way was from the field in Nicaragua to Grand Inagua Island in the Bahamas, where they'd refuel. This was the longest leg close to the maximum distance the Gooneybird could fly. The greatest risk occurred on the way down from Grand Inagua to Nicaragua. The last five hundred miles on that leg were over water. Lowell had been willing to take the chance of flying over max gross on that leg because his route to Grand Inagua would take him over Jamaica and then through the Windward Passage between the southern tip of Cuba and Haiti. If he ran low on f
uel, he planned to put in to Port-all-Prince, Haiti, or if necessary, Kingston, Jamaica or, in a genuine emergency, into Guantanamo, the U.S. Navy base on the tip of Cuba.
There were (someone had made a list) seventy-odd "airlines" operating in the area, most of them one or two-plane operations. Of course, there was no Trans-Caribbean, but an "airline" by that name flying an old DC-3 would not cause undue attention. Lowell had devised the basic flight plans he himself was using on this flight.
The R4Ds took off from Rucker or Bragg bound for Nicaragua on visual flight rules. Once airborne, they contacted either Atlanta or Valdosta area control, identifying themselves as Trans-Caribbean aircraft, and filed an instrument flight plan to Miami. One more unpainted DC-3 cargo plane at Miami raised no eyebrows. At Miami the planes cleared U.S. Customs. And then they left Miami on IFR flight plans to anywhere: the Bahamas, or Haiti, or the British West Indies. Later they closed out the flight plans in the air, and flew on to Nicaragua, homing in first on a radio station in Bluefields, and when close, on an omni set up at the jungle field.
On the return, the second leg was from Great Inagua to Miami, a 550-mile leg. The third leg was from Miami to Rucker (or from Miami to Bragg, with a fuel stop in Savannah). Somewhere over Florida, "Trans-Carribbean" closed out its IFR flight plan, and the R4D became an army aircraft flying on visual flight rules again.
It had been a long flight, the Gooney-bird cruising along at no more than 190 knots, and Lowell was glad to see Dothan, Alabama, under his wing.
"Laird, Army Four Oh, five miles southeast for landing." He made a very shallow approach over Clayhatchee; and as he turned on final, he saw two ambulances with red lights flashing coming down the road from the post to Laird Field. As he touched down, he could see out of the corner of his eye two ambulances and two staff cars parked on the ramp at the Board area.
They were probably prepared to conduct emergency surgery on the spot, he thought somewhat nastily, and what they were going to get was an epidemic of loose bowels.
As he taxied up to the Board area, he saw that another two ambulances had arrived, and that one of the staff cars had a Collins antenna mounted on its roof. The antenna, even more than the red plate with two stars, identified it as Paul Jiggs's staff car. That made him feel bad. Jiggs, a commander who could not sit at a desk when there were "injured troops," really had no cause to be here.
Lowell turned the Gooney-bird into line, killed the engines, and stuck his head out the window.
"We need only one stretcher," he called out to the sixteen medics and that many nurses and doctors waiting to attend the "injured" and carry them off the plane to the ambulances.
And then he chuckled as he thought that no stretchers were needed. The Beret the Cubano had stabbed was so embarrassed that he would have walked off the airplane on his hands before they carried him on a stretcher.
Lowell sat in the pilot's seat and did the paperwork, then walked down the sloping cabin floor as ground crewmen began to unlash the cargo.
When he got off the airplane, Major General Paul T. Jiggs was standing there.
Lowell saluted. "i'm sorry you had to come out here, sir," he said.
"But I didn't think I should go on the air with the announcement that the walking wounded were suffering from the GIs." Tim COLONELS
"It's all right," Jiggs said. "I wanted to see you, anyway." From the tone of his voice, it was clear that his visit was official. Lowell wondered then-for the first time if Sandy had been so angry that he'd gotten in touch with Jiggs. Jiggs handed him a TWX:
HQ DEPT OF THE ARMY
WASH DC 1456 ZULU 13 OCTOBER 1960
TO COMMANDING GENERAL Fort RUCKER ALA
FOR PRE5 USA AVIATION BOARD
I. THIS TWX CONFIRMS TELE CON 1800 ZULU 12 OCT 60 BETWEEN
BRIG GEN BELL MON DC SOPS AND MA) GEN JIGOS.
2. COMGEN Fl' RUCKER 15 AUTH AND DIRECTED TO ISSUE LETTER
ORDERS ASAP PLACING MAJ LOWELL, CRAIG W 0-366901 ARMOR USE
AVN BOARD ON TEMP DY WITH HQ US ARMY PACIFIC. HONOLULU
HAWAII, FOR A PERIOD OF 180 DAYS UNLESS SOONER RELEASED BY
CINCPAC.
