Cunningham was aware of the same problem and wished the U.S. would develop a consistent course of action in the Middle East. But experience had taught him that hope for a coherent strategy was a pipe dream. His solution in the face of that reality was to create a wide range of military options for the President and have them available if the need arose to use them. He saw the 45th as a small, quick-reaction force for rapid insertion into the Persian Gulf.
As for the British, they were more than willing to bring the Americans into an active and decisive role in the Middle East, and David Childs knew he had an ally in Lawrence Cunningham.
After the formalities of initialing the agreement were over, the two agreed that the public announcement should be made at the earliest possible moment. Childs quietly mentioned that he would be the RAF base commander. Cunningham responded by naming a colonel from Third Air Force to be the interim wing commander until Morris could get in place. “He’ll be responsible for implementing our side of the agreement and can negotiate any problems through your team. I’ll send an advance party to back up our man. I assume your team will be in place when they arrive?”
“I’ll be at Stonewood within a week, sir.”
Sara had been at the Watch Center less than a week when she called Bill Carroll to ask if he had news of the brigadier general’s list, which had been released that morning. She could hear the anger in Bill’s voice when he said he would be right over with a bootlegged copy of the list. Muddy had already told Sara he wasn’t on the list, but the analysts were curious about who had been promoted. Expectations were running high for Tom Gomez. Don Williamson looked at her expectantly when she hung up and told him Bill Carroll was bringing over the list.
Carroll stormed into the Watch Center. “Let’s go into your office.”
“Bill, I know Anthony wasn’t going to be promoted; he told me last night. Sundown told him several weeks ago.”
He threw the list on a desk. “Look at what those shit-heads did.”
Williamson sat down on the floor when he saw the underlined name and Sara looked into a corner…Eugene S. Blevins had made his first star. Tom Gomez didn’t make it either.
“What’s surprising?” Sara said. “I’ve seen the Air Force promote men like Blevins before. He looks like a general and goes by the book, never makes waves, gets along by going along. Plays it safe, lets other people take the heat.”
A loud cheer from the main floor. Sergeant Nesbit stuck his head in the door. “Blevins got his star but there are no jobs open at the Pentagon that require a BG. He’s been reassigned to a general’s slot at Third Air Force in England, heading up Plans and Intelligence. By God, that’s an intelligent plan if ever I heard one. Is the U.K. far enough away? Hell, be thankful for small favors.”
Much lower on the list was a name they had missed—John Shaw.
27 September: 0935 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1035 hours. The English Countryside
On a map the distance from the ferry at Felixstowe to RAF Stonewood appeared to be about seventy miles, not so far, Jack thought. It also looked simple enough to find—go through Ipswich and Norwich, head west toward East Durham, then turn north. The base was located at the village of Stonewood just outside the larger town of Fakenham.
At the first traffic circle Jack took the wrong exit and headed toward London. After getting traffic circles and driving on the left sorted out, he finally found Fakenham. When he asked for directions he discovered he was not the first Yank that had been through the town looking for Stonewood. He was also at the wrong Fakenham and wanted the other one, forty miles to the south. He turned his old Dino Ferrari around and headed deeper into the East Anglia countryside.
After driving some thirty minutes along the narrow twisty roads, he was, he realized, hopelessly lost, which didn’t surprise him. His escape from Egypt had been nothing but trouble—two flat tires, a loose muffler and then a sheared gear in his Ferrari’s transaxle. Why should this be any different? After waiting twenty-four hours at Zee-brugge for a ferry to cross the channel, he decided his luck had to change. And after he got used to driving on the left he found his little car was perfect for the narrow, twisting lanes of East Anglia…He was lost, but didn’t care. The lush green of the countryside was a welcome change from the dryness of Egypt, not to mention the other problems he’d left behind.
His last weeks at Alexandria South had turned into hell as he waited for the court-martial that Morris had promised him. The lawyer the Air Force provided to defend him kept making reassuring noises that all charges would shortly be dropped. The cherubic-faced lawyer had beamed when he said the most Morris could hit Jack with was a letter of reprimand, nothing else, and that the wing commander was drawing out the pre-trial investigation just to punish Jack. After being grounded Jack had served as the squadron’s permanent duty officer and watched as Morris drove the wing’s flying program into a repetitious and dull pattern that stressed flying safety. He could only watch as the pilots and wizzos became like robots going through the motions of flying, not able to keep their fighting skills honed to anything like a combat-ready edge. He had left Egypt in a state of limbo, sweating out the looming possibility of a court-martial.
He floored the accelerator now, venting his anger at the Air Force. Now, on account of the delays on the trip, he had to worry about reporting in late. He probably should have telephoned but he didn’t have a clue about how to place a long-distance call around here. He also hadn’t had a haircut in three weeks. Fairly had briefed the squadron before leaving Egypt that they had better show up at least looking like officers. “I’ll have anyone’s ass that checks in looking like a Cro-Magnon. You may not be sanitary but you’ll look military, make a good first impression.”
Everyone understood that he was relaying Colonel Mad Stanley Morris’ words.
Jack arrived now at a small village and drove through, not seeing anything that looked like a barber shop. On the far side of the village, at a traffic circle, he spotted a young woman washing the window of a small shop. A sign said: “The Hair Fair.” Was his lousy luck changing? He pulled up in front, rolled his window down. “Excuse me, miss, can you tell me where RAF Stonewood is, and where I might find a barber shop?”
The woman studied Jack and his bright yellow car. “Take the second left”—she pointed to a road on the opposite side of the circle—“and carry on down the road a half mile. Can’t miss it. We don’t have a barber here, but I do cut hair, except we’re closed on Mondays.” She added, “You can get one tomorrow at the base. Their barber shop should be open then.”
“That’ll be about twenty-four hours too late. You know how the military is.”
“No, I really don’t, I’m afraid.”
“Any chance of your shop doing some unscheduled business?” He got out of his car. “I’m in a jam. I’m new here and if I show up at the base with long hair my commander will probably shave my head and then slit my throat.”
“Pity.” She actually smiled then. “Well, come along, we can’t have a bald corpse.” She led Jack into the shop and sat him in a chair. She quickly combed his hair. “I would rather wash your hair first. It is a bit gritty.”
“Well, I’ve been on the road for ten days. Go ahead, have at it.” She took off her smock, revealing a pleasantly full figure, nice breasts, small waist and big hips. Her tight jeans accentuated her rear. A regular earth mother, Jack thought, built for comfort.
While she washed his hair he learned that her name was Gillian and she owned the shop. When she had finished trimming his hair she stood behind him, surveying her handiwork in the mirror in front of Jack. “That’s great.” And it was.
“Right. That will be three pounds-fifty.”
He stood up and checked his wallet, and groaned, “I think I spent most of my English money filling up with gas at Felixstowe. Wait a minute.” He rifled his pockets, counting what he had left.
Gillian stood back, irritated and amused.
“I’ve got one pound-ten. C
an you take a traveler’s check?”
“Not to worry. Pay me the next time you’re through. I don’t have my cash box here anyway.”
“Thanks, I really appreciate it…”
Gillian watched him drive away, attracted to this Yank in spite of herself. “Wherever do they find them?” And then reminded herself of the old War War Two saying she’d heard from her father about the American GIs: “They’re overpaid, oversexed and over here.”
At RAF Stonewood four men were landscaping around a newly erected sign:
RAF STONEWOOD
HOME OF THE 45TH TACTICAL FIGHTER WING
U.S. COMMANDER—COL J. STANLEY MORRIS
RAF COMMANDER—GRP CMDR D. CHILDS
Two civilians were putting the finishing touches on a new guard shack, and Jack noticed that the big water tower to the immediate left had received a fresh coat of paint in the standard orange-and-white checkerboard pattern. A gate guard checked his orders and identification, then with a sharp salute stepped back and said, “Welcome to RAF Stonewood, Lieutenant Locke. Please obey the twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit.”