3. OFF IS AUTH TVL BY MIL OR CIV AIR TRANS TO HAWAII. THIS
TWX CONSTITUTES AUTHORITY FOR AAA PRIORity IN EVENT MIL AIR
TRANS IS UTILIZED.
4. OFF IS NOT AUTH TRANS OF PRIVATE VEHICLE, HOUSEHOLD, OR
PROFESSIONAL BOOKS AND PAPERS. OFF IS AUTH 250 POUNDS EXCESS
BAGGAGE ALLOW.
5. OFF WILL BE EXPECTED TO HAVE SUITABLE CIVILIAN CLOTHING
IN ADDITION TO COMPLETE SET TROPICAL CLIMATE MIL UNIFORMS.
THIS TWX CONSTrrutes AUTH FOR PAYMENT OF $300 SPECIAL ALLOWANCE FOR PURCHASE OF SUrrable CIV CLOTHING AND PAYMENT OF
$225 FOR PURCHASE OF DRESS WHITE UNIFORM.
6. IF OFF UNABLE COMMENCE TRAVEL BY 16 OCTOBER ADVISE THIS
OFFICE AND CINCPAC BY MOST EXPEDITIOUS MEANS. INCLUDING
TELEPHONE.
BY ORDER OF THE SECRETARY OF THE ARMY
STEPHEN L. MORGAN
BRIG GEN
DEPUTY. THE AD) GEN
"Jesus, he was mad, wasn't he?" Lowell said. "I beg your pardon?" Major General Jiggs asked. "I suppose, sir, that I may infer from your presence here that I cannot promise to sin no more, and ask you to get me out of this?"
"I don't have anything to do with it, Craig," Jiggs said. "I just came to ask you myself if there is any bona fide reason you can't go." "No, sir," Lowell said. "I really can't think of one."
"When can you leave?"
"I'll need two hours to pack my bags," Lowell said. Then, bitterly, "That little sonofabitch! I never thought he'd do this to me."
"Felter, you mean?" Jiggs asked. "Is he behind this?"
The question made it clear that Jiggs didn't know.
"Yes, sir, I think he is."
"All Bellmon told me was that it came from high up," Jiggs said, and then he changed the subject. "Don't go overboard, Craig. You must be tired. Why don't you get a good night's sleep and leave in the morning?" "I can sleep on the plane, sir," Lowell said. "As I recall, it's a rather long flight to Hawaii."
(Three) Atlanta International Airport 1730 Hours, 14 October 1960
When the Aero Commander taxied up to Southern Airways gate number 7, the Atlanta station manager of Delta Airlines, accompanied by two baggage handlers, came through the glass door and stood waiting until the plane's door opened.
"Major Lowell?" he asked, smiling and offering his hand to the tall, mustachioed man in civilian clothing who came out of the airplane. He had been told an hour before by the executive vice president, finance, to "make every effort to smooth things" for Major Lowell.
"Right," Lowell said.
"My name is Dietrich, Major. I'm the Eastern station manager here."
"How do you do?"
"We have you on Flight 330, which will board in forty-five minutes, nonstop to San Francisco, and connecting with Northwest Orient Flight 203. to Honolulu. First class, of course." "I thought maybe," Lowell said dryly, "that if you looked hard, you could find me a seat."
Dietrich handed over the tickets.
"We'll see your baggage is loaded, Major Lowell," Dietrich said. "And you can wait in the Club." "Thank you Very much," Lowell said.
Bill Franidin handed three pieces of luggage through the door. Two of them were brand new Mark Cross leather suitcases (bought by Major Lowell in anticipation of his honeymoon) and the third was an ancient and battered canvas Valvpak on which, was stenciled Lowell's name, rank, and serial number. He had had it since he was a lieutenant. LT and CAPT had been successively painted over, so MAJ was now two lines above the line with his name and serial number.
"Send a postcard," Bill Franklin said.
"You may use my car to dazzle the local ladies," Lowell said, shaking his hand, "providing you don't drive it over thirty-five or get heel prints on the headliner." Franklin chuckled, and then he saluted.
"Take care, Major," he said.
"If you go south, watch your ass," Lowell said.
"I'm very good at that," Franklin said.
Lowell punched him affectionately on the arm, and then followed Mr. Dietrich into the terminal building. Franklin waited until Lowell was out of sight before he got back in the Commander and fired It up.
He felt sorry for Lowell for being taken out of the action and doubly sorry that his buddy Felter had done it to him. But still, the bottom line was that he shouldn't have flown to Nicaragua when he had been told not to.
W E B Griffin - BoW 04 - The Colonels Page 50