An uneasy feeling came over him as he entered the base…he could see Morris’ influence everywhere; the base sparkled with new paint and was squeaky clean. A sullen young airman cleaning up in front of wing headquarters gave him directions to his squadron. Driving slowly through the base he had to be impressed by the level of activity. New construction was going on everywhere. From the number of men at work he guessed that a full-scale Prime Beef construction team was on-base. Near the Base Exchange a flash of familiar auburn hair caught his attention, and a second look confirmed that it was Connie Fairly, his squadron commander’s wife. “Hey, lady,” he called, “where’s the action?”
“If you mean the 379th, carry on down the road, love, turn left and follow the crowds.” Her attempt at a limey accent broke down in a laugh that had lost none of its charm.
Jack found the squadron near the flight line. Parked in the open were six F-4Es with the freshly painted letters “SW” on their tails. Inside the squadron everyone was busy with construction or painting. A burly dark-haired major Jack had never met ambled over, extending a huge hand. “I’m Bull Morgan. Glad to meet you.”
Jack nodded. Morgan was a legend, infamous for his flying, drinking, womanizing and total disdain for constituted authority. They said that when threatened with a court-martial in Vietnam he had told a colonel to “fuck off. The keys are in the bird if you want to fly it.” Morgan would never be promoted again, but Jack doubted if he cared. Never mind legend, though, Jack decided. He’d play it straight for now. He was in enough trouble. “Good afternoon, sir, Lieutenant Locke. I’m just off the ferry and need to sign in.”
“Good”—the amiable giant grinned—“the admin office is upstairs. They’ll take care of you. Check into the BOQ, get changed and get your buns back here. We’ve got a lot of poundin’ and paintin’ to do before Mad Stanley will let us start to fly.”
Upstairs an efficient sergeant, newly arrived from the States, started the paperwork that would make Jack a part of Stonewood. Pounding on a typewriter, he kept up a constant stream of chatter. Within minutes Jack learned the black sergeant’s name was Macon Jefferson, from Cleveland, and that Mike Fairly was still the squadron commander, the 378th had a new commander—Lieutenant Colonel Charles Jenkins—because Morris had fired the old one, the new squadron Operations officer for the 379th was Bull Morgan, and Mad Stanley Morris was indeed mad.
“This place,” the sergeant told Jack, “is about to become Disneyland East. Worse, English beer is piss. And without my talents this squadron’s gonna be swamped by chickenshit paperwork.” He handed Jack a ration card, an in-processing checklist, an appointment with the wing commander and some final advice on Colonel Morris.
“Mad Stanley wants to make general so bad he can taste it at both ends,” Jefferson warned. “And he’s going to use this wing to do it. He’s trying to be a carbon copy of Sundown Cunningham, even rolls an unlit cigar around in his mouth. He’s made early promotion on every rank since captain. He’s a fast burner, uses people for fuel. Good luck on your interview with him tomorrow.”
Jack only smiled, not telling the sergeant he knew all about Morris. At least the man was consistent. Morris had been on-base less than a week.
Within an hour Jack was back in the squadron, where Morgan put him to work with a paintbrush. When Jack asked Morgan why he’d been assigned to Stonewood, the major said an old friend, Muddy Waters, told him there might be some action in the 45th that he’d like.
Morgan reminded Jack of an aging heavyweight prize-fighter, past his prime but still obviously in good condition as he shambled about the squadron, now and then shadow boxing.
Morgan suffered from a split reputation. As a young fighter pilot, only his ability as a pilot and his combat record kept him from being kicked out of the service. Later on he had been assigned as an instructor at the Fighter Weapons School at Nellis and became one of Waters’ protégés, following him to Bitburg, Germany. Under Waters, Morgan had settled down some and become one of the Air Force’s best weapons-and-tactics officers. He was an expert at “mud moving,” getting fighter aircraft through hostile defenses and over a target, accurately dropping bombs and then safely escaping to RTB, or return to base.
Late that afternoon, having checked in from leave in the States, Thunder came down from the admin office with the same handful of in-processing paperwork Jack had. “Looks like we’re seeing Mad Stanley together,” Thunder told him. “Should be interesting.” Jack was glad to see his backseater. He figured he’d need him on this flight.
Jack and Thunder presented themselves at Colonel Morris’ office on the dot for their scheduled interview. Their class A uniforms and shoes were immaculate, and Thunder had carefully trimmed his moustache back so as to be well within standards. After a few minutes wait Morris’ executive officer briefed them to report in a military manner and remain standing during the interview.
“Sounds like an inquisition,” Jack said. Thunder shrugged in resignation.
The exec rapped sharply on the colonel’s door, paused for a moment, then escorted them in.
Morris returned their salute and rocked back in his chair, rolling a pen between the fingers of both hands. He mentally dismissed Thunder with a passing glance and fixed on Jack. “Lieutenant Locke, your irresponsible flying got my wing kicked out of Egypt. I do not like that. They tell me you’re a good pilot. I doubt it, because you’re certainly not a good officer. However, I believe you deserve another chance and I am dropping charges and court-martial proceedings against you and returning you to flying status.” It was no act of generosity. The Judge Advocate had convinced Morris that Jack would be acquitted in any court-martial and the charges should be dropped.
Relief washed over Jack.
“I want you to understand one thing and understand it well,” Morris went on. “You have no second chances here. One slip and I’ll break you. Follow? Do you understand everything I’ve said?
“And while I am giving you another chance, Lieutenant Locke, I am holding both of you responsible for what I consider irresponsible flying at Alexandria South, which will be noted on your next effectiveness reports. I’m a generous fellow, so I’m giving you an opportunity to demonstrate how well you’ve gotten my message. To build good will and interaction with the community, I am creating my Friday afternoon public tours. You two will be in charge of the presentation on Operations. That’s all. Dismissed.”
The two officers saluted and left.
Thunder spoke up first. “Come on, we’re going to see Fairly. I’m no genius, but I know a nut case when he drives over me.”
Doc Landis was in Fairly’s office when they stomped up the stairs and Fairly motioned them to come in and find some seats.
“The Doc is here lining up flights in Big Ugly. Kind of unusual,” Fairly said, trying to lighten the somber mood of the two men, “he wants to meet all his flying requir
ements.” Air Force regulations required flight surgeons to “fly frequently and periodically” in their wing’s aircraft. As a flight surgeon assigned to a squadron, Landis had to know at first hand the environment and stresses his patients were experiencing. Not only was he to treat their physical ailments, but he was responsible for evaluating their mental well-being. After all, in a war he had to watch for combat fatigue, a sure killer in high-performance fighters.
“How did the interview go?” Fairly finally asked.
That man’s asshole is synced to his brain with a direct force-feed mechanism—”
Fairly interrupted. “Jack, we’ve got a guest.” The squadron commander did not want his officer to get in the habit of criticizing senior officers in front of others, even a medic.
“It’s okay,” Landis said. “Let him get it out.
The break was enough for Jack to regain control as he told them what had happened with Morris. Fairly sighed. Morris’ decision to downgrade their OERs would make future promotion for the two very tough.
“Jack,” Doc said, “it’s anybody’s guess what’s going on in Colonel Morris’ head, but I’d guess he’s trying to establish his control over the wing and his ego is getting involved. There’s some kind of feedback…the more control, the better his precious ego feels. He might well see you as a threat to his control.”
“Why me?”
Thunder picked it up. “Once you’re in Big Ugly and the gear is in the well, he doesn’t have any real control over you. He’s got to trust you up there and that’s one thing he’s afraid to do.”
“We’re talking about how ego and leadership get all mixed up. T. E. Lawrence wrote all about it,” Landis said.
“Who?”
Lawrence of Arabia. He ought to be required reading for every officer.”
The Warbirds Page 